Beyond Suspicion

“No. We can kill the video portion. The only thing that matters is what was said.”

“I can live with that,” said Jancowitz.

Zamora handed him the tape. There was a small television set with built-in VCR player on the credenza. Jancowitz inserted the videotape and dimmed the screen to black, for the sake of his own eyes and Dr. Marsh’s modesty. Then he hit play. Jancowitz returned to his seat, then leaned closer to the set.

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Turn it up,” said Zamora.

He increased the volume. A rustling noise followed, some kind of motion. A woman laughed, though it sounded more evil than happy. A man groaned.

“It sounds like bad porn,” said Jancowitz.

No one argued. Dr. Marsh sank in his chair.

On tape, the voices grew louder. The heavy breathing took on rhythm, and Jessie’s voice gained strength.

“That’s it. Harder.”

All eyes in the room were suddenly fixed on the screen, even though it was black. No one wanted to make eye contact.

“Harder, baby. That’s it. Give it to me. Come on. Come on, that’s it, yes, yes! Oh, God-yes, Jack, yes!”

Zamora gave the signal, and the prosecutor hit stop. He gave Jancowitz a moment to take in what had just played and said, “You heard it?”

“Yes.”

“She clearly said the name Jack.”

The prosecutor grimaced and shook his head. “It just doesn’t do it. All you’ve got is a woman crying out another man’s name.”

“Not just any name. Jack, as in Jack Swyteck.”

“That doesn’t establish that she and Swyteck were having an affair. At most, it just establishes that she fantasized about Swyteck while she was making love to Dr. Marsh.”

“Right now, you have nothing to prove the existence of an affair. This is a lot better than nothing.”

“I think there’s plenty more to this triangle than you’re telling me. If you want immunity from prosecution, you’d better fork it over.”

“We’re giving you all we have.”

“Then there’s no deal.”

“Fine,” said Zamora. “We’re outta here.”

“Wait,” said Dr. Marsh.

Zamora did a double take. “Let’s go, Doctor. I said, we’re outta here.”

“I’m a respected physician in this community, and the stink from this Jessie Merrill situation is tarnishing my good name. I won’t allow this to drag out any longer. Now, Mr. Jancowitz, tell me what you want from me.”

“I want the truth.”

“We’re giving you the truth.”

“I want the whole truth. Not bits and pieces.”

Zamora said, “Then give us immunity. And you get it all.”

The prosecutor locked eyes with Zamora, then looked at Dr. Marsh. “I’ll give you immunity, but I want two things.”

“Name them.”

“I want everything the doctor knows about Swyteck and Jessie Merrill.”

“Easy.”

“And I want your client to sit for a polygraph. I want to know if the doctor had anything to do with the death of Jessie Merrill. If he passes, we got a deal.”

“Wait a minute,” said Zamora, groaning.

“Done,” said Marsh. “Ask away on the murder. But I won’t sit for a polygraph on the viatical scam.”

“You got something to hide?” asked Jancowitz.

“Not at all. With the complicated relationship I had with Jessie, I’m concerned that you might get false signs of deception, depending on how you worded the scam question. But if you want to ask me straight up if I killed Jessie Merrill, I got no problem with that.”

“Fine,” said the prosecutor. “Let’s do it.”

“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.

38

•

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.”