Dead Wrong (Jason Justice Mystery Book 2)

by Ralph Zeta

  Young Henry Klein answered the door. He wore a pin-striped suit and a pale yellow bow tie over a white shirt. Klein seemed genuinely surprised at the number of uniforms staring back at him from the shadows the home’s portico. I did my best to remain inconspicuous and out of sight, but at my size, inconspicuous is hard to pull off.

  Klein’s eyes found me. A dark frown of irritation crossed his lily-white features.

  “There’s no way, Sheriff!” Klein protested. He stood with legs shoulder wide apart, arms crossed, as if fancying himself some sort of badass. “Mr. Justice has no business here.”

  “Mr. Justice is here at my request,” Powell said.

  “I object to his presence.”

  “So noted,” Powell said as he took a step closer to Klein.

  The sheriff’s linebacker frame loomed over Klein’s bantamweight build. Klein stood aside.

  Powell was first to push through the door. Sheriff Markel followed in his wake, with me in tow. As planned, Sammy and the deputies remained outside the house. We found Norma sitting in her living room, her lowrider Welsh corgis happily at her side. Henry Kline took a seat protectively close to her.

  Powell and I had spoken at length earlier. He made it a point to remind me that the matter at hand must be handled carefully. After all, Norma was not the typical criminal suspect. She may not command the vast financial resources her sister enjoyed, but she had powerful connections, not the least of whom was sitting at her side.

  “Paula Jumper’s two boys,” Powell said after brief pleasantries were exchanged. “You acquainted with them?”

  “Not all of them, no,” she replied after receiving an affirmative nod from Klein.

  “I’m asking specifically about Jesse and Samuel Jumper.”

  “I know them, yes.” Another glance passed between Klein and Norma. “Are they in trouble again?”

  “I’ll get to that in a moment, ma’am,” Powell said. He read from a file. “Have you engaged with or hired either Jesse or Samuel Jumper to work for you?”

  “Why, yes, Sheriff,” Norma said confidently. “The boy’s mother, Paula, found herself unemployed a while back. She had worked for Milton Lowry for many years. After my sister had her arrested and then fired her, she couldn’t find work. She reached out to me. The woman was desperate. Paula has a handicapped child living at home. She needed work; I was in need of someone reliable. So I hired her. Back then our backyard was unfinished. One of her boys, Samuel, came with her one day. The boy had been in jail and was unemployed. So my son hired him to help finish the patio.”

  “How about the other son—Jesse?” Sheriff Markel asked, stroking his thick salt-and-pepper mustache with one finger. “He work for you, too?”

  “He did. He came with Samuel near the end of the project. He had been away in the military. They worked together on the patio.”

  “How about more recently?”

  She seemed momentarily taken aback by the question. “No, Sheriff. I haven’t seen those boys since they finished the job. Why? What’s this about?”

  “We have evidence that suggests otherwise, Ms. Klein,” Powell said. “We have reason to believe Jesse and Samuel were employed by you recently.”

  “What . . . ?” Before Norma could speak, Klein silenced her with a hand on her arm.

  “What sort of evidence, Sheriff?” Henry Klein asked, taking over for his mother.

  “Bear with me, Mr. Klein,” Powell said curtly. “All I’m prepared to say is that we have evidence that contradicts your mother.”

  “That won’t do, Sheriff,” Klein countered. “To me, this sounds like a fishing expedition. I’m inclined to believe you came here armed with nothing more than hearsay disguised as evidence. Hardly admissible in court.”

  “It’s in her best interest to cooperate with us,” Markel said.

  “Things will only get worse if she doesn’t,” Powell added.

  Klein regarded Powell with a sideways glance then eyed me warily. Was that a hint of concern in those bright blue eyes? Although I couldn’t explain it, I felt for him at that moment. What lay ahead wouldn’t be pleasant.

  “Well, I don’t like it,” Klein declared. “We’re done here. The interview is over. I’m advising my client not to say another word.”

