by Lisa King
“Well?” her friend demanded.
“I wasn’t able to resolve anything. Can I get back to you in a day or so?”
“Jean, you’re giving me a headache. Is it about Hugh?”
“Could be. Please don’t mention it to Peter or anyone, OK?”
“OK, but I think you’re way off base. Hugh was one of Martin’s oldest friends. He’s my friend, too, you know.”
“That’s why I want to check it out thoroughly. I’ll call you as soon as I can.” Jean went to bed early, the Cognac putting her into a troubled sleep.
CHAPTER 23
As Jean drank her coffee and ate a croissant the next morning, she thought about why Zeppo felt so threatened by official attention that he would let Rivenbark go. Zeppo wasn’t a coward and didn’t care much about what people thought of him, so whatever happened must have been serious. Well, if he wouldn’t tell her, she’d find out by herself. He feared more publicity, which meant he’d been in the newspapers. She was going to do some digging.
A web search using his name turned up nothing relevant, and she had no other name or date or keywords to use. She’d have to do it the old-fashioned way. Based on things he’d said and done, she had a good idea where to start.
Jean’s arm felt better, and anyway, there was no one to help her. So she slapped on a couple of adhesive bandages, dressed in jeans and a purple sweatshirt, put a notebook in her shoulder bag, and walked to the Toyota. The trip to the Civic Center was quick on Saturday, and she arrived just as the public library opened.
For the next few hours Jean sat in front of the microfiche machine, getting a headache from the bad light as she read endless old headlines and looked at blurry black and white photos. At noon she went outside, where she bought a falafel from a stand and washed down two Motrins with more coffee. Then she got back to work.
Just after five o’clock she found it. It wasn’t arson or burglary or drug dealing or anything else she’d been expecting—it was murder.
Jean read the accounts with growing horror, but couldn’t reconcile the man she knew with the boy in the newspaper stories. She studied the photos of the beautiful victim, the crime scene, Zeppo’s stone-faced family, and of course Zeppo himself: sullen in a school portrait, scared but defiant in handcuffs, grim and alone in the back of a police car, and painfully young. After reading all the articles, she sat stunned for several minutes. She slowly rewound the film, shut off the machine, and left the library. Halfway to the Muni station she remembered she’d driven down. She walked back to the car, turning things over in her head.
Should she believe the newspapers or trust her own judgment? Her instincts about men had always been very reliable—she knew no subject better. Zeppo might be obnoxious and oversexed, but then a lot of people thought she was obnoxious and oversexed. The better she got to know him, the more good qualities she found and the more she liked him.
She remembered what Gwen had told her—how he never got close, even to the women he dated. He clearly loved women and craved their company, and now she understood why he always kept his distance.
Jean knew innocent people were sometimes incarcerated and even executed. Zeppo had been acquitted, but on technicalities, and the newspaper articles strongly implied that he’d gotten away with murder. To her, though, only one explanation made sense—he really was innocent.
What did she have to lose by confronting him? If she was wrong, was she in any danger? No. Jean recalled the way he’d gotten behind her when Rivenbark was trying to run them down, his gentle touch when she was hurt, his reaction to Setrakian. She’d been alone with him in his apartment when he was drunk and no dark side had emerged. He’d never touched her except as a friend. Yesterday, when she yelled at him, he hadn’t fought back at all. She didn’t think he was capable of violence. And if she couldn’t tell whether a man she knew had committed that type of murder, she might as well hang up her spurs.
Deep in thought, Jean missed the turn onto her street and had to drive around the block. She went up to her apartment and sat for a long time staring out the window at the fog pouring in from the bay. The message light on her phone blinked, but she didn’t feel like hearing from anyone. She thought through the evidence on both sides, and her resolve remained unshaken.
Dark was falling. She was hungry, so she heated some leftover pasta. When she was done eating, she took a halffull bottle of Cognac out of her cupboard, put it in her purse, and drove across town to Cow Hollow.
