“Simone was convinced that you were.”
Jessie shrugged. “Let’s do it, then.”
Mac inserted a cassette into his recorder. “This is a dupe,” he said. “I Fed-Exed the originals to my agent for safekeeping. There were some photographs and documents, too. I photocopied them and sent the originals to Ted also.”
Jessie shrugged. “Makes sense.”
For an hour she sat there with Mac and listened to Simone’s voice describe her horrifying childhood in Vietnam. She had a low-pitched, sultry voice and a faint accent that Jessie couldn’t place. A mixture of French and Vietnamese, she assumed.
When she tried to think of this woman—whose voice she was hearing but who was now dead—as her mother, it caused pressure to build behind her eyes.
She watched Mac as the tapes played. Now and then he scribbled a note on a yellow legal pad. He seemed unaware that Jessie was there, and she understood that he was working.
And then Simone’s voice said, “And so it was done. I belonged to Thomas Larrigan. I was, as near as I can figure it, about thirteen years old.”
Mac lurched at the tape player and punched the pause button. He looked at Jessie. “Holy shit,” he whispered.
Jessie frowned. “Huh?”
“Do you know who Thomas Larrigan is?”
She looked at Mac. “You think it’s that Thomas Larrigan?”
He nodded. “I bet it is.”
“Do you realize what you’ve got here?”
He nodded. “A different kind of story from what I thought, for sure.”
“Yeah,” she said. “A dangerous story.”
“Let’s hear the rest of it.”
It was after three o’clock in the afternoon when they finished listening to the last tape. The pressure behind Jessie’s eyes had been building as Simone described her love for May, her daughter, and her enormous sadness at losing her, and how she longed to see her again, and now, when Jessie realized it would never happen for mother or daughter, the tears broke through.
Mac looked at her. “That must’ve been hard.”
She wiped her eyes on the back of her wrist and smiled. “I’m okay.” Jessie cleared her throat. “Are there more tapes?”
He shook his head. “That’s it.”
“You think it’s me?” she said. “You think I’m May?”
Mac shrugged. “It fits, doesn’t it?” He hesitated. “I’m sorry, Jessie. I know that’s important to you. But I’m thinking about something else—the implications of these tapes. I’m thinking that Simone—”
“She was murdered,” said Jessie. “She and Jill. I know. I apologize. That’s way more important. They were murdered to keep them quiet, right? To keep this story from getting out. Do you think she knew who Thomas Larrigan is?”
Mac shook his head. “There’s no indication of it in these tapes. Simone and Jill didn’t have a television. I’m not sure they even had a radio. I never saw a newspaper or even a magazine in their house. It’s got to be the same Larrigan, though.”
“No question,” said Jessie. “She talks about shoving that broom into his eye. Our Judge Larrigan has a patch over his eye. He’s the right age. He was in Vietnam. Didn’t you say you kept copies of the photos Simone gave you?”
“Plus the documents,” he said. “From what Simone said, there’s a marriage certificate and a birth certificate.” He frowned at her. “Your birth certificate. Very powerful evidence.”
“Let’s look at the photos.”
Mac fumbled through a stack of folders on his desk and pulled out several sheets of paper. Jessie got up and went to his desk. She put a hand on his shoulder and leaned against his back to look.
He moved a magnifying glass over the faces in the photos. They were a little blurry and faded, but there was no mistaking Thomas Larrigan even thirty-five or so years younger than he was now and with long hair and two functioning eyes. Jessie had seen the Supreme Court nominee’s picture on TV and in the papers several times recently. This was definitely the same man.
Simone was terribly young and scrawny, Jessie thought, but she had a beautiful face. The other woman in the photos—Bunny Brubaker, according to the tapes—looked a few years older. She was also quite pretty. The other man—Eddie Moran—looked like a teenaged Huckleberry Finn, a rebel type with a fuck-the-world grin that the girls probably found irresistible.
In a couple of the photos, Simone—Li An, back then—was holding a baby. Jessie shivered at the realization that she was that baby.
