You Only Die Twice (19 page)

Onnie said she'd track down last summer's wire-service piece on death-row inmates and check to see where it had been published. I called the Florida Bureau of Corrections with a question. Their spokes-
woman said she'd get back to me with an answer as soon as possible.

As I scrolled through my story exposing Kaithlin Jordan's second identity for a final read, a towering presence peered over my shoulder.

“What do you think? Does the lead work?” I glanced up, expecting Fred or Onnie.

“Works for me,” Fitzgerald said.

“How did you get up to the newsroom?” I asked.

“Security is supposed to announce visitors.”

“I told your buddy you were expecting me.”

“Swell,” I said, as Rooney waved happily from the hall.

I hit the
SEND
button and smiled up at Fitzgerald. He smiled back.

Onnie interrupted with a printout of the wire story. The
News
hadn't used it, but it had been published by a number of subscribing papers nationwide, including the
Seattle Times
on June fourth. A paragraph devoted to R. J. identified him as a “wealthy Miami department-store heir facing death for the murder of his young wife nearly a decade ago.” His mug shot ran as well. I imagined Shannon Broussard, prominent Seattle socialite, devoted wife and mother, opening her newspaper. What happened when she saw the photo and read that he was about to die for her murder? Was that why she returned?

Gretchen eyed us suspiciously from the city desk as Fitzgerald and I headed to the cafeteria for coffee.

“Let's take the stairs,” I said, as he punched the elevator button. “That thing's too slow.”

“Saw that coming up,” he said. “Thought I'd need a shave by the time I reached your natural habitat. So this
is where you disappear to.” His deep-set eyes scanned the newsroom. “It's like a roach motel; once you come in here, you never come out.”

“Oh, I manage to skitter out and about,” I said, “here and there. Did you talk to R. J.?”

“No, that SOB isn't talking to anybody.”

“Oh?” I feigned smug surprise. “I just left him over at Williams Island. We spent a little time together. He's working on his tan, looks good, sends regards.”

“No shit,” Fitzgerald said. “What did he say?”

“The usual, that Kaithlin's death was his big break. Claims he has no idea who did it or why. He's still pissed off at your office. He was curious about Preston Broussard—jealous, actually. Have you met Broussard yet?”

Fitzgerald said he'd been present when Rychek interviewed him at the station after he'd identified the body. Broussard, still shaken, told them that Shannon had withdrawn large amounts of cash over the past seven or eight months, money still unaccounted for. He had been unaware of the transactions until after she disappeared.

I thought I knew where the money went, but I asked Fitzgerald anyway.

He shrugged. “Could be a lot of things. Blackmail, hidden vices, a boy toy on the side. Maybe she was gearing up to cut and run again.”

“And leave her kids? I doubt it. I think she saw this wire story in her local paper and decided to save R. J.”

“After all the pains she took to frame him?” Fitzgerald asked.

“It would explain the calls she made to Kagan,” I said. “Maybe she never expected R. J., with his rich parents and high-priced lawyers, to be sentenced to death. Maybe it was okay with her if he did time, but she couldn't let him be executed.”

“A real sweetheart.” Fitzgerald frowned skeptically.

“But why would she risk it all to save that son-of-a-bitch?”

“Maybe she found religion, or a conscience. Maybe she still cared. R. J. was her first love.”

“Not the sort of first love people write poetry and songs about,” Fitzgerald said patiently. “The way I see it going down is Kaithlin's afraid he'll kill her, so she strikes first and makes a run for it.”

“Right,” I said. “She sees no other escape. She's a casualty of the ever-escalating war between her husband and her mother. Even if she survives a divorce, she loses the only thing she has left—her career. The mystery of the missing money is not going to enhance her résumé. With nothing left here, she fakes her death, frames him, and puts as many miles as she can between her and Miami.

“While she's doing that, alone and vulnerable, she meets a man who will protect and care for her. She uses a handy disaster in the Midwest to create a tragic past and, fearful of losing him, never reveals her true identity to the new husband.”