  “Think long and hard before you hide behind legal maneuvers, ma’am,” Markel said to Norma. “It’s for your own good. Trust me when I say now is the time to cooperate.”

  “Why?” Klein said. “What sort of evidence could you possibly have? That my mother at one time hired the sons of a former employee? And maybe she forgot to pay payroll taxes, is that it? Because if she’s guilty of anything, that would be it.”

  Powell glanced in my direction. “Mr. Justice.”

  “Oh, no. there’s no way. I object,” Klein said indignantly.

  He came to his feet and stood with his hands on his hips. “Whatever Mr. Justice has to say is irrelevant. Besides, he’s a person of interest in Milton’s Lowry’s disappearance. And if he isn’t, he is at least a material witness in an open criminal investigation.”

  “You should know we have Paula Jumper in custody,” Powell said.

  “Well, congratulations, Sheriff,” Klein replied. “Good for you. But what does that have to do with my mother?”

  “Paula Jumper said that her son Samuel told her they came here six weeks ago from West Virginia specifically to work for you.”

  “For me?” Norma said. “Impossible! That isn’t true at all. I haven’t seen them or spoken to those boys in years. Why would they say such a thing?”

  “Pardon my bluntness, but who cares what Paula Jumper says?” Klein said as he placed a hand on Norma’s shoulder, apparently urging her not to speak. “Come on, Sheriff. These are Ms. Jumper’s sons. Both career criminals. You know that. Of course she’ll say anything to protect her sons.”

  “Paula’s sons, Jesse and Samuel, are both dead,” I said.

  All eyes fell on me. I was watching Norma. I saw horror cross her face. She brought a well-manicured hand to her lips.

  “The boys ambushed Mr. Justice and an associate late yesterday,” Powell explained. “Unfortunately, the Jumper boys died in the ensuing confrontation. The incident took place in close proximity to the residence of another Jumper family member who we believe was providing material assistance to the boys. We obtained a warrant and searched the family member’s home. The search produced a bank envelope containing nine thousand two hundred dollars in cash. Mr. Aguilar, the family member we believe was assisting them, claims the money belonged to Jesse and Samuel, that he was just keeping it safe for them. He stated the money was some sort of advance payment on something the Jumper boys were hired to do.”

  “And I ask again, what does that have to do with my mother?” Klein said, not bothering to conceal his growing displeasure.

  “We looked at your banking history, Mrs. Klein,” Sheriff Markel said. “You made a cash withdrawal in the amount of nine thousand five hundred dollars a few weeks ago. We traced the cash in the envelope in Mr. Aguilar’s possession to the withdrawal you made.”

  “Me?” Norma said, a deep crease furrowing her brow. “No. Not me. It must be a mistake. I haven’t taken that much money out of the bank in years!”

  “I hope you got a warrant for those bank records, Sheriff,” Klein said.

  Markel glared at him, “What do you think, Counselor?”

  “May I show Mrs. Klein something?” I said.

  All eyes turned back to me. Powell nodded his assent. I unfolded a document I had in my jacket pocket. I offered the stapled pages to Norma. “Does this bank account look familiar, Mrs. Klein?”

  “Are you serious?” Klein spluttered. “Does he work for you now, Sheriff? I object to this whole thing.”

  “Save it for the judge, Mr. Klein,” Powell said behind a withering glance.

  Norma’s eyes swept over the pages.

  “It’s good to see you again, by the way,” I said to Klein with unfeigned delig
ht.

  He seemed more wound up than when we first met. I decided to rattle his cage a bit. “Love the bow tie,” I said, nodding at his collar with a conspiratorial wink. “Killer.”

  “Mother,” Klein said ignoring the slight. “Look at me.” Norma glanced at her son. “Listen to me. Don’t. Say. Another. Word. Do you understand?”

  Norma’s eyes widened with a mix of concern and confusion. She seemed to hesitate for an instant before she nodded.

  Satisfied he had regained control, Klein faced us. He wore the same smirk that once again, I wished I could erase from his pompous face.

