James Grippando - Born to Run

Jack’s gaze tightened. “What did really happen?”

“I don’t know. I’m just asking the question.”

“Andie, I just laid out everything I know for you. If you can add something to the mix, I’d like to hear it. Especially if you’re saying that my father is hiding something.”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Do you think Grayson was murdered?”

Andie shook her head, but it wasn’t a denial. “I can’t answer that.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I do, you’ll think I’m speaking for the FBI.”

“Just tell me what you think.”

She paused, then said, “I’d rather just help you analyze the facts.”

“I’m all ears,” said Jack.

“Grayson was cheating on his wife. He’s dead. And now his girlfriend is dead, too. Who does that make you suspect?”

“I think Paulette would like to pin it on the president. She likes the vice presidential sex scandal and cover-up theory.”

“Forget Paulette Sparks. You’re the criminal defense lawyer. Two of the three players in a love triangle are dead. Who does it make you suspect?”

“I understand what you’re saying, but-”

“But what?” said Andie. “Marilyn Grayson is beyond all suspicion?”

“It doesn’t make sense. She was the first one to raise questions about her husband’s death. We talked about it at the funeral, and when I followed up with her in Washington, it was Marilyn who suggested that someone surreptitiously slipped her husband ED medication to induce a heart attack.”

“What better way to deflect suspicion from yourself than to be the first one to ask questions and suggest the modus operandi?”

“I see your point. But motive is one thing. Opportunity is another.”

“There’s the rub, Jack. Grayson came to Florida as your father’s guest. Your father took him on a private hunting trip many miles away from a hospital. Your father was one of the last people to see Phil Grayson alive. Somewhere in there lies opportunity.”

“Are you suggesting that he and Marilyn Grayson conspired to commit murder?”

“No. I’m simply telling you why people like Paulette Sparks who ask questions about Phil Grayson’s death make your father so nervous.”

Jack took a moment to read between the lines. Sometimes it was impossible to know when Andie was his girlfriend and when she was being an FBI agent.

“I think you’re doing more than that,” said Jack. “It’s obvious that you’ve thought about this, or maybe you’ve heard scuttlebutt around the FBI. In your mind, my father is a suspect, isn’t he?”

“Not necessarily.”

“What does that mean?”

“Sometimes people with motive make people with opportunity unwitting accomplices. Maybe now your father realizes that he was used.”

“And that’s why he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“Or why he’s affirmatively covering it up.”

Jack took a step back. He wanted to shoot down Andie’s theory like a clay pigeon, but she was making too much sense.

“Jack, let’s not talk about this anymore, okay? The reason I drove over here was to apologize for the way I wigged out on you in Washington. All that paranoia about Vice President Swyteck stifling my career. That wasn’t my finest hour.”

“It’s totally okay. But don’t shift gears on me. I really want to flesh out this stuff about my dad.”

“I have a better idea. What do you say we drop this whole thing, I take off my clothes, put on my coat, and go ring your doorbell again?”

He didn’t answer.

“Jack, did you hear what I just said?”

“I’m sorry. Somebody’s at the door?”

“Exactly,” she said, rising. “And what a funny coincidence.”

“What?”

“Her name was opportunity,” she said, as she pulled on her coat. “And you just missed it.”

At 10:00 P.M. Paulette Sparks drove to Club SI. Paulette was not a clubber, but she hadn’t picked the meeting place. Her source had.

Paulette had stayed up all night Tuesday to decipher Chloe’s notes. As best she could tell, Chloe and her source had spoken about a half dozen times. Each time, Chloe had managed to extract a few more details, all on the promise to pay “big money,” though nothing ever changed hands-a good thing from Paulette’s standpoint. Paulette and her network wouldn’t touch a story built on checkbook journalism. By stringing her source along, Chloe had kept the story alive. Paulette could only speculate whether that same tactic had gotten her sister killed.

The story Chloe had cobbled together would have enticed any journalist. Potentially, it was bigger than anything Paulette had ever done. Chloe had collected most of the puzzle pieces, but in the end her story-the bombshell that would “bring down Keyes” -was based on a single source and built on inferences that bordered on conjecture. Paulette was confident that she could fill the holes. Step one was the corroboration of key facts. Paulette had spent the entire day following up leads and hunches, making phone calls, but all were dead ends. Except one.

Three little words-“Let’s meet tonight”-had been music to Paulette’s ears.

“Press,” she said, as she flashed her credentials to the three-hundred-pound goon at the velvet rope. Club SI catered to the upscale twentysomething crowd, the kind of place that turned away unaccompanied women who weren’t dressed like a cling-wrapped piece of sirloin. The promise of free publicity was Paulette’s best shot at getting inside.

“You’re good,” he said.

She pushed through the door and stepped into the world of flashing lights, mirrored ceilings, and pounding music. The dance floor was packed, and people were lined up four-and five-deep for drinks at the bar. It was a much bigger crowd than she’d expected on a Wednesday night. And a much different crowd. Unbeknownst to her, Wednesday night was Goth night, and everything was black, except for the occasional multicolored hairstyle, which incorporated reds, purples, and some faded blond. Women wore black hoodies, black chokers, black armbands, and gossamer black halters with black leather flames licking their breasts. Black corsets were hot, as were black bustiers. Men wore everything from leather to tuxedo jackets, always with heavy chains. Man or woman, it was often hard to tell where the clothing stopped and the tattoos began. On the lighter side, there were dragons, fairies, or fantasy figures, but equally popular were the symbols of white witchcraft-a five-pointed star called the pentacle, and the “athame,” a double-edged blade used in Wiccan rituals. Paulette remembered all that from Chloe’s Goth days. “We’re not the occult,” Chloe would tell her, “we’re highly intelligent creative types.” Then she would lock herself in her bedroom and listen to her music-“Horror Show,” by the Birthday Massacre, “Transylvanian Concubine” by Rasputina, or Zombie Girl’s “We Are the Ones (Rotting Corpse).”

“Buy me a drink, Mama?”

Paulette turned. The guy standing next to her had jet-black hair, pasty white skin, and a silver ring in his pierced eyebrow. Paulette guessed he was about twenty-two, but she was hardly his “Mama.”

“Kool-Aid stand is that way,” she said.

He laughed and moved on, though the music was so loud that Paulette wondered if he’d even heard her. She tried to move forward, but the crowd was impenetrable. Paulette was losing patience. Her plan was starting to feel like an ill-conceived long shot, the product of too much enthusiasm and too little sleep. She knew her source wasn’t in this crowd and wasn’t coming any time soon. The joke was on Paulette. Send the ambitious bitch from CNN into Goth Night at Club SI. Ha, ha, ha, what a belly buster.