“Okay,” Fitzgerald said agreeably. “We're on the same page. So far, so good.”

“Right,” I said. “She's at peace, Miami only a memory. Unlike Lot's wife, she never looks back—until last
summer. She sees the story; R. J. doomed to die. Maybe motherhood raised her consciousness.”

“You're saying she identified with R. J.'s mother,” he asked, “another woman about to lose a child?”

I paused to think of Eunice. “Nah, scratch that one,” I said.

“I don't buy it either,” Fitzgerald agreed. “People capable of what Kaithlin Jordan did aren't altruistic. They never have high-minded motives or morals. There isn't a noble deed in them. The basics are what drive them: money, sex, jealousy.”

“You're a cop, you're cynical,” I protested.

“Hey, no offense.” He patted my hand. “I'm glad that after all you see on the job, you're still naive enough to think that way. It's nice.”

Nice. He thought I was nice. I wished I could confide all I knew, without betraying Frances—and Kaithlin.

I kissed him hard just outside the building's back door, trying to ignore Rooney, who lurked nearby, apparently looking out for my well-being. And I promised to join Fitzgerald for a drink when I got off, no matter how late.

 

I called Kagan's office from the newsroom.

He wasn't in, Frances said.

“Good,” I said. “I need to know the approximate dates that those checks arrived—”

“What did you do?” she whispered urgently. “He's been trying and trying to reach you! I've never seen him like this! He and Rothman quarreled. He's out of his mind. He punched right through the drywall—”

“Okay. I need to know—”

“I can't talk to you on this line! Call me later, at home.”

She hung up.

I redialed. “Would you tell Mr. Kagan that I returned his call?” I said sweetly, as though we hadn't just spoken.

“I'll see that he gets the message,” she said crisply.

 

He called thirty minutes later.

“So what happened? Your story this morning didn't mention me or Rothman.”

I imagined him and the detective dashing out of their respective residences in their jammies at dawn to comb the pages of the morning paper for their names. “Right,” I said. “We held those details back due to new developments. In the morning we're running the story on her other identity and what brought her back to Miami. It's turned into much bigger news.”

“Whattaya mean?”

“You know. The money. What she hired you to do. The Seattle husband has bank records showing all her withdrawals. A paper trail proves it was sent here, to Miami…. I'm doing an investigative piece. You should try to tell your side before the story hits the street.”

“Look,” he said, “I don't know what other people are telling you, but I have an obligation to protect the lawyer–client privilege.”

“The client's dead. Murdered,” I said.

“I can't discuss this over the phone,” he said.

“In your office?”

“When?”

“Now?”

He took a deep breath. “Thirty minutes.”

“Make it an hour,” I said. I needed Frances to get home first.

I called Broussard at his hotel.

“I've been on the phone for the last hour. Making arrangements.” His voice quavered. “I'm taking Shannon home. The children don't know yet. I want to tell them in person. I have to be there.”

“That's good,” I said. “They'll need their dad. I'm still trying to piece together why she came here and what happened after she arrived.” I asked about the cash withdrawals.

He had the dates. There were five, beginning with $50,000 on June 12. The others ranged from $35,000 to $70,000 for a total of $250,000.

No wonder Kagan was living large.

“Would you do something for me?” Broussard's voice dropped to a weary whisper. “Tomorrow, before I leave, I want to go back to that place you showed me, where she was found. Just to—to see how it was, to say a silent prayer or something. Would you be there, to sort of walk me through it?”

“Sure. I'll call you in the morning. Try to get some sleep. Also,” I said, loathing myself, “my editors would like a picture of Shannon, maybe a family portrait with you two and the kids, or a wedding photo. Something representative of her life out there, with you.”

“I'll see what I can do,” he said hesitantly. “Someone at the house could overnight it.”

 

Frances answered her home phone. She sounded frightened. “What are you doing? You're going to get me in trouble!”

“Look,” I said, “we need to find out the truth. If your boss killed Kaithlin he's dangerous and we have to get you out of that office. If we prove he didn't, it'll give you some peace of mind. I need to know about the money. Does two hundred and fifty thousand sound right? She withdrew that much since June in increments from thirty-five to seventy thousand.”

