"So this guy comes forward with a story about a crime someone else committed but got away with because he was rich and connected." Jonathan again, coaching her, coaxing her through. Rich enough to pay someone to confess to a crime he didn't commit? What was another murder to someone sentenced to die, a sheaf of confessions in his file?
"But you did talk. You talked to Jonathan. You're not very good at keeping promises, are you?"
"Promises!" He spat the word back at her. "Ask Abramowitz about promises. That kike set up the deal, then took all my money. A year ago I asked to see my bank statement. I knew the money had to go through him-the people who were paying me didn't want me to know who they were. He told me he invested it. But when I asked to see the statements, to see my nest egg, he hems and haws, then tells me: ‘Oh, I gave it away to some good causes.' Can you believe that shit? He didn't give it away. He stole it. How do you think he started that private practice of his? He was the good cause. He took my money. My money!"
When he was agitated Fauquier's voice did not get louder but raspier, and his lisp became more pronounced. He was hissing wetly now, spit flying from his mouth with each liquid word. It took all Tess's resolve not to recoil or duck.
"You told Jonathan all this."
"Eventually. I drew it out more. I liked talking to Jonathan. He was pretty." Fauquier looked at her slyly. "Didn't you think he was pretty?"
"Did you tell him which was the fake confession?"
"I was going to, if he paid me. But he said he wouldn't pay me. And you know what happened to him."
Yes, I was there, you schmuck.
"Do you think Jonathan was killed because of what you told him?"
"I don't know and I don't care. They can't get me. That's the funny thing. The hardest person to kill in Maryland is someone who's condemned to die. I'm just holding out for the best offer. How much money do you have?"
Fauquier leaned closer, until his face was only inches away. Tess rolled her chair back, trying to keep her distance. There was something wrong with Fauquier's story. Something was missing. Even if Jonathan had been able to pick out the false confession, he would have to know who had been shielded. That was the sexy part. Somewhere out there the parents of a young boy had the scant comfort of thinking his killer was in prison and scheduled to die, even if it was for another boy's death. You wouldn't want to take that away from them unless you could advance the story, tell them who really did it and why. Fauquier lied, so what? He was still a killer. Who benefited?
"I wouldn't pay you anything," she told Fauquier. "You don't know the most important part. You don't know who you took the fall for. Without that your story's just a fairy tale."
The pun had been unintentional, but it enraged Fauquier. "Who're you calling a fairy, you cow? You whore. You think you're so smart. Well, you try to figure out which one I didn't do, much less who really did it. Jonathan thought he could. Maybe that's why he's dead right now. I hope it is."
He was standing now, his voice a hoarse scream, spit flying at her. Tess stood up, too, glad to see she was at least five inches taller.
"I'm going to call for Mr. Lardner now. I want you to stay on your side of the table."
It was eerie how quickly Fauquier calmed down. He wasn't scared of the prison official, Tess realized, or of her. He wanted to be in control. The "model prisoner" probably tried to hide his rage as much as possible. By the time Lardner arrived he looked angelic.
"Did you have a nice visit?" he asked Tess and Fauquier.
"We sure did," Fauquier said, beaming. "She's pretty, don't you think, Mr. Lardner? I'd sure like to take her out on a date."
The official nodded as if this seemed reasonable.
"I'm not exactly your type," Tess said. "And not just because I'm a woman. You see, Mr. Fauquier, I don't think you could be attracted to anyone you couldn't kill or hurt. And unlike your little boys, I could definitely kick your ass. You are one twisted fucker."
Fauquier glowered. Garfield Lardner stood openmouthed, shocked that the granddaughter of Ed Monahan, the seafood king, would be so crude.
Chapter 27
Home again, Tess tried to think like a newspaper editor, like Jonathan's boss. She sat in front of her computer and transformed herself into someone pedantic and nit-picking, someone who could lecture for hours on "infer" and "imply," unaware a five-alarm fire burned across the street.
What hoops would an editor have asked Jonathan to jump through in order to get his story in the paper? First of all he would have had to figure out, without Fauquier, which was the wrong confession. There could be any number of ways to do that. Interviews with homicide detectives from the time. Examining the police reports and court papers.
But that wouldn't be enough. With Abramowitz dead and Fauquier condemned to die, about as disreputable as a source could be, Jonathan needed to find the money, where it came from, and where it went. Like a bird building its nest, he would have ferreted out every available material. Twig, string, paper. Mainly paper.
Follow the money, Deep Throat had whispered in a Washington parking garage. Or had he? It didn't matter. Journalists of Jonathan's generation and ambition had been intoning those instructions ever since, their professional mantra. Follow the money. Michael Abramowitz had left an estate of almost one million dollars. That was one place to start. But a shortcut through Jonathan's brain would be nice. His brain being unavailable, Tess would have to settle for the next best thing.
Tess reached for the phone and called Whitney at her office.
"Have they cleaned out Jonathan's desk yet?"
"Not yet, but I'm sure they will soon. They don't have enough desks around here for prolonged periods of mourning. And Jonathan's desk was by a window, so a lot of people want it."
"What about his computer files? Are they still in the system?"
"Hmmmm-actually, the head computer geek is at some conference learning how to make the system even more complicated and cumbersome to use, so he hasn't been here to reclaim all that storage space for his precious mainframe. But you couldn't get in without Jonathan's password, and only the geek would know that."
"I'd never get permission to go into the Blight's computer, anyway. Even if Tyner went to court, the paper would have to claim it's privileged, on principle. And if the judge decided in Rock's favor, the computer geek would ‘accidentally' kill everything."
Whitney laughed. "You have it all figured out, don't you? I bet you even have an alternative plan."
"I will, after you explain the Blight's computer system to me. But Whitney-I want to do this tonight."
Several hours later Tess and Whitney set out from Fells Point in Whitney's Jeep Cherokee. Like Crow, Whitney seemed to find this a great adventure, but she was better dressed, in black leggings and an open-weave black sweater over a white T-shirt. She had accessorized with clunky black boots with white socks, and gold earrings set with onyx and seed pearls.
"No white gloves?" Tess asked facetiously, only to have Whitney thrust a pair at her, probably left over from dancing school.
"I can afford to leave fingerprints in the building. You can't, my dear."
"White gloves with blue jeans after September first? OK, but I think this is a major fashion faux pas."
Technically an all-day newspaper, the Beacon-Light liked to boast it had reporters on duty twenty-four hours. From midnight until 4 A.M., however, the staff consisted of a solitary police reporter. Young and scared, he sat by a scanner, petrified he might have to leave the building. He seldom did, but Tess and Whitney could avoid him altogether just by using the back stairs. The electronic traps were a little harder to elude.