“Well, back up a second. Just because he didn’t run doesn’t mean he didn’t kill Jessie Merrill.”
He considered her words, appreciating the distinction. “You still think he might have killed her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Katrina told me on the phone that her company probably killed a woman in Georgia to cash in on a viatical settlement. Seems to me they did the same thing with Jessie.”
“Except that Jessie was healthy.”
“What difference does that make?”
“Someone with AIDS is expected to die. So it doesn’t raise red flags if the viatical company hastens the process. Especially if you go to the trouble of doing ten different clients under ten different company names, which is apparently the way they did it. But Jessie Merrill was a totally different situation. She wasn’t sick, wasn’t expected to die. Killing her immediately raised red flags. The thugs that Katrina worked for had to be smart enough to have known that.”
“We’re talking about the Russian Mafiya, not Russian scientists. You get these guys pissed enough, all intelligence goes out the window.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s not just a maybe. It’s certainly more likely that they did it than Theo.”
“Yes, if you look at it strictly from that perspective. But there’s other evidence to consider.”
“Like what?”
“For example, what does this new information about the viatical companies do to your theory about the angle of the cut?”
“I don’t think it affects it one way or another.”
“You said it was probably a left-handed person who slit Jessie’s wrist.”
“So what? I’m sure the Russian Mafiya has plenty of left-handed hit men.”
“I’m sure they do. But answer me this: Is Theo right-handed or left-handed?”
“Right-handed. Ha! In your face.”
“In your dreams.”
“What does that mean?”
“This theory you have about the angle of the cut. Don’t you find it odd that the medical examiner’s report doesn’t even make mention of it?”
“No. The angle is subtle, I’ll admit. And a left-handed killer doesn’t fit the prosecutor’s theory of the case, so, of course, the report doesn’t mention it.”
“That’s a little cynical,” she said. “Don’t you think?”
“Theo sat on death row for a murder he didn’t commit. We have a right to be cynical.”
“We? We have a right? You’re not his lawyer anymore, Jack.”
“No. I’m his friend.”
“Which is why I’m so worried. Just a take step back, play devil’s advocate the way any good lawyer would.”
“How do you mean?”
“You say the medical examiner doesn’t see the same angle on the cut because a left-handed killer doesn’t suit the prosecutor’s theory of the case. Well, maybe-just maybe-you do see the angle because a right-handed killer doesn’t fit your theory of the case.”
“But you saw it, too. I showed you the autopsy photo, and you said you saw the angle.”
“Damn it, Jack. You’re right-handed. Don’t you think I wanted to see something that says the killer was left-handed?”
“Are you still wondering if I killed Jessie?”
“No. Not at all. But believe me, the way the evidence is falling out, I’ll grab at anything that makes it easier for me to prove you didn’t.”
“When I showed you the photo of Jessie’s wrist, did you see the angle or not?”
“I saw it, but only after you insisted that it was there. I’d feel a whole lot more sure of this theory if the medical examiner had seen it first.”
Jack searched for a rebuttal, but nothing came. “Okay,” he said calmly. “Okay.”
“All I’m saying is that maybe you shouldn’t be so sure about this left-handed, right-handed stuff.”
“You’re saying more than that. You’re saying, don’t be so sure that Theo isn’t the killer.”
“Okay. Maybe I am.”
“Don’t worry. Right now, the only thing I’m sure of is that I came here hoping that you’d help me sort things out.”
“And?”
He walked toward the fence, watched the line of runners streaming down the footpath along the canal. “And now I’m just more confused.”
62
•
After a long night with Theo, Katrina went home for supplies. It was early Saturday morning, and she was working on little sleep. She went to the refrigerator and poured herself a little pick-me-up, a mixture of orange and carrot juice. Then she crossed the kitchen and switched to the early-morning local news broadcast. She caught the tail end of the morning’s lead story, the indictment of Theo Knight for Jessie’s murder. It was the same lead as last night, with slightly more emphasis on the shooting death of Dr. Marsh and the fact that his body was found in his car by Jack Swyteck, right beside an abandoned Volkswagen that belonged to Theo Knight.
Katrina kept one eye on the television screen as the news anchor closed with a comment that Katrina could have scripted: “Neither Theo Knight nor his attorney were available for comment.”
She switched off the set. Just what she’d needed, another kick-in-the-head reminder that she had to do something about Theo. Twenty-four hours was all the time she’d bought from Swyteck. She hoped it was enough.
“Good morning, Katrina.”
She whirled, so startled that she dropped her juice glass. It shattered at her feet. A man was on the patio outside her kitchen, just on the other side of the sliding screen door. She was about to scream when he said, “It’s me, Yuri.”
She took a good look. She’d heard plenty about Yuri, but during her eight-month undercover stint, she’d met him only once, briefly, when he’d come to do business with Vladimir.
“You scared me to death.”
“Am I not welcome?”
She opened the screen door and said, “To be honest, a knock would have been nice.”
He stepped inside. Then he knocked-three times, each one separated by a needlessly long pause. It might have been his idea of a joke, but he wasn’t smiling. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who smiled much.
He pulled the screen door shut, and the sliding glass door, too. Then he locked it. “You have no reason to be afraid of me. You know that, don’t you?”
He gave her a look that made her nervous, but she tried not to show it. “Of course.”
His expression didn’t change. It was the same cold, assessing look.
Katrina grabbed a paper towel and cleaned up the broken glass and juice on the floor, then tossed the mess in the trash can. Yuri was still watching her every move.
“Can I get you anything?” she asked. “Coffee, juice?”
No response. He pulled a chair away from the kitchen table, turned it around, and straddled it with his arms resting atop the back of it. “Where you been all night?”
“Out.”
“Out where?”
“Just out.” She folded her arms and leaned against the refrigerator, as if to say it was none of his