“Probably,” she said slowly. “I knew the first was about fifty. I didn't realize the total came to quite that much, but the ballpark sounds right.”

“Do you recall any of the dates that money arrived?”

“I looked them up after you called. Let me get my notebook.”

She rattled them off. Each envelope had arrived in Miami within twenty-four hours of the Seattle withdrawal.

“Frances, please, would you talk to a detective? For your own safety.”

“No!” She sounded shocked. “He would know it came from me. You promised!”

“All right,” I said. “I promised not to drag you into it and I won't. I was only asking. Did Kagan deposit the money into his own bank accounts?”

“Some,” she said guardedly, “in different banks. But never enough to tip off the IRS. He spent a lot and paid cash. Remember”—she began to sound agitated—“you can't tell anyone we talked. I spoke to you in good faith.”

I reassured her, said goodbye, and told the desk I was going to interview Kagan. “At the very least, Kaithlin Jordan hired him for something,” I told Tubbs, who was in the slot. “At the very worst, he killed her.”

“Do the cops know about this?” he asked, his round face puckered into a frown.

“They asked, he lied.”

“Need somebody to go with you? A photographer, another reporter?”

“No,” I said. “It would only spook him more.”

“Well, be careful,” he said doubtfully.

Traffic was a nightmare, bumper-to-bumper on the Dolphin Expressway where a jackknifed tractor-trailer had dumped a load of produce across two lanes. I arrived exactly ten minutes late.

Kagan's office looked dark in the growing dusk but was unlocked. His secretary's desk looked tidy, no lights lit on the telephone system. The door to his inner office stood ajar.

“Hello?” I called.

“In here.” He stepped out from behind his big desk, pointedly checking his gold Rolex. “I thought reporters were always on time.”

“I am,” I said innocently. “Your watch must be fast.”

He frowned at the timepiece, probably worth more than my car.

He wore another expensive Italian suit; his shoes were polished to a high gleam, but unlike at our last meeting, shadows ringed his eyes, a bottle of Chivas Regal stood on his desk, and there was a fist-sized hole in the drywall between his office and a file room.

He motioned me to a leather chair, while he sat on the edge of his massive desk, looking down at me from a position of power.

“What happened to the wall?” I asked, wide-eyed.

“Cleaning service accidentally pushed a piece of furniture into it.”

“What a shame,” I said. “You should make them fix it.”

“Look,” he said. “I'm gonna be straight with you.”

“That would be nice.”

“Me to you,” he said. “Marty to Britt, one on one.”

I opened my notebook.

He held up a cautionary hand. “No notes. Hear me out first.” He licked pale lips as if they were dry, then offered a drink. “It's after hours,” he coaxed.

I declined. His hand shook slightly as he poured his own. He drank it neat, the first swallow followed by a long shuddering breath.

“Okay,” he said, fortified. He paused. “You're not using a tape recorder or anything, right?”

To reassure him, I upended my purse on his desk. We stared in dismay at the contents. I'd forgotten the remaining half of that greasy day-old grilled-cheese sandwich. Another surprise tumbled out with my comb, a lipstick, and small change, a
resguardo
, a tiny cloth pouch filled with herbs and other items, a talisman for my protection. My Aunt Odalys must have slipped it in there during our last visit. Would the Santería saints be offended by the melted cheese stuck to it?

“You don't practice that crap, do you?” Kagan asked.

“I have this relative.” I sighed. “My father's younger sister.”

“Tell me about it,” he said. “You remember my father, don't you? Everybody does.”

“Sure,” I said. “He specialized in death-penalty appeals.”

“Yeah, till he stroked out six–seven years ago. Anyhow, here I am, beating the bushes to make a living, and one day last year I get an out-of-town call from some broad. She's looking for my old man and finds me, the only Martin Kagan, attorney-at-law, currently in the book. Won't give her name or number, but she wants help on a death-penalty case.