James Grippando - Beyond Suspicion

He was doing pretty well, until a certain hand-delivery turned his stomach.

It was a letter he’d expected but dreaded. As a prosecutor, he’d sent many of them, and he could have recited the language from memory. This letter is to inform you that you have been identified as a target of a grand jury investigation. A “target” means that there is substantial evidence to link you to a commission of a crime. Blah, blah, blah. Very truly yours, Benno Jancowitz III. The only surprise was that Benno Jancowitz was “the Third.”

Who in his right mind would keep that name around for three generations?

Line one rang, and then line two. Jack reached for the phone, then reconsidered. The target letter would surely push the media to another level of attack. He let his secretary answer. Screening calls was just one of the many ways in which Maria was worth her weight in gold.

He answered her on the intercom. “How bad is it?”

“I told Channel 7 you weren’t here. But line two is Theo Knight’s lawyer.”

“Thanks. I’ll take it.” With a push of the button Rick Thompson was on the line. Jack skipped the hello and said, “I presume you’re calling about the target letter.”

“Not exactly.”

“Theo didn’t get one?”

“I don’t know if he did or not. I can’t find him.”

“What?”

“We were supposed to meet in my office three hours ago. He didn’t show. I was wondering if you might know anything about that.” Rick’s words were innocent enough, but his tone was accusatory.

“No, I don’t know anything about that,” said Jack, a little defensive.

“I called him at home, called him at work, tried his cell, and beeped him five times. Not a word back from him.”

“That’s weird.”

“I thought so, too. Which is why I’m calling you. I was serious about what I said last night at Rosa’s house. I appreciate Rosa bringing me into this case. But just because she’s my friend doesn’t mean I’m going to treat you and Theo any differently than another client and codefendant. If I’m Theo’s lawyer, I’m looking out for his best interest.”

“I don’t quibble with that one bit. All I’m saying is that if you can’t reach your client, it’s none of my doing.”

“Okay. I’m not making any accusations. It just concerns me that all of a sudden he seems to have dropped off the face of the earth.”

“That concerns me, too.”

“If you hear from him, tell him to call his lawyer.”

“Sure.”

As he said good-bye and hung up, his gaze settled on the target letter atop his desk. It had been upsetting enough for him, and he could only imagine how it might have hit a guy who’d spent four years on death row for a crime he didn’t commit.

Jack faced the window, looked out across the treetops, and found himself wondering: How big was the “if” in “if you hear from him ”?

Jack turned back to his desk and speed-dialed Rosa. Her secretary put him straight through. It took only a moment to recount the conversation with Theo’s lawyer.

Rosa asked, “You don’t think he split, do you?”

“Theo? Heck, no. He doesn’t run from anything or anybody.”

“You really believe that?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why?”

“I represented him for four years.”

“That was for a crime he didn’t commit.”

“Are you saying he killed Jessie Merrill?”

“Not necessarily. Just that people naturally draw inferences when the accused makes a run for it.”

“Nobody said he’s running.”

“Then where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“You sure?”

He paused, not sure what she was asking. “Do you think I told him to run?”

“Of course not. But maybe Theo thinks you did.”

“You’re losing me.”

“The conversation you had at Tobacco Road is a perfect example. You told him that Jessie Merrill threatened you, and he took it upon himself to go threaten her right back. Maybe this is the same situation. You could have said something that made him come to the conclusion that you’d be better off if he just hit the highway.”

“I haven’t spoken to Theo since he and Rick Thompson walked out the front door of your house.”

“Then maybe his sudden disappearance has nothing to do with you at all. Maybe it’s all about what’s best for him.”

“Theo didn’t kill her. He wouldn’t. Especially not in my own house.”

“Think about it, Jack. What was the first thing you said to me when we talked about Jessie’s body in your house?”

He didn’t answer right away, though he recalled it well. “I said, if I was going to kill an old girlfriend, would I really do it in my own house?”

“It’s a logical defense. You think Theo was smart enough to give it to you?”

“It’s not that smart. I said the same thing to Sam Drayton at the U.S. attorney’s office. He tore it to shreds, asked me if I thought it up before or after I killed Jessie Merrill.”

“Theo’s not a prosecutor.”

“Theo’s not a lot of things, and he’s especially not a murderer.”

“I hope you’re right. But if you’re going to look for him, which I know you are, let me ask you this. You call him a friend, but how well do you really know Theo Knight?”

Jack’ first reaction was anger. Serving time for a murder he didn’t commit had forever put Theo in a hole. But he was no saint, either, and Jack knew that.

“Jack, you still there?”

“Yeah.”

“Honestly. How well do you know him?”

“Do we ever really know anyone ?”

“That’s a cop-out.”

“Maybe. I’ll let you know what I find out.” He said good-bye and hung up.

•

It was almost midnight, and Yuri was ready to make a move. He and Vladimir had spent the last six hours in their favorite hotel on the Atlantic City boardwalk. The Trump Taj Mahal was renowned for its understated elegance-but only if you were a Russian mobster. To anyone else, it was flash and glitz on steroids. Fifty-one stories, twelve hundred rooms, and restaurant seating for three thousand diners, all complemented by such subtle architectural details as seventy Arabian-style rooftop minarets and no fewer than seven two-ton elephants carved in stone. The chandeliers alone were worth fourteen million dollars, and each of the big ones in the casino glittered with almost a quarter million pieces of crystal. Marble was everywhere-hallways, lobbies, bathrooms, even the shoe-shine stands. Miles of tile work had actually exhausted the entire two-year output of Italy’s famous Carrera quarries, Michelangelo’s marble of choice for his greatest works of art. There was even a ten-thousand-dollar-a-night suite that bore Michelangelo’s name. Fitting. It was impossible to walk through this place without wondering what Mich would think.

“Let’s go,” said Yuri.

“What’s your hurry?”

“Enough fun and games. It’s time we got what we came for.”

Vladimir grumbled, but he didn’t argue. Blackjack was considered a house game, and for the past two hours he’d conducted himself as the perfect house guest. He was down almost twenty grand at the high-limit table. He gathered up his few remaining chips and stuffed them into the pockets of his silk suit. Then he ordered another drink for the woman seated beside him, a statuesque redhead with globes for breasts and a tear-shaped diamond dripping into her cleavage.

“I’ll be back,” he said with a wink.

“I’ll be waiting.”

Yuri grabbed his elbow and started him toward the exit. They were in the Baccarat pit, a special, velvet-roped area in the casino where the stakes were high and drop-dead-gorgeous women sidled up to lonely men with money in their pockets and Viagra in their veins. No one seemed to care that most of the babes were planted by the hotel to encourage foolish wagering.