James Grippando - Beyond Suspicion

Jack looked on, both concerned and amazed. “What are you doing to yourself?”

“I’m so scared. I’ve been throwing up all day.”

“When’s the last time you slept?”

“I don’t remember. Three days ago, maybe.”

“Let me see your eyes.”

“No.”

Jack held her head still and stared straight into her pupils. “What are you on?”

“Nothing.”

“The paranoia alone is a dead giveaway.”

“I’m not paranoid. These guys are serious. They stand to gain three million dollars under my life insurance policy just as soon as I’m dead. You’ve got to help me.”

“We can start with the name of a good rehab center.”

“I’m not a druggie, damn you.”

He still suspected drugs, but that didn’t rule out the possibility that someone was really out to get her-particularly since she had indeed scammed them. “If somebody’s trying to kill you, then we need to call the police.”

“Right. And tell them I scammed these guys out of a million and a half dollars?”

“I can try to swing a deal. If these viatical investors are really the bad operators you say they are, you could get immunity from prosecution if you tell the state attorney just who it is that’s trying to kill you.”

“I’ll be dead by the time you cut a deal. Don’t you understand? I have no one else to turn to. You have to do something, Jack!”

“I’m helping you the only way I know how.”

“Which is no help at all.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Call them. Negotiate.”

“You’re telling me they’re killers. You want me to negotiate with them?”

“You’ve defended worse scum.”

“That doesn’t mean I do business with them.”

“Can’t you see I’m desperate? If we don’t come to some kind of terms, they’re going to make me wish I’d died of Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

“Then give them their money back.”

“No way. It’s mine.”

“It’s yours only because you scammed them.”

“I’m not giving it back. And I’m not calling the police, either.”

“Then I don’t know how to help you.”

“Yes, you do. You just want to stick it to me, you bastard.”

“I’ll do for you what I’d do for any other client. No more, no less.”

“Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me. That’s what you’re thinking.”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“Damn you, Swyteck! You never know what to think. That’s why we blew up seven years ago.”

He looked away, resisting the impulse to blow her off. A car passed on the street just outside the lot, its tires hissing on the wet pavement. Jessie pushed open the car door and stepped down.

“Where are you going?”

“As if you care.”

“Leave your car here. Don’t drive in this condition. Let me take you home.”

“I told you, I can’t go home. Don’t you listen, asshole?” She slammed the door and started away from the car.

Jack jumped out. “Where can I reach you?’

“None of your business.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“The hell you are. I’m not going to let you talk me into calling the police just so you can ease your conscience.” She fished her keys from her purse, and Jack started after her.

“Don’t follow me!”

“Jessie, please.”

She whirled and shot an icy glare that stopped him in his tracks. “You had your chance to help me. Now don’t pretend to be my friend.”

“This isn’t just talk. I’m truly worried about you.”

“Fuck you, Jack. Be worried for yourself.”

She opened her car door and got inside. The door slammed, the engine fired, and she squealed out of the parking lot like a drag racer.

As the orange taillights disappeared into the night, Jack returned to his car and locked the doors, his mind awhirl. He’d just finished the most bizarre conversation of his life, and four little words had given him the uneasy sensation that it wasn’t over yet.

Exactly what had Jessie meant by “Be worried for yourself” ?

He started his car and pulled out of the lot. He hated to admit it, but Theo’s favorite song was playing in his head. Thank you for…

•

Cindy was staring into the eyes of a killer. Or at least it exuded a killer’s attitude. It was a two-pound Yorkshire terrier that seemed to think it could take on a pack of hungry Rottweilers simply because its ancestors were bred to chase sewer rats. Scores of color photographs were spread across the table before her. A dozen more images lit up the screen on her computer monitor in an assortment of boxes, like the credits for The Brady Bunch , all of “Sergeant Yorkie” and his adorable playmate, a four-year-old girl named Natalie.

Cindy’s South Miami studio had been going strong for several years, but she did portraits only three days a week. That left her time to do on-site shoots for catalogs and other work. The studio was an old house with lots of charm. A small yard and a white lattice gazebo offered a picturesque setting for outdoor shots. For reasons that were not entirely aesthetic, Cindy preferred outdoor shots when dealing with animals.

A light rap on the door frame broke her concentration. Cindy was alone in her little work area, but not alone in the studio. It had been five years since that psychopath had attacked her, and even though she was in a safe part of town, she didn’t stay after dark without company. Tonight, her mother had come by to bring her dinner.

“Are you okay in there, dear?”

“Just working.”

A plateful of chicken and roasted vegetables sat untouched on the table, pushed to one side. A white spotlight illuminated the work space before her. It was like a pillar of light in the middle of the room, darkness on the edges. A row of photographs stretched across the table, some of them outside the glow of the halogen lamp. The shots were all from the same frame, but each was a little different, depending on the zoom. In the tightest enlargement the resolution was little better than randomly placed dots. She put the fuzzy ones aside and passed a magnifying glass over the largest, clear image. She was trying to zero in on a mysterious imperfection in the photograph she’d taken of the little girl and her dog.

“You’ve been holed up in here for hours,” her mother said.

Cindy looked up from her work. “This is kind of important.”

“So is your health,” her mother said as she glanced at the dinner plate. “You haven’t eaten anything.”

“No one ever died from skipping dinner.”

She went to Cindy’s side, brushed the hair out of her face. “Something tells me that this isn’t the only meal you’ve missed in the last few days.”

“I’m all right.”

Her mother tugged her chin gently, forcing Cindy to look straight at her. It was the kind of no-nonsense, disciplinary approach she’d employed since Cindy’s childhood. Evelyn Paige had been a single mother since Cindy was nine years old, and she had the worry lines to prove it. Not that she looked particularly old for her age, but she’d acted old long before her hair had turned silver. It was as if her husband’s passing had stolen her youth, or at least made her feel older than she was.

“Look at those eyes. When’s the last time you had a good night’s sleep?”

“I’m just busy with work.”

“That’s not what Jack tells me.”

“He told you about my dreams?”

“Yes.”

Cindy felt slightly betrayed, but she realized Jack was no gossip. It was Jack, after all, who’d stuck with her through the darkest times. He wouldn’t have gone to her mother if he wasn’t truly concerned about her. “What did he tell you?”