Jessie said, “Why don’t you see what you can find out about Eddie Moran and Bunny Brubaker.”
“You think because Simone—?”
“Eddie Moran and Bunny Brubaker were there, too,” she said. “They probably know everything Simone knew.”
“Good thinking.”
Mac went to Google and a few minutes later he clicked on a story about a woman named Bunny Brubaker getting robbed and murdered in a motel room in Davis, Georgia. According to the story, the police believed drugs were involved. Ms Brubaker’s killer had not been apprehended. There was no picture of the victim with this or the two other short news items that he found.
“You think that’s our Bunny?” said Jessie.
Mac shrugged. “It fits. Unusual name. She’s about the right age.”
He then did a search for Eddie Moran—Edward, Edwin, Ed—and came up with dozens of hits, none of which seemed to be quite the right age or background.
He leaned back in his chair and gazed up at the ceiling. “They killed Bunny Brubaker, too,” he said.
Jessie nodded. “I’m thinking that if they—whoever they are—if they killed Simone—they probably know about the tapes and the photos and those documents.”
He nodded. “I’ve been thinking about that, too.” He looked at her. “If they know that . . .”
“Then they know about you,” said Jessie.
WHEN TED AUSTIN answered the phone, he said, “I was going to call you. What the hell is going on?”
“You heard about Simone,” said Mac.
“Yes. Suicide. That’s terrible.”
“I don’t think it was suicide, Ted.”
Austin was silent for a minute. “You’re saying . . .?”
“I’m saying that what Simone knew got her killed. You haven’t listened to those tapes I sent you, have you?”
“No,” Austin said. “Should I?”
“No,” said Mac. “But you should know that they’re dangerous. The photos and documents corroborate what’s on the tapes. I hope they’re in a safe place.”
“They’re safe,” said Austin. “You better explain.”
Mac summarized Simone’s story as succinctly as he could.
“Wow,” said Austin. “So let’s see if I got this right. Judge Larrigan got his eye patch from a fight with his wife, making him a phony war hero. He had a baby with a fourteen-year-old girl, making him a pedophile and a statutory rapist. He married the girl and probably never divorced her, meaning he’s a bigamist. He abused his young wife and then deserted her. He may have sold his baby.” Austin paused. “This is the man who’s going to sit on the Supreme Court?”
“No way he’ll make it to the Court if the media get wind of this.”
“If the media hear about all this,” said Austin, “there’ll be more hell to pay than that.”
“I expect that great efforts will be made—have already been made—to keep this story from the media.”
“Killing Simone,” said Austin.
“Right.”
Austin was silent for a moment. Then he said, “This is a helluva story, Mac. A much bigger story than we bargained for.”
“Don’t think that hasn’t occurred to me,” said Mac.
“We can’t, um, go to the authorities, I guess.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Because these people, these killers . . .”
“Unless I’m mistaken,” said Mac, “these killers are the authorities.”
WHEN JESSIE CAME downstairs later in the afternoon, she found Katie in the kitchen.
“Can I help?” said Jessie.
Katie was at the stove stirring something in a big pot. She didn’t turn around. “No, Karen. Thanks. Everything’s under control.”
Jessie got a Coke from the refrigerator, then sat at the kitchen table. “Smells great,” she said.
“Hope you like marinara sauce.” Katie still hadn’t looked at Jessie.
“I do,” said Jessie. “So how was school?”
“Did he send you in here to make friends with me?”
“He?”
“My father,” said Katie. “He likes you, you know.”
Jessie hesitated. “What makes you say that?”
“It’s so obvious.”
“Look,” said Jessie. “I’m only going to be staying one more night. I’m sorry if I make things uncomfortable for you.”
“What makes you think I’m uncomfortable?” Katie turned to face Jessie. Her cheeks were wet.
“Oh, honey,” said Jessie. “I’m sorry.”
“You probably think I’m like jealous or something,” said Katie. “It’s not that. I just wish he could be happy. I try, but . . .”
Jessie got up, went over to Katie, and put her arms around her. Katie let her arms hang at her side, neither resisting nor participating in the hug.