CHAPTER 24
Zeppo’s light was on, and when he answered the door, wearing jeans and an old black Mask of Zorro T-shirt emblazoned with a big red “Z,” he was as troubled and subdued as he’d been the night before.
“Hi, Jeannie,” he said hesitantly. “Are we still friends?”
“Of course. Can I come in?”
“Please do.” He stepped back and she walked past him into the apartment. “But I don’t want to fight anymore, OK?”
She faced him. “Zeppo, I know why you won’t go after Rivenbark.”
“You do, huh?”
“Listen: I spent all day finding out. I know what happened eight years ago in Cheswick.”
Zeppo sagged visibly and turned away from her. “Ah, hell,” he said, his voice low and defeated. He leaned on the windowsill, looking down at the street.
“Now I know why you live like a transient, lie about your family, never date the same girl for long. All your quirks make sense.”
“So your curiosity is satisfied. Weren’t you afraid to come over here alone?”
Jean touched his arm. “No, I wasn’t, and I’ll tell you why. I’ve been with a lot of men in my life, taken a lot of chances, and nothing has ever gone really wrong. That’s because I learned early to spot men with the potential for that kind of violence. There’s a brittle, hollow quality, something I can’t put into words, and when I sense it I run like hell. Setrakian has it in spades. But you don’t have it. You love women. The bottom line is, I don’t think you killed her.”
Zeppo put his hand over hers and squeezed. “Thank you for that, Jeannie.”
“I understand what you’re afraid of—if we go to the police and they run your fingerprints, you’re finished as a credible witness. And then the media will be all over you. I can see the headlines now: ‘Murder Suspect Worked for Murdered Developer.’ ”
“They already have my fingerprints. For elimination purposes so they could check the prints in Martin’s office after somebody searched it. I couldn’t refuse without looking suspicious. For all I know they’ve already run them.” Zeppo rubbed his face. “Have you told anyone else?”
“Of course not.”
“God, it’s so hard for me to talk about this. The only person I’ve ever discussed it with is my shrink. Martin knew about it, of course.”
“He didn’t!”
“Sure did. He never missed an angle. One day he noticed something weird in my personnel file. I’d written down two different birth dates by mistake. So we made a bet. If he could figure it out, I’d work a week for free. I didn’t think he’d bother, but he dug around in his spare time, and it shook him. I never saw him so surprised, before or since. I had him call Hannah, my shrink, and she convinced him I didn’t do it, so he never mentioned it again. He just told me, ‘Too bad I don’t want anything from you—I’ve got a hell of a handle.’ ”
“Are you still in touch with Hannah?”
“Yeah. In fact she’s my alibi. After the wedding I took a long drive down the coast and called her. We talked for a couple of hours. I was on the phone with her when Martin died.”
“Well, now you need to talk to me.”
“It’s not that easy, Jean. I’d feel . . . exposed.”
“But I’m not going to hurt you, Zeppo. I like you. I want to understand how things could have gone so wrong for you.”
“I’m still working on that one myself.”
Zeppo, pale and dejected, flopped into the brown corduroy chair. Jean got two wine glasses f
rom the kitchen and poured them each a generous ration of Cognac. “Here. Cognac’s always good in a crisis.”
“Thanks.” He took a big swallow.
Jean pulled the computer chair next to him. “All right, here’s what I know: Your real name is Michael Van Vleck. You’re the youngest of three brothers from a rich family in Cheswick, a suburb of Boston. Dad’s a prominent surgeon, Mom’s a big noise in society.
“It’s late December 2002. Your oldest brother and his wife are home for the holidays. On Christmas morning just before dawn, your family runs downstairs when they hear you yelling. They find you kneeling next to your sister-inlaw’s body. There’s a bloody knife lying on the floor. You both have her blood all over you.”
Zeppo stared into space. He took another sip. “You OK?” she asked. He nodded.
“So the police arrest you, the misfit brother who’s been in and out of trouble for years. You’re fifteen but they try you as an adult, mostly because you won’t make any kind of deal. Throughout the trial you insist that you’re innocent. Then you get lucky—key evidence is thrown out because of police errors. You walk, but everyone assumes you’re guilty, just like O.J.”
