Cemetery Road

by Greg Iles

  “She’s pretty tough, Jack.”

  The doctor releases my hand but not my gaze. “Not as tough as you think. Southern women don’t show their pain to anybody. They aren’t raised that way. But they feel it. So, as unpleasant as Duncan has made the back end of her life, Blythe is still going to shatter when he goes. She’s suffering from severe sleep deprivation right now. Depression, too.” Kirby glances at his watch. “Will Duncan leave her pretty well fixed financially?”

  I shake my head. “If he’d sold out six years ago, when values were high, he might have got eight or nine million. Today we’d be lucky to get ten percent over the real estate value. That’s how fast the business has changed.”

  “Damn. That’s the world now, isn’t it? I’m glad you’ll be here to help Blythe pick up the pieces.”

  I look back in silence, absorbing the message he clearly intends for me to get: Don’t plan on flying out of here the day after your father’s funeral . . .

  “Thanks for your frankness, Jack.”

  He gives me a quick salute, then marches back into our house. But he’s already thinking about the next house he’ll visit, the next family living under the shadow of death.

  Chapter 25

  To my amazement, Jet calls my burner phone at 6:20 p.m. and tells me she’s five minutes from my house. I go out to wait for her on the patio as I did yesterday, but not on the steamer chaise. If we have sex, we’re going to do it inside. There’ll be no more tempting fate, not with things as they now stand.

  Once again, Jet appears from the trees across the mown field and walks steadily toward me, only today she keeps her clothes on. The sky has turned deeper blue as the sun moves toward the western horizon. Jet has changed out of her courtroom attire; she’s wearing jeans and a sleeveless top. As she nears the patio, I step into the grass and give her a long hug.

  “How did you get away?” I ask.

  When she pulls back, I see that she’s wearing more makeup than usual, and her eyes are bloodshot. “They’re practicing baseball, believe it or not. The traveling team. Max said it was the best thing for Kevin, and Paul agreed. They’re over at the Baptist church field. They’ll be at it till seven thirty, but I need to leave in thirty minutes. We can’t take even the slightest risk right now.”

  “Agreed. Let’s get inside.”

  After a brief kiss, I lead her into the house. Jet walks over to a cabinet and removes an opened bottle of pinot noir, then pours herself a glass and takes a long sip.

  “What’s it been like over there?” I ask. “How’s Kevin doing?”

  “He’s in shock. Everybody is. Even Max, which is hard to believe. Sally’s death has blown a hole in that house.”

  “Paul?”

  “Even worse than I feared. He’s a rudderless boat in a storm.”

  This doesn’t surprise me. “Sally was the only real counterweight to Max in that family. I don’t know if Paul can deal with Max off the chain.”

  Jet closes her eyes and sighs. “Deep down, Paul knows there’s nothing left in me. Not for him. Sally’s death may finally make him face that.”

  “Or he might shove it down so deep he’ll never have to.”

  “That’s what he’s been doing for years.”

  Jet sits at the kitchen table and stares into her wine. I’ve rarely seen her morose, but given that she’s accepted the burden of defending Max, I’m surprised she’s not in deep depression. “What have you spent the day doing?” she asks, sounding preoccupied.

  My visit with Dr. Kirby rises into my mind, but I’m not ready to broach that subject yet. I ought to summarize my receipt of the flash drive and my interaction with the coroner, but I don’t feel like going into that, either. In the end I mumble a boring evasion.

  Jet slowly runs the tip of her right forefinger around the rim of her wineglass, as though trying to get it to resonate. I watch her for a while, wondering whether she’s come here out of habit or has something on her mind. After a couple of trancelike minutes, she lifts her finger from the glass and says, “Sit down. I need to tell you something.”

  Her ominous tone makes me swallow hard, but I sit opposite her and wait.

  She says, “I’ve been thinking about what you said, about not being able to trust Max.”

  “And?”

  “I have a backup plan to get custody of Kevin. Two plans, actually. One you know about, one you don’t.”

  “Which one do I know about?”

  My iPhone begins to ring. The screen tells me it’s Nadine. I click decline and put the phone back in my pocket.

  “Who was that?” Jet asks.

  “Ben Tate,” I answer, inexplicably lying for the first time since we began our affair. “I’ll call him later.”

  “Thanks. Do you remember when I told you that I thought both Max and Paul had committed felonies related to their businesses? Tax fraud, for one thing, but also improper disposal of the toxic waste produced by the wood treatment plant? Both arsenic and hexavalent chromium.”

  “Sure, I remember. But you didn’t have proof.”

  “Now I do.”

  The coldness in her voice is unnerving. “How did you get it?”

  “I went through Max’s office this morning, while he was in jail. With Sally dead, there was nobody to question what I was doing. The evidence against Paul I found about three weeks ago.”

  “Okay. So, to sum up: you’re suggesting that the best way to get custody of your son is to put your husband and father-in-law in prison?”

  Anger flares in her eyes. “Obviously that’s not the ideal solution. But it might be the least dangerous one. Would you have scruples about me doing that?”

  “Not because of Max. But Paul . . . yes. Plus, I’m not sure Kevin would ever forgive you for that.”