“You can’t be responsible for somebody else’s happiness,” said Jessie softly. “Nobody can do that.”
“My mom made him happy,” Katie whispered. She dropped her forehead onto Jessie’s shoulder, but her arms remained rigid at her sides, as if she was fighting the urge to return Jessie’s hug.
“Nobody will ever take your mom’s place,” Jessie said.
She felt Katie stiffen. She was afraid that the girl would pull away from her. But after a moment, Katie said, “Was Simone really your mother?”
“I think so.”
“I met her,” said Katie.
“I wish I had,” said Jessie.
“She was really nice.”
Jessie nodded.
Katie was silent for a moment. Then, in a whisper, she said, “So how does it feel, having your mother die before you even got to meet her?”
“It makes me sad,” said Jessie.
Katie put her arms around Jessie’s waist, gave her a quick, tentative hug, and then pulled away. “I’ve got to stir the sauce,” she said. She turned to the stove.
“What can I do to help?” Jessie said.
“You can set the table if you want.”
That, thought Jessie, is progress.
THAT EVENING AFTER dinner Jessie sat on the bed in Mac Cassidy’s guest room and took out her cell phone. She realized she’d forgotten to call Jimmy Nunziato. He worried about her, which was sweet, and he wanted her to call and tell him she was all right.
Speed-dial eleven, he’d said.
It rang four or five times before it clicked over to voicemail. Then a recorded female voice said, “We are sorry. This person’s mailbox is full. Please try again later.”
Jessie hit the end button. Hm. That was totally unlike Jimmy Nunz. He deleted all his messages as soon as he heard them. In his business, any kind of record was risky. Nunz was extremely careful. His clients depended on it. He carried his cell with him and answered it when it rang. If for some reason he couldn’t answer, he retrieved the message as soon as he could and then erased it.
She tried it again, and got the same message.
She bunched the pillows up and lay back with her head propped up on them. She tried to understand it.
She didn’t like what she was thinking.
She went to her duffel bag, took out her laptop computer, and put it on the little desk where there was a cable hookup. Five minutes later she was Googling the name James Nunziato.
There were way more James Nunziatos than Jessie had ever imagined. She narrowed it to “Chicago” and found the item she expected—and feared—from Sunday’s Tribune.
“Chicago Printer Murdered,” the headline read.
Her eyes raced over the brief story. James Nunziato, age fiftyseven, found Saturday morning in his print shop on West 16th Street. He’d been shot twice. According to the police, it appeared that he’d interrupted a burglary.
Jessie hugged herself.
Interrupted a burglary. Right.
Bullshit.
She had Dave Aronson’s cell phone number stored in her computer.
He answered on the third ring. “Lieutenant Aronson,” he said. “Who’s this?”
“It’s Jessie,” she said. “Jessie Church.”
“Jesus,” said Aronson. “Jessie. Where the hell have you been? You okay?”
“Dave, listen. I’ve got a question for you.”
“Yeah,” he said, “me, I’m fine, the kids are both doing good, growing up, you know, and the wife, she’s okay, tryin’ to lose some weight, and my mother had that stroke, but she’s hanging in there, thanks for asking.”
“Aw, hell,” said Jessie. “I’m sorry. I’m just kind of frantic here.”
“Sure, Jess. Don’t worry about it. What can I do for you?”
“Jimmy Nunziato. What happened?”
“You knew Jimmy Nunz, right?”
“Yes,” said Jessie.
“Then you know what he did for a living, who he associated with.”
“I know all that, yes. And I see that he got killed. What can you tell me about it that I didn’t read in the papers?”
Aronson hesitated. “There was one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“This is between us cops.”
“Sure,” she said. “Of course.”
“They, um, did a pretty good job on Jimmy before they shot him.”
“You mean . . . ?”
“Nunz knew something, and by the looks of him they used a knife, Jess. It wasn’t pretty.”