“That’s about it.”
“What happened after that?”
Zeppo didn’t speak for several seconds. His eyes looked different now, sad and tired and old. “After that my family had me committed to a private psychiatric hospital for disturbed adolescents outside Boston. One of my dad’s psychiatrist friends signed the papers. I spent two years there, until I was eighteen. See, my family thought I was guilty, too. All but one of them.”
“The one who did it. Do you know who it was?”
He shook his head slowly. “I’m not sure, but I think it was my dad.”
“Oh Zeppo, what a hell of a thing.” She reached out and touched his arm.
“You really want the whole ugly story?”
“Yes, I really do.”
“OK, then.” He drank more Cognac. “I was a mistake from the beginning—they wanted a girl, and I could never do anything right. My two brothers were basketball stars, honor students, president of everything. To them, and to my father, I was a clumsy, worthless, embarrassing loser. So of course that’s what I turned into. I cut class, smoked dope, sniffed glue, vandalized the school, stole a car, stuff like that.”
He spoke faster, staring straight ahead. “Eric, my oldest brother, followed in my dad’s footsteps and went to Harvard. He married Sarah after his junior year. She was a real beauty—long blond hair, big green eyes—and I had a huge crush on her. See, my brothers and father treated me like shit and my mother always acted disappointed, but Sarah was nice to me and defended me.
“That Christmas she was visiting over vacation. Eric had to stay and finish up a lab project, and he got back on Christmas Eve. Andy, my other brother, was still living at home. There must have been incredible tension in the house, something building up, but I didn’t see it. I was just glad she was there.” He took a deep breath.
“I couldn’t sleep, and then I heard a noise from downstairs. So I went to look. The living room was dark. Sarah was lying on the floor, and at first I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her. I knelt down and saw the knife, and I pulled it out. I tried to find a pulse on her wrist and neck. She had blood all over her. I realized she was dead, and I hugged her. Then I was covered with blood, too. She was still warm. I called for help, and people came running. Eric attacked me when he saw her. Andy pulled him off. My father tried to resuscitate her, but it was too late. She’d been stabbed five times. My father said, ‘Michael, what have you done?’ ”
“Oh Zeppo . . .”
“It had to be someone in the house. All the doors and windows were locked and there was fresh snow on the ground but no footprints, and the dogs never barked. They got me a good lawyer—I was their son, after all. He showed that the chain of custody on the knife and some other evidence was so bad a lot of it was disallowed. Some cops got fired because of it, but my family still thought I did it.
“They found semen in her. Eric said it wasn’t his. There was no evidence of rape.”
“Wait a minute,” Jean said. “What about DNA testing?”
“The sample got contaminated in the lab. Some techie fucked up. They disallowed that, too.”
“That’s a whole lot of screw-ups for one case. You know, if I wrote an article about all this and sold it to a national mag, we could get people interested in taking another look.”
“Hannah suggested something like that. I know that’s what I should do, but not yet.”
“Tell me about the hospital.”
“That was bad. At first I was in shock, feeling betrayed, hating that Sarah was dead and no one was going to pay for it. No one but me, that is. I wouldn’t cooperate with the therapists since I figured they were all on my dad’s side. Whenever my parents visited me, my dad would tell me how much it cost to keep me there, how I was using up my college fund and my inheritance, and that I’d have to stay until I admitted I killed her and got help.”
“Good God.”
“They couldn’t keep me after I turned eighteen, so all I had to do was tough it out. But the last few months I was there they assigned me a new therapist, Hannah Greenwald. She got me to talk, and pretty soon I really was in therapy. She read the police reports and trial transcripts and decided I was innocent. I can’t tell you how that made me feel, like maybe there was hope. She wanted to talk to my family, but I said no. I’m finished with them.
“Hannah brought me all those books you saw, which helped. I realized there was a whole big world out there beyond my family and the nut house, and that I wasn’t the first person who ever got fucked over. I got less angry about everything and tried to be more philosophical.