  “That’s my hesitation, too.”

  “What’s this second option? The one I don’t know about?”

  She bites her lip and studies me, searching for something I’m not sure she’ll find. “It’s more complicated,” she says. “But it would only affect Max.”

  “Let’s hear it. You’re running out of time.”

  “It has to do with the Poker Club and Azure Dragon Paper. I don’t know all the details of the deal that brought the Chinese here, but I do know money and favors changed hands over site selection. I’m not sure who got what, but I know from things Max and Paul have said that it happened. I decided to exploit that to get leverage over Max, with the goal of discrediting him with the Poker Club.”

  “How?”

  “About eight months ago, my father sent me some money from Jordan. I didn’t tell anybody about it, not even Paul. I ran it through my law practice. Apparently, my father’s felt guilty all his life for leaving me. He’s sick now. Anyway, knowing I had that money, I decided to create a little alternate reality.”

  “For whom?”

  “The Poker Club.”

  “I like the sound of this, but you’re scaring me a little. What have you done, Jet?”

  She looks reluctant to continue, which tells me that her plan must be pretty extreme.

  “I’m over at Max and Sally’s house a lot,” she says. “Obviously. I’ve gotten into Max’s office quite a few times alone. I’ve never figured out his computer password, but I do have some of his banking information. Using that, I set up an overseas account for him in the Seychelles, which I’ve heard him mention as a haven for illegal money. Then I took the money I got from my father and bought Bitcoin with it.”

  She’s losing me. “Bitcoin? What the hell?”

  “You’ll understand in a minute. I held that for a couple of weeks, then deposited it in a Chinese bank under an alias. That was the hardest part, but I managed it. It helped to be a lawyer. Anyway, my last step was transferring the money from the Chinese bank to the Seychelles account in Max’s name. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

  It takes me about twenty seconds to work it out. “You want Max’s partners to think he’s double-crossing them. Th
at he’s taking money on the side that they don’t know about.”

  She nods, still waiting.

  “If Max’s partners believe that . . . it won’t just discredit him. They might kill him.”

  “They might,” she says. “Someone like Tommy Russo might. But I don’t think it would go that far. I don’t think the others would let that happen.”

  Her words sound sincere, but her eyes betray such savage intent that I feel a shudder of revulsion. “I don’t think you’re being honest with yourself.”

  “Marshall, I told you I’m desperate. If I execute this plan, Max will lose the protection of his partners. He’d also lose his influence over things like cops and judges. The Poker Club wouldn’t lift a finger to help him with something like my divorce.”

  “Maybe not. But the first thing they would do is confront Max with whatever evidence you leaked to them. And Max would deny it.”

  “They wouldn’t believe him. The evidence is undeniable. Oh, Blake Donnelly might take up for him. But it would only take a couple of malcontents to create chaos in their ranks. Max would never be trusted again.”

  I let her suggestion hang in the air, hoping she’ll recognize the dangers inherent in it. But Jet only watches me, hoping I’ll tell her to put her plan into motion.

  “You’re forgetting something,” I tell her. “The Poker Club members might believe Max screwed them. But Max would know he was innocent. And it wouldn’t take him long to work out who had put him into that trap.”

  Jet nods like a queen who has already accepted death as the risk of victory in war. “I’m willing to take that chance.”

  A wave of apprehension rolls over me. Schemes like this end up getting people killed, or at least locked into prison cells. Instead of arguing with her, I reach out for her wineglass. As I drink the remaining contents, an even more frightening possibility hits me.

  “Jet, will you swear you haven’t put this plan in motion already? You haven’t told the Poker Club about this fake Seychelles account, have you?”

  She smiles strangely. “It’s not fake.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She sighs in what sounds like frustration. “This isn’t an Alfred Hitchcock film. I haven’t done anything, except set up that account. What makes you think I’ve already set it in motion?”

  “Sally was murdered last night. How about that? I’m worried the Poker Club might have sent somebody over there to shoot Max, and they got Sally instead.”

  “Oh, that’s ridiculous.”

  I’m missing something, I can feel it. “Why today, Jet? Why are you suddenly telling me about this setup that was weeks or months in the planning?”

  She gets up and retrieves the wine bottle from the counter, then sits beside me and pours another glass. “I didn’t tell you because this was risky to set up. I didn’t want you worrying about me every minute. I also hoped I wouldn’t have to do it. But now . . .”

  “Jet, you’ve done a one-eighty on Max since this morning. What changed your mind about your plan?”

  She takes a sip of wine, then turns to me and lays both hands on my knees. “Sally’s physician delivered a little bombshell down at the sheriff’s department this afternoon.”

  Not wanting to betray my promise to Jack Kirby, I act like I know nothing about this. “What bombshell?”

  “According to the doctor, Sally had a terminal illness.”

  I try to look appropriately shocked. “And nobody knew about it?”

  “Nobody but Dr. Kirby. Sally didn’t want anyone to know.”

  “Cancer?” I ask.

  Jet shakes her head. “Some kind of blood protein disorder. She had the worst form of it. Terrible prognosis.”

  I take another sip of wine and consider how this must have affected Jet’s calculations about Max. “I understand now. Max’s claim that Sally killed herself just became easier to sell to a jury.”

