Todd Strasser - Kill You Last

“Can’t we do something?” I asked. “What if we hire a private detective to help prove Dad is innocent?”

Mom gazed at me with sad eyes. “Why do you think a private detective could find something that all these other detectives can’t find?”

“Because they’re all too focused on Dad,” I said. “A private detective could take a different approach. Like focus on something or someone else.”

“Oh, darling, I’m sure they’re already doing that,” Mom said, then paused and studied me as if she’d just thought of something. “It’s best if we stay out of it. If your father is innocent, I’m sure they’ll-”

“ If he’s innocent?” I repeated, cutting her short. “Mom, how can you say that? Of course he’s innocent.”

Mom’s eyes widened as if she were as surprised by what she’d said as I was. “Oh, I’m so sorry, darling, that’s not what I meant.”

“You sure?” I asked.

She smiled reassuringly. “Yes.”

A little later, back upstairs, I talked to Roman about the dead girl in Scranton. “This is going to turn the heat way up on my dad.”

“Not necessarily,” she said.

“How can you say that? He’s the prime suspect. As far as I can tell, he’s the only suspect. And like you said, lie-detector tests don’t really count. The only way anyone’s going to believe he’s innocent is if I prove he is.”

“If you prove it?” Roman replied, alarmed. “Wait a minute, Shels, they’ve found a body with her hands and feet tied up. There’s a real murderer out there somewhere. This isn’t Nancy Drew anymore. You have to stay out of this.”

“But there’s definitely something strange about Gabriel,” I argued. “I mean, when it comes to those missing girls, he’s got zero empathy. All this means to him is that he’s not making any money. It’s almost like he’s a sociopath.”

“Thanks for the diagnosis, Dr. Sloan,” Roman said, making no effort to hide the sarcasm. “But if Gabriel’s involved in this, I don’t have to tell you why going anywhere near him is the totally worst idea ever. You tried it once; it didn’t work. That’s got to be the end of it.”

She was right, but she was also wrong.

And then I had an idea and realized I had to end the conversation. I let out a big sigh and said, “I guess you’re right.”

“I am?” Roman sounded surprised.

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re not just saying that to blow me off?” she asked suspiciously.

“No, it’s just so frustrating,” I said, pretending I wasn’t completely eager to get off the phone. “You know how it feels when you want to do something and there’s nothing you can do.”

Roman assured me that things would work out sooner or later, then asked what my plans were for the rest of the day.

“Catch up on schoolwork,” I lied. “It’s really been hard to focus, and I’m way behind.”

As soon as I got off with Roman, I called Whit.

“Hey.” He sounded surprised to hear from me.

“I have an idea,” I said. “An angle we should pursue.”

“We?”

“Look, if you really want to get to the truth, you’re going to need me. I know these people. I-”

“Stop,” he said. “Not on the phone. I’m not saying it’s tapped or anything. I just don’t like taking chances.”

“But we’re not talking about anything people don’t already know about.”

There was a pause, then Whit said, “Maybe you’re not.”

Was I imagining it, or was there something about the way he said that that meant he did know something he didn’t want anyone else to know about?

“When can you meet?” I asked.

“It’ll have to be soon. I have to get together with a friend later.”

We agreed to meet at a McDonald’s halfway between Sarah Lawrence and Soundview. As I threw on some clothes, I found myself wondering who Whit’s friend was. Not that I really cared. It was just curiosity. Like, what kind of friends did he have?

Downstairs, Mom was still in the kitchen, having coffee.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Starbucks with Roman,” I said without stopping.

At McDonald’s I told Whit about Gabriel and his strange attitude toward the missing girls. Whit listened quietly, but I sensed he had something else on his mind.

“That’s interesting,” he said when I’d finished.

“You only half listened,” I said.

He raised his eyebrows, as if surprised that I’d noticed, then leaned forward and pressed the tips of his fingers together. “Can you swear to keep a secret?”

“Absolutely.”

He spoke barely above a whisper. “The woman who works for your father and calls herself Janet Fontana is not Janet Fontana.”

I stared at him, not sure I understood.

“Janet Fontana was a bookkeeper for a plumbing supply company in Salem, Oregon. She died in a car accident about two years ago, just a month or two after her twin sister, Jane, was released from a California prison where she’d served eighteen months for an Internet scam involving credit card fraud. It appears that when Janet’s death certificate was issued, Jane doctored it to remove the t so it looked like Jane, not Janet, died.”

“You’re saying that Jane took over her sister Janet’s identity?” I guessed.

“Exactly. The two sisters looked similar enough, and Jane could easily use Janet’s driver’s license. She moved across the country to Soundview and used her sister’s IDs and the money in her Salem bank account to open a new account here, get credit cards, rent an apartment, the whole works.”

It took a moment to absorb the news. Then I said, “What about the police?”

“Unlike her sister, Janet Fontana was a law-abiding citizen. I assume the police here asked the police in Salem to run a records check and it came up clean. No criminal record. Nothing that would cause the police to want to investigate any further.”

“So when Jane applied for the job as Dad’s office manager, she used her sister Janet’s resume,” I concluded.

“Uh-huh.” Whit nodded.

That explained how someone so disorganized could be hired to be an office manager.

“How… did you find this out?” I asked.

“The Internet,” Whit said. “I was digging around and came up with an obit from the Salem Statesman Journal for Janet Fontana. I made a few phone calls, and when someone told me that Janet had a twin sister named Jane, who’d come to town for a few days after Janet died, I began to put the story together. Pretty simple, actually. It just took a lot of time and searching.”

He paused and waited for me to digest the news. Then he said, “By the way, you might be interested to know that Mr. Kissy Face was once arrested for shooting a BB gun at a neighbor’s window.”

“You also found that on the Internet?” I guessed.

Whit nodded.

“So what else do you know about Janet? I mean, Jane?”

“She has a pretty long California police record. It started with small-time stuff like shoplifting and petty theft, but then she graduated to more serious crimes… Internet scams. Felonies. That’s why she did jail time.”

In my mind I pictured Janet/Jane, and how scattered and moody and temperamental she could sometimes be.

“Did your dad ever say anything?” Whit asked.

“Never. Why would he hire someone like that if he knew?”

Whit tapped a finger against his head as if to say, “Think about it.”

To help him with the modeling scam…

“Oh God,” I moaned miserably.

“But that’s only if he knew who she really was,” Whit stressed. “Any idea how long she’s been working for him?”

“A couple of years at least.”

Whit unfolded a piece of paper with a column of print on it. I watched his eyes scan down, then stop. His forehead furrowed. “Could you be a little more precise?”