“When I turned eighteen, Hannah gave me enough money to move out here. I’d worked up a new identity. You know the drill—find someone born around the same time as you who died young, get a birth certificate through the mail, and the rest is easy. I got the bike messenger job and started to have a life. Sort of.”
“What a way to grow up. I don’t know how you survived.”
“Sometimes I didn’t think I would.”
Jean poured more Cognac. “Is the hospital where you learned about computers?”
“Uh huh. The only good thing about the loony bin was I got to spend a lot of time on them. I became a pretty good hacker. When I moved out here I built myself a decent system and kept up with things.”
“And then Martin found you.”
“Yeah. I loved working for him. He thought I was funny and smart. For the first time since I moved here I had enough money. We dealt with really interesting stuff that not even Frank knew about, so I finally had some power and some control over my life. Plus I got along great with the people in the office. It was a perfect setup. Well, you know the rest. After Martin recovered from the heart attack he decided to be good, and I got laid off. It made me mad, because I didn’t believe he’d really changed, and I lost whatever social life I had.”
“Gwen misses you.”
“How do you know her?”
“I was snooping around the office,” Jean said. “Trying to figure you out.”
“Were you really? I miss her, too.”
“You should call her.”
“Maybe. Then I met you when Peter brought you to the office Christmas party last year. You wore a strapless red velvet dress. You were tormenting Martin and he was trying hard not to blow a gasket. It was hilarious.”
“I remember. I spilled Champagne on my shelf and you offered to lick it off.”
“Sorry I was such a jerk.”
“It’s OK. What’ll you do now, Zeppo?”
“Martin gave me enough money to live on for a while, and this fall I’m going to college. I’ve had a shitty education, but I did pretty well on the SATs and created some very nice high school records, so I got into U.C. Davis. There’s a good computer science program there.”
; “That’s a great idea. I’m glad you’re doing that.”
Zeppo drank the last of his Cognac. “So there it is. You still want to be partners?”
“Of course. Did you think I’d run out screaming?”
“I guess I knew you wouldn’t.” He sank back into his chair. “This is such a relief, Jeannie. It’s so hard to have friends when you can’t tell the truth about anything important. When you asked about my family on the way to Mendocino, I tried not to lie, and I ended up sounding totally lame. And last night, I hated not being able to explain. I hated making you angry, just when you were starting to like me.” He took off his glasses and laid his head on the back of the chair, eyes closed. “I feel like I just ran a marathon.”
Jean regarded him fondly. Not only did she like him, she’d come to admire him. He had survived worse things than she could imagine, and although the ordeal had scarred him, it had made him strong and self-reliant. Ten years ago she might have been more shocked by his family’s reaction, before she had seen—in the lives of some of her lesbian and gay friends—how quickly a family could reject a nonconforming member. Someday she’d ask him what the police had bungled, why he thought his father had done it, and a thousand other questions, but not tonight. Tonight she was going to take him to bed.
Jean smiled to herself, feeling a warm surge of anticipation. This could be a lot of fun. She thought briefly about how upset Peter would be, but put it out of her mind. He’d get over it; he always did. She knew Zeppo was half in love with her, but didn’t think he’d assume anything afterward or make demands.
Jean went over to his chair and knelt in front of him, putting a hand on each of his knees. “Zeppo,” she said. “Do you have any condoms?”
He raised his head, startled. “Do I . . . yeah, in the bathroom.”
“Go get them.”
He gaped at her. “Are you serious?”
“You should see the look on your face. Of course I’m serious.” She leaned over and kissed him softly on the lips.
He put on his glasses and lurched to the bathroom. Jean heard water running and drawers slamming. The overhead light was too bright, so she turned it off and switched on the small bedside lamp. To give him the full effect, she quickly took off her clothes, pulled back the covers on the bed, and lay down. The sheets were light blue and smelled clean. The bandages on her arm and leg detracted, but she didn’t think he’d mind. He came into the room carrying a small green box and froze when he saw her. “Jesus fucking Christ, am I dreaming?”