  “A hundred times easier.”

  “Max thinks he can get acquitted without your help. So he won’t honor any promise to stay out of your divorce.”

  “I never said you were slow.”

  “I’d say Max’s fate depends on the jury. The crime scene was pretty damning. Max could still go to jail for life.”

  “In this county?” Jet gets up and walks to the back window. She speaks without looking back at me. “Marshall . . . how would you feel if the Poker Club killed Max?”

  In all the years I’ve known her, I have never heard this tone in her voice. Something has snapped. “I’m no fan of Max’s,” I say warily, trying to stall as I adjust to this new perception. “I never was. But you’re talking about murder. Potentially. Remote-control murder.”

  “Hey—” She’s still looking out the window, and there’s a new rigidity in her posture. “I thought I saw something move in the trees.”

  “Probably a deer. They hang out at the edge of the woods this time of evening, using the tree line for cover when they venture into the grass.”

  She raises her hand to the window and squints. “Do you know how much better off Paul would be without Max riding him every day? Max has spent his life crippling Paul emotionally. Beating him down.”

  “Granted. But the penalty for being a shitty father isn’t death.”

  At last Jet turns from the window. “I also believe there’s a strong probability that Max shot Sally, no matter what Dr. Kirby says about her prognosis. Sally was genuinely religious. Not churchy—truly devout.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be defending him.”

  Jet watches me in silence for half a minute. Then she reaches into her cropped pants and takes out what looks like a necklace with a jewel pendant.

  “There may be one more way I can neuter Max,” she says.

  “What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the pendant in her hand.

  “A sapphire necklace. Art deco. It belonged to Sally.” Jet hooks her fingers through the chain and swings the pendant slowly back and forth like a Hollywood hypnotist. Light from the window flashes blue from the stone, which appears to be surrounded by diamonds. “It was made in Moscow in 1930. Sally’s father bought it in Berlin in 1947, when he was in the air force. It’s a family heirloom.”

  “And?”

  “You know sapphires are my favorite stone. Sally always told me that after she was gone, this would be mine.”

  “Okay.”

  “This morning, while Max was in jail, I didn’t just go through his office. I wandered around the house thinking about Sally. I went into her bedroom. I could smell her, see the clothes she’d worn the last couple of days. I also went into her bathroom and looked through her jewelry box.”

  “And you took the necklace.”

  Jet nods.

  “What’s it worth?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe fifty thousand. You’re missing the point. It’s not just a necklace.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a white sticker on the back, and there’s writing on it.”

  “What does it say?”

  Her eyes flash. “It’s passwords, Marshall. A five-digit one on top. Then a longer one, a word followed by numbers.”

  “Passwords to what?”

  “I don’t know. I tried Sally’s computer—no luck. Same with Max’s laptop and desktop. The police have her iPhone, but I think she would have foreseen that. Whatever these passwords open, I think she put them where she knew I’d find them—not right away, but sooner or later.”

  “What’s the word part of the second password?”

  “Mai Loc. The whole password is MaiLoc1971.”

  “My lock?” I ask, incredulous.

  “It’s not English words,” she explains. “It’s M-A-I, L-O-C. I googled it. Mai Loc is a village in the central highlands of Vietnam. The U.S. Army Fifth Special Forces Group established a camp there in 1968.”

  “Holy shit. That’s Max all over. Green Beret. But he was still in high school in ’68. Was the camp still there in ’71?”


  “Yes. Wikipedia says the Special Forces had pulled out by then, but there was a sizable operation near there in ’71, and Max could have been part of that. He reached Vietnam in 1970, and I know he served in that area in ’71. Quang Tri Province.”

  “Was the name of the operation ‘Mustang’?”

  “Montana Mustang.”

  “Max played some role in that. I heard him talk about it in high school. Those have to be passwords, at least the second one. The pun is so obvious. Mai Loc?”

  Jet nods, her eyes filled with the primal excitement I’ve seen in men’s eyes before a hunt. “Sally left these passwords for me. But unless I can figure out what they open, it won’t help us.”

  “Do you think Max killed her over whatever those passwords protect?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What could it be?”

  “I think the first number is a cell phone password.”

  Suddenly I see her intent. “You’re going to try to steal Max’s phone?”

  “Given the stakes, I’d say it’s worth it.”

  “You couldn’t get to it at the jail this morning?”

  “I tried, but they wouldn’t give it to anybody but Max. The Poker Club owns that department, Marshall.”

  I’m tired of hearing about everything the Poker Club controls.

  “One more thing,” she says. “Two days ago, Max asked me about some manila folders he claims were stolen from his home office.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She shrugs. “I didn’t know anything about them. I didn’t take them. It never occurred to me that Sally might have. I figured Tallulah mislaid them.”

  “Jet . . . I need to think about all this. But you remember one thing: you can’t put that Seychelles plan in motion. In fact, I’m telling you not to. It’s tantamount to murder.”

  She studies me for what feels like a long time, not challenging me, but seemingly trying to understand my decision. “You realize it might be the only way for me to get out of this town with Kevin? Without hurting Paul.”