James Grippando - Beyond Suspicion

“Hold on, damn it,” said Zamora. “My client obviously wants to cooperate, but I’m not going to sit back and let the two of you rush into something as important as a polygraph examination. Right now, Dr. Marsh and I are going to walk out that door, go back to my office, and talk this over.”

“I want to get this done,” said Marsh.

“I understand. A few more hours isn’t going to kill anyone.”

“I’ll give you twenty-four hours,” said Jancowitz. “If I don’t hear from you, I’ll subpoena Dr. Marsh to appear before a grand jury.”

“You’ll hear from us,” said Zamora.

“You know the deal. Pass the polygraph on the murder and tell all.”

Marsh rose and shook the prosecutor’s hand. “Like my lawyer said: You’ll hear from us.”

The prosecutor escorted them to the exit, then watched through the glass door as they walked to the elevator. He returned to his office, tucked the videotape into an envelope, sealed it, then took out his pen and drew a little star on the doctor’s witness file.

•

The smoke was thick at Fox’s. Just the way Jack wanted it. Fox’s Lounge had been at the same location on U.S. 1 forever, and the decor probably hadn’t changed since Gerald Ford was president. It was a time warp with dark-paneled walls, booths trimmed with leather so worn that it felt like plastic, and enough secondhand smoke to gag even a tobacco-industry spokesman. Jack didn’t care for cigarettes, except when he really needed a drink. Even then he didn’t light up. He just basked in the swirling clouds around him and belted back bourbon until his clothes reeked and his eyes turned red.

It seemed like the perfect way to toast the reading of Jessie’s will.

“Make it huge,” Jack said into his cell phone. He was speaking with Hirni’s Florists, arranging for the immediate delivery of the biggest damn floral centerpiece they’d ever constructed-big enough to cover a stain as big as a manhole cover on Clara’s priceless stone conference table. While he was at it, he ordered some roses for Cindy. In a perfect world he would have been home, packing for the scheduled moving day, but somehow he didn’t envision himself dashing off to a new house with Cindy happily at his side after telling her about Jack Junior. He needed a little counseling, and for that he turned again to his friend Mike. He was uniquely qualified. He’d known Jack since college, he’d known Jessie when she and Jack were dating, and, most important, he knew they weren’t twenty-one anymore and had no business getting drunk on anything but premium brands.

“Old Pappy on the rocks,” he told the bartender.

“What the heck’s Old Pappy?” asked Jack.

“A little treat I discovered at the Sea Island Lodge. Best bourbon you’ll ever drink.”

Jack was a little surprised that the bartender had it, but Fox’s was a pretty reliable place to find obscure brands, especially old brands, and, if the label was to be believed, no one drank Old Pappy unless it was at least twenty years old.

“What do you make of this mess?” asked Jack.

It had taken him five minutes to bring Mike up to speed. It took less than five seconds for Mike to render his verdict.

“She’s a nutcase,” he said as he selected a jalapeño popper from the plate of hors d’oeuvres. “She always was.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing with her ever added up. She did everything for shock value, just to see how people would react.”

“This is more than shock value.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t vindictive.”

Jack sipped his bourbon. “This was a stroke of genius on her part. Her objective was to leave everything to a child she’d given up for adoption. Rather than find him herself, she drops the whole thing in my lap. It’s up to me to find him.”

“Technically, you don’t have to look. If no one finds the kid, you inherit a million and a half dollars.”

“That’s exactly my dilemma.”

“Not sure I follow you.”

“The money came from a scam. If I find the child, I’ll be handing him a million and a half dollars that I know is dirty. But if I choose not to look for him, I’ll forever be accused of cheating my own flesh and blood out of an inheritance from his birth mother.”

“Accused by whom?”

“Everyone.”

“Everyone? Or yourself?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’m just trying to think like Jessie. Maybe her objective wasn’t simply to get the money in the hands of the child she gave up for adoption. Maybe she was just as interested in making you feel guilty as hell about the whole situation.”

“Years of pent-up anger, is that it?”

“It’s a long time, but who knows what was going through her head?”

Jack took another long sip. “I think I know.”

“You want to share?”

Jack glanced at the mirror behind the bar, speaking to Mike without looking at him. “Jessie couldn’t have kids.”

“She apparently had one.”

“I mean after that one. I saw her whole medical file during our case. She had PID.”

“What?”

“Pelvic inflammatory disease. It’s an infection that goes up through the uterus to the fallopian tubes. It was cured, but the damage was done. Doctors told her she’d probably never have kids.”

“How did she get it?”

“How do you think?”

Mike nodded, as if suddenly it was all coming together. “You and her break up, she finds out she’s pregnant. She comes back to you before she’s really started to show and tells you she wants to get back together. But you’ve already met Cindy Paige, so she keeps the baby a secret. Last thing she wants is you coming back to her just because she’s pregnant.”

Jack filled in the rest, staring through the smoke-filled room. “She gives up the baby for adoption, meets some guy who gives her PID, and just like that, she finds herself in a situation where she’s given away the only child she’s ever going to bring into this world.”

They glanced at one another and then looked away, their eyes drifting aimlessly in the direction of whatever nonsense was playing on the muted television set.

“Hey, Jack,” said Mike.

“Yeah?”

“I think I figured out why Jessie came back to stick it to you as her attorney after all these years.”

Jack swirled the ice cubes in his glass and said, “Yeah. Me too.”

•

Katrina walked into the Brown Bear around six-thirty with Vladimir at her side. The restaurant was about half-full, and she spotted Theo instantly. They walked right past the sign that said please wait to be seated and joined Theo in a rear booth.

Katrina made the introductions, and they slid across the leather seats, Katrina and her boss on one side of the booth, across from Theo.

The Brown Bear was in East Hollywood, just off Hallandale Beach Boulevard. It had a huge local following, mostly people of Eastern European descent. The newspaper dispenser just outside the door wasn’t the Miami Herald or the South Florida Sun-Sentinel but eXile, a biweekly paper from Moscow. Behind the cash register hanged an autographed photo of Joseph Kobzon, favorite pop singer of former Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev and a household name to generations of Russian music lovers, known best for his soulful renditions of patriotic ballads. The buzz coming from the many crowded tables was more often Russian or Slovak than English or Spanish. Meals were inexpensive and served family-style, gluttonous portions of skewered lamb, chopped liver, and beef Stroganoff. Caviar and vodka cost extra. On weekends, a three-piece band and schmaltzy nightclub singer entertained guests. Reservations were essential-except for guys like Vladimir.