Unpunished

by Lisa Black

  She leaned back to see Correa more clearly. “Is that even legal?”

  “Absolutely. Brandon knows he’s recording and for good measure, so does Linda. Perfectly legitimate anywhere in the state of Ohio. We’ve watched it happen, as well, so our testimony counts for something. I tried to get Lori Russo to come along tonight, too—two paid, professional reporters are always more credible than one—but she’s not answering her phone.”

  “A defense attorney will get it thrown out.”

  “Of criminal court, probably. Of the court of public opinion, never. We can even post your video with the audio on the website, have some of that multimedia that Truss is always going on about. See? I told you I’m not a Luddite.”

  “They’re leaving. Elliott’s leaving.”

  “Then I really will have to kiss you.”

  And only because it had been so long since anyone had, she felt tempted to let him. Just a little tempted. Just enough not to back away—

  Someone grabbed Correa’s shoulder and spun him around. They hadn’t blended enough, and Toberlene demanded, “Aren’t you that catshit reporter who said—”

  His eye fell on Maggie’s camera; then he turned to see Brandon, halfway across the floor, and Linda, both watching with horror and guilt, and all seemed to become clear to board member Toberlene. “What are you doing here? Is this some kind of setup?”

  “Why would you need to be set up?” Correa asked. “Is there anything in your current history you’d like to share with our readers?”

  Apparently Toberlene only desired to share with Correa himself, in the form of a right hook of surprising speed. Maggie had Correa in her lap before she even heard the smack. It would have been worse had Toberlene taken the time to wind up, but still the force knocked Maggie into the 401(k) supporter to her right.

  Said 401(k) fan told Maggie, “I wouldn’t mind if I weren’t with my wife.”

  Correa righted himself and went after Toberlene. They grappled, evenly matched and doing more damage to the superstorm group’s table than to each other. Brandon grabbed Toberlene around the waist from behind and called to Maggie to grab Correa.

  “I will not,” she said. She’d sooner get in between a pair of dogs, feeling that people who engaged in bar brawls deserved whatever injuries they received as a result. If someone grabbed a bottle or produced a weapon, then she might interfere.

  Correa punched Toberlene in the gut, and Toberlene responded with another shot to the jaw. Patrons gasped, screamed, and did not appreciate the jostling.

  Linda came forward with her glass of ice water, also perhaps seeing the similarity to canines, and tried to pour it over their heads. She succeeded only in dousing one of the intoxicated men to Maggie’s far left, who took quite some time to notice. Undaunted, Linda snatched up a rum and coke from the superstorm’s table and dashed it in Toberlene’s face.

  Movement halted. The board member wiped his eyes and looked fairly ridiculous, and not even Roger Correa would strike a man under such circumstances. Maggie stood by at a safe distance, monitoring the situation until her phone rang. She moved to the hostess station to get some napkins for Toberlene as she answered it.

  “Where are you?” her brother asked.

  “At the fights. Where are you?”

  “You despise fighting.”

  “This isn’t exactly official. What’s up? Where are you?”

  “At your apartment.”

  She choked. “Oh . . . really?”

  “Had a seven-hour layover between Atlanta and Sioux Falls. I came to find out what it is you’re not telling me.”

  Chapter 36

  “You have no food in this place,” Alex complained as soon as she entered her kitchen.

  “That’s not true! I have ice cream, Gala apples, and fat-free hot dogs. What else could I need?”

  She studied him—light brown hair, short but unruly, eyes a shade lighter than hers, only a few tiny acne scars to interrupt what she thought were fabulous looks. Then she threw her arms around her brother and hugged him tight. Not spilling every gut she had to him would be outstandingly difficult.

  But she would try.

  She made cinnamon toast—a childhood favorite of both of them—while he filled her in on Daisy, the kids, the bass player’s new girlfriend, and the travails of flying with a guitar. Then he checked his watch and said, “I have four more hours before my next plane leaves out of Hopkins. Spill.”