Jessie took a deep breath. Then she said, “Okay, Dave. I was hoping it was something else, but it’s what I needed to know. Thanks a lot. Give my best to your wife and kids and mother, okay?”
“Any time, Jess.”
Jessie lay back on the bed and closed her eyes.
Howie Cohen, she thought. You son of a bitch.
Then she thought: I’ve really gotta get away from here.
CHAPTER 22
Jessie stared up at the ceiling in Mac Cassidy’s guest room. Aside from the bluish glow of her laptop computer screen, the room was dark. Ghostly shadows danced across the wall, leafy tree branches swaying in the breeze, backlit by a streetlight. When she was a kid, night shadows like that scared her. She supposed they still did.
What happened to Jimmy Nunziato was her fault. She had no doubt about that.
She knew it would forever be on her conscience. She should never have involved Nunz. It was sloppy and inconsiderate and ultimately fatal. She should’ve known that Howie Cohen would latch on to him sooner or later. Jimmy was an old friend. That was no secret. And what he did for people who wanted to disappear was widely known. It was a simple deduction for Cohen to figure out that Jessie would go to Jimmy Nunz, and it was logical for him to send a couple of his men to find out what Nunz knew.
Knowing Jimmy Nunziato, she was sure he’d held out as long as he could. But eventually he would’ve had to tell them what he knew. No matter how brave he might’ve been—and Jimmy Nunziato was as tough as they came—a man can tolerate only so much cutting.
So Cohen would now know that Jessie’s new name was Karen Marie Donato, that her hair was short and blonde, that she was driving a Jeep Cherokee with Illinois plates registered to Mary Ferrone.
What Cohen didn’t know, because Jimmy Nunziato couldn’t possibly have told him, was Jessie’s destination. She’d been careful to drop no hints when she’d been with Jimmy. She might be heading east. That’s the most he could’ve said.
Sooner or later, Howie Cohen would track her down. He had nothing but time—the rest of his life in a federal
prison in Maryland, to be exact. He’d sent that man Lesneski to the Muir Woods to kill her, and if he hadn’t done it already, pretty soon he’d send somebody else to Concord, Massachusetts . . . or wherever she ended up. And if she changed her appearance again, and got a new identity, and found some out-of-the-way place to hide, it would still only be a matter of time. Something would happen, like her picture finding its way into a newspaper.
Men like Howie Cohen never gave up.
After Jimmy fixed her up with her new identity, her new car, her new cell phone, Jessie had begun to allow herself to feel safe. She should’ve known better. It was a dangerous illusion. The first rule in undercover work: Sooner or later, feeling safe would kill you. Thinking you were out of harm’s way was fatally harmful.
She’d let Mac take her to that Thai restaurant where she’d been noticed, no doubt, by people who knew Mac, knew what had happened to his wife. His neighbors and acquaintances, people around town, they’d remember her. They’d talk about her, a little harmless gossip over the back fence. That poor Mac Cassidy, lost his wife a year ago? He had a date the other night. What do you think of that? A pretty blonde, Asian eyes, looked a bit younger than him. Never saw her before. Katie, his daughter, poor child, she was with them . . .
Who knew how many neighbors had spotted her and had noticed the Jeep Cherokee with Illinois plates that was parked in Mac Cassidy’s driveway?
And who knew what Katie might’ve told her friends, and her friends might have told their parents, and on and on, about this blonde woman with the Asian eyes who just appeared out of nowhere, who was staying in their guest room, who her father seemed to have a crush on. Her name was Karen Donato.
No longer would that name hide Jessie’s true identity from Howie Cohen. If she wasn’t safe, then as long as she was in Mac’s house, neither were he and Katie. She needed to put as much distance between herself and them as possible. With a sense of dread, she thought of Simone’s killers. Mac and Katie were already in danger. Jessie was one of the few people who could protect them. If she stayed, they were at risk, if she left they were at risk. Either way, she lost.
Jessie went back to her laptop and checked the train and bus schedules leading out of Massachusetts. Even without a credit card or an automobile, you could get to anywhere from anywhere in this vast country if you had enough cash.
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