  “This interview is over, Sherriff. My client has nothing else to say. I want you all to leave my client’s residence at once.”

  “That statement says the account belongs to you, Mrs. Klein,” Powell said, ignoring her son.

  “I said we’re done,” Klein said.

  “In that case, Sheriff Markel will have no choice but to bring Mrs. Klein in for questioning,” Powell said, adding quiet emphasis by rising from his seat.

  “Are you kidding me?” Klein gasped. “On what charge?”

  “Obstruction. Lying to the police,” Markel said with an even tone. “And I suspect she’ll be charged with murder for hire.”

  “Wait! This isn’t right,” Norma protested, her eyes on Powell. “This account has my name on it, yes, but it isn’t mine. This is an old account. It was a joint account I had with my husband long ago. I haven’t used it in years.” She turned and glanced painfully at her son, the stapled pages dangling from her hand, and said, “After your father went to prison, you took over this account, Henry.”

  A heavy silence filled the room.

  Norma stood before her son, fear crept into her eyes, distorting her features.

  “What did you do, Henry?”

  Henry Klein’s chin fell to his chest. As a lawyer, he knew that it was in his best interest not to say another word. Young, dapper, elegant Henry Klein didn’t move. His eyes remained downcast as he listened to his mother sob.

  No one spoke. And no one moved, not even when Norma crumpled to the floor, her cries of anguish echoing through her home, her dogs at her elbows offering endless comfort.

  Thirty-Two

  There is a clear distinction between grief and mourning. Grief is subjective. It is about the overwhelming feelings that arise after a significant loss. Mourning, on the other hand, is about action, about rituals and behavior commonly practiced after a loss as prescribed by tradition or culture.

  A day filled with much sadness started under appropriately slate skies and an incessant misting rain. Lisel Appel’s memorial was held in an austere chapel full of wooden benches under a tall barreled ceiling, the gleaming gray casket surrounded by tall vases filled with spectacular clumps of white lilies. After the brief ceremony had concluded, a long list of speakers took turns behind the lectern and spoke movingly about the life of a young woman taken too soon.

  Lola was the last to speak.

  “Like most children, Lisel and I thought we would live forever,” Lola said. “That as identical twins, if one of us died, the other would carry on as if nothing had changed, because in doing so, we would transcend death and we would live on. So permanent was our bond.”

  I had never met Lisel, but despite my natural aversion to displays of emotion, the poignancy of that moment somehow got to me right along with everyone else in the chapel.

  I said good-bye to Lola. She smiled weakly, wrapped her arms around my neck, and held me.

  “Thank you for everything, Jason,” she whispered. I asked her whether it was all right to call her and check in, talk, maybe grab a bite. She said she would welcome the call. I kissed her cheek and headed for the exit.

  As I left the chapel, someone called my name. “Mr. Justice!”

  A driver held the open door to a gleaming Bentley sedan and handed Gabriela Lowry a dark umbrella. Dressed demurely in a dark tropical wool skirt and jacket, her eyes cloaked by large sunglasses, she waved at me.

  “A moment of your time, please?”

  “Mrs. Lowry,” I said. “This is a surprise. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  She came up and held the umbrella over both of us and said, “What would that be?”

  “Empathy.”

  She took the umbrella back. “Not amusing, Mr. Justice.”

  I smiled mostly to myself. I don’t understand myself sometimes, why I do the things I do. I had nothing to gain by pushing her buttons, and yet, I couldn’t resist the dig.

  “I spoke with my sister,” she said. “I understand you two have met.”

  I nodded. The light drizzle beading up on the shoulders of my suit was beginning to soak in. “So you two finally spoke?”

  “She wanted to tell me she was not aware of Henry’s actions. She apologized. For him. For what he did.”

  “It’s a start.”

  “Then she had the nerve to ask for help. Her son’s legal bills will be enormous. She’s afraid he could get the death penalty.”

  “Will you help?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “It’s her only son.”

  She said nothing.

  “What would you do if it were your son?”