  In her family, serious conversations were always had in the kitchen.

  “Why are you so insistent that—I can’t believe you routed yourself through Cleveland just because you thought—”

  He shifted in the hard kitchen chair. “Remember when you broke the basement window playing prison escape with that dorky girl next door?”

  “We were escaping from a crashed 747—into the Alaskan tundra, I might add. And Julia wasn’t dorky.”

  “Dad thought it was vandals, but I knew it wasn’t, and you moped around for three days before I nagged you into confessing?”

  Maggie rolled her eyes.

  “And that time Bruce Wagner grabbed your boob in biology class and you got a detention for slamming him in the face with a pan full of dissected frog?”

  Maggie said, “But he never did it again.”

  “Yeah, but you gave Mom some lame-ass story about the detention that wouldn’t have fooled anyone except, well, Mom. But I knew.”

  The memory of splashing a frog’s spleen into Tony’s nose helped her to laugh as she asked, “Your point?”

  “I know when there’s something you’re not telling me, sis. And you’re not telling me something big.”

  She swallowed the last of her toast with difficulty. Might as well get it over with. “Something happened.”

  Calmly and competently, she told him about the vigilante murders, the trace evidence she had found and traced to a location, her near rape/murder at the hands of Dillon Shaw, her desperate dash through the streets of Cleveland to stop a murder, and her failure to do so. She told him everything, in fact, except for the fact that she alone knew who the serial killer was and that she had entered a deeply bizarre and uneasy alliance with him, and all because she had actually been the one who pulled the trigger. And that the serial killer might still be killing, most recently a teenage gangbanger named Ronald Soltis.

  His expression changed from horror to fury and back again as she spoke, and she regretted that, too. Surely with a wife, two children, and an unsteady income he had enough on his mind. She assured him that she was fine, unhurt, and the red line on her neck would eventually disappear. All the trauma did at least keep him from realizing that she had held part of the tale back, that there remained a significant chunk she had not relayed.

  For now.

  “Mags,” he breathed when she had finished. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I wasn’t ready to talk about it—and this isn’t exactly a phone conversation.” He continued to gaze at her while she pointed to the clock and said, “Are you taking the rapid to the airport—”

  “That’s it? Maggie—” He stretched his arm out and gripped her shoulder. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  He was thinking, she knew, that perhaps her rescue from Dillon Shaw had not been quite in the nick of time and that she’d been raped. He could think of nothing worse, and wanted to be her comfort and support for everything, every last horrible detail, no matter how it hurt him. It would never enter his mind that the last horrible detail might stretch in a different direction entirely. He’d rather die than see his baby sister hurt. But if his baby sister had hurt someone else . . . her darling Alex would have no idea what to do with that. None at all.

  So she looked directly into his eyes and, as solemnly and convincingly as she could, lied to him. “No, that’s all of it. Hell, isn’t it enough?”

  His words stumbled over themselves trying to assure her of benign intentions, then quizzed her about her coworkers’ emotional support, dep
artment-sponsored counseling, and whether she could take a few weeks off to go to a few gigs with him and the fam. Mercifully, her phone rang.

  “Did you get in a fight with Roger Correa?” Jack demanded.

  “I did no such thing. I just happened to be present when he got into a fight with someone else.”

  Alex had recovered enough to mouth “More frog guts?” at her. He could always make her laugh at the most trying of times.

  In clipped tones, Jack said, “You do realize that Roger Correa is probably our best suspect in three homicides?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what the hell—”

  “What do you need, Jack?”

  She heard a sound as if Jack were biting off what he would have preferred to say. “I need you to come here.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “We found Shania Paulson.”

  * * *

  About an hour earlier, Jack had shown up at the tidy doorstep of a tidy apartment in Tremont, not far from the Civilization coffee shop. The apartment had a glossy red door and a welcome mat. It also had only one escape route in case of fire, a window over the back alley with the metal framing to guide an emergency ladder unfurled from inside. Riley now stood in this alley, just in case the tenant or guest decided to lower themselves the three stories to the ground. Jack had offered to switch roles, but Riley refused to admit which of them could run faster. Jack figured his partner itched for a rematch with the fleet-of-foot Ms. Paulson.

  He knocked.

  No one responded, but shuffling sounds were made behind the door.

  He knocked again. He said nothing, did not identify himself as an officer. Plenty of time for that.

  More shuffling, and what sounded like a brief discussion. Then Tyler Truss opened the door, still dressed in his daytime uniform of dress pants, white shirt, and loosened tie.

  “Detective,” he said, without his usual energy. “You might as well come in.”

  He didn’t seem threatening, either physically or emotionally, but Jack kept a careful watch on him as he stepped inside. The apartment spread out in updated antique glory, original wood floors gleaming and all openings framed with heavy oak moldings. A leather couch faced a big flat-screen television and enough stereo equipment to service a small nightclub. Like many bachelors it seemed that the coffee table was his true ground zero, with video games, movies, junk mail, a water bottle, and a half-eaten bag of chips covering its polished mahogany surface. The kitchen counters weren’t nearly as cluttered, and the dining room table was bare except for a wicker basket with a complement of condiments. And Shania Paulson, sitting in one of the straight-back chairs.

  “Miss Paulson,” Jack said. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to place you under arrest.”

  “Yeah, I figured that,” she said.

  Chapter 37

  Jack thought it prudent to give Shania Paulson the impression that if she cooperated, they might not have to arrest her at all.

  “It was Jenna’s phone, wasn’t it?” she asked them, when Riley had abandoned the alley. With slight disappointment he gave up the idea of another footrace and sat at the online editor’s dining room table to hear why the first one had been necessary.

  “Yes,” Riley told her now.

  “I figured. How did you know to go to the gym?”

  The two men, predictably enough, didn’t want to admit that it hadn’t been their idea, so they hesitated long enough for Shania to go on without waiting for an answer. “I knew enough to leave my phone behind—which sucked—but after I worked out and could think of things calmly . . . I was just tired of running, so I called Tyler.” She reached out and patted his hand. She noticed the detectives’ glances and added, “I barely know Tyler. We’re not together or anything.”

  Tyler Truss’s face fell a bit at this.

  “But I knew he was a good friend of Jerry’s, and I didn’t know who else to call. All my friends, family—they all think I’m crazy to be so afraid. But Ty worked with Jerry, so I thought he’d understand.”

  “Understand what?” Riley asked.

  “That whoever killed Jerry, why ever they did it, it had to have something to do with the Herald.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because Jerry didn’t have any other enemies,” she said with irritation. “He wasn’t into drugs or gambling or fooling around with other men’s wives. All he did was work out, and work.”

  “Tell us about him, Ms. Paulson.”

  Shania rubbed her face as if weary. “I’m sorry for running away from you guys, but—anyone can say they’re the police, buy a badge on eBay for five bucks.”

  Riley opened his mouth to protest, then let it go.

  “After what happened to Jerry, I wasn’t going to take any chances. But we saw you pull up, and Ty said you were the real deal. I was tired of running. It sucks, running.” She nibbled on a long nail without tearing it. “And Jerry’s funeral is tomorrow. No way am I going to miss that.”

  “Your mother is beside herself—”

  “I spoke with her.” She looked from Riley to Jack, both across the table from her. “Is it true, what people said? That he was gutted like a deer?”

  “I’m afraid so, yes.”

  She shuddered, visibly. Tyler Truss put a hand on her shoulder, but she didn’t seem to notice. “That’s horrible. Who would do something like that—why?”

  “We were hoping you could help us understand that.”

  Shania studied her hands. She still didn’t want to talk to them, and Jack could guess why.

  “Tell us about the stocks,” Jack said.

  She hesitated. “Jerry had me buying stocks for him. He was paranoid about not having a paper trail between them and him—he’d take cash out from his paycheck every week and bring it to me. I’d deposit it in a separate checking account, use that to buy online. We went through E-Trade. How did you find out about it?”

  “We found your e-mails.”

  She gave a mirthless laugh. “Yeah, even that he hated. Don’t e-mail me! Leave nothing for the SEC to find! But he didn’t always answer his phone, he’d be too busy at the paper, and I couldn’t wait all day to make the buy because I had things to do, too—I told him spring gets crazy for me with the training and then the games—” She gasped out a sob, cut it off. “Did I get him killed? Do you think?”

  Riley tried to calm her without making any promises. “We don’t think so, but there’s a lot we don’t know yet. How long had this been going on?”

  “About four months.”

  “How much stock did you buy?”

  “About forty thousand dollars’ worth. Where he got all that money, I don’t know—I think he cashed in other things, other stocks, IRAs, maybe some kind of pension plan. He’d bring me stacks of cash, insist on driving me to the bank to make sure I didn’t get robbed in the parking lot. He didn’t tell me all the details and I didn’t ask, because he’d tense up when I did. But I know this—he was damn serious about this, man, serious as death. He stopped going out, broke up with his girlfriend, hadn’t bought new clothes in months, wouldn’t even go on vacation with the family to Hilton Head like we usually do after New Year’s. He told me once, ‘I’m putting everything into this. This is the rest of my life we’re talking about.’ That’s why he’d get so hyper about saying anything in an e-mail or even over the phone.”

  “What stocks was he buying?” Riley asked. “All different types, or a particular fund—”

  She frowned at him in surprise. “The Herald.”

  “Only that?”

  “Yep, just the Herald. I mean, it was easy, since it’s pretty much in the toilet. Three-eighty a share at the beginning of the week.”

  The two partners exchanged a glance. “Obviously he expected that it would go up.”

  “Duh. I mean, sorry . . . but duh. He expected it to go way up. He said when he cashed out, I could have fifteen percent. Agent fees, he called it. Sounded good to me for such easy work
. And Jerry”—her eyes again filled with tears—“knew what he was talking about. Anyone else I know, I wouldn’t have agreed. But Jerry’s always had my six, and I had his. I trusted him more than I trust myself—especially where money is concerned.”

  “Why was he so sure the value of the stock would rise?”

  She looked at him with wide, red-rimmed eyes. “I have no idea.”

  Riley pressed. “He expected to make a killing. He must have known something.’”

  “I’m sure he did,” she said with dignity. “He worked there. He had me buy the stock because otherwise it would be insider trading. That’s why I didn’t ask why. No one would think I had inside knowledge; no one would connect me with Jerry. We didn’t have the same last name or anything.”

  “And he never hinted what would cause this leap in price?”

  “Nope,” she said, solid on that point.

  Jack asked the most important question. “Who else knew about this?”

  “No one. Just me and Jerry. I mean no one. He made that really, really clear. I told you he was paranoid.” Another sniff, and she dabbed at her nose with a paper napkin. “I guess he had reason to be.”

  “You didn’t tell anyone about this arrangement, not your mother, not anyone, not even a hint?”

  Again, the answer was immediate. “No one. Jerry was a fanatic about that, and he insisted he had never told a soul, either. He said it would all be worth it when it was over.”

  “When was that going to be?”

  “He didn’t say, I didn’t ask. Lately I’ve been too busy, and I got so used to making the buys, I didn’t even think about it much anymore. But I had the impression it wouldn’t be too long. Like a few more months, a year, maybe. That’s a guess.”

  Jack turned to Truss before the guy had time to think and asked, “Did you know about this?”

  The man’s fair skin reddened. “No. This is the first I’m hearing about anything. I didn’t even know Jerry owned Herald stock.”

  “Do you?”

  “No.” As the other three at the table gazed at him, he said, “Not a penny. I hate to say it, but the truth is, no one in their right mind is investing in newspapers at this point. That ship has sailed.”