  “I’m not a forgiving person, Mr. Justice. I trusted that boy. He had Milton and Ms. Appel’s sister murdered. And he almost seceded in killing me.”

  “And you shouldn’t forgive him. Not ever. But you and your sister have lost so much. Word of advice: help Norma. It may not change her son’s fate, but it may change yours. Your sister is alone. And so are you. Leave the past behind. You’re family. You need each other.”

  A hard look. “I didn’t come for a lecture on family relations.”

  “Why did you come?”

  A beat of silence, then, “You’ll be pleased to hear I took your advice.”

  “Oh?”

  “The money Milton had been sending the families. It’s being sent again.”

  “Good to hear,” I said. “It’s what Milton wanted.”

  The frown softened, and she sighed. “Do you think he’ll ever be found?”

  “Hard to say. But police in three counties are looking for him.”

  She looked at me as if what I had to say had no bearing on her day. She handed me an envelope. “This is yours.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your fee.”

  I peeked inside the envelope, at a check for half a million dollars. I closed the envelope and offered it back. “This isn’t right.”

  She recoiled with surprise. “Is it not enough?”

  “Too much.”

  “Perhaps. But it’s no more and no less than what I pay outside counsel. And you did save my life.”

  “We got lucky.”

  “I don’t believe in luck, Mr. Justice. Preparation, surrounding oneself with the right personnel—that’s how luck is made.”

  I said nothing.

  “I can’t figure you out, Mr. Justice.” She removed her sunglasses and considered me with those burnt-caramel eyes. “You’re not like any lawyer I’ve ever met, and I’ve met my share.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Another long appraisal. “I now understand why Martha referred Milton to you.”

  “What would that be?”

  “You’re clever and tenacious. You have this threatening presence and you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty. And sadly, like Milton, also someone easily lured by a pretty face with a suitably sad story.”

  “Wait,” I said in feigned disbelief. “Is that a compliment?”

  She ignored the question. “Good-bye, Mr. Justice. I hope I never see you again.”

  She turned and walked back to her waiting car and driver.

  “So lunch is out of the question?”

  I heard her sigh under her umbrella. She didn’t miss a single elegant stride.

  Epilogue

  It took weeks to plan and numerous tweaking and retweaking of schedules, two departure resc
hedulings due to unforeseen events that had crept in at the last moment, and countless maneuvers around the long string of peripheral commitments that rule our daily existence. But on a cool early December morning, under sparkling skies and a gentle breeze, I pulled up at the visitor docks at Fisher Island Marina in Miami and tied up the Blind Ambition II to the moorings. I was meeting Lola for early lunch before setting sail for Bimini.

  As I finished securing the spring lines, I saw a familiar figure moving in my direction. Lola. A large white plastic bag dangled from one hand, a colorful tote from the other. Judging by the corners straining the bag, it probably held takeout containers. Lola was wearing white jeans, oatmeal sweater, and dark sunglasses. I beamed at her, and she smiled back. But as I gazed at the splendor before me, something registered in my brain that not all was well. Something in this perfect unfolding of events was off. Then it dawned on me: Lola had no luggage. My eyes furtively surveyed the dock beyond her, searching for the missing luggage, a wheeled carry-on at least—anything to allay the negative connotations creeping into my thoughts. I was right. There was no luggage. Out getaway to paradise wasn’t happening.

  “Hey, sailor,” she said as she drew near.

  That splendid smile almost melted me. And for an instant, I almost forgot my growing sense of devastation.

  “Hey, yourself,” I offered meekly.

  “I brought lunch.” She lifted the bag to show me.

  “Swell.”

  “Did you have a nice sail down?” she asked, stepping onto the deck. I debated whether to inquire about luggage, force the issue, but decided not to. It would come up soon enough.

  “Yes, it was,” I replied. “Couldn’t have asked for a better day on the water.”

  She kissed my cheeks and took off the sunglasses. Her eyes lingered on me for some time. I looked into those eyes and found myself at a loss for words.

  “Shall we have lunch on the bridge?” she asked, reeling me back in to the present.

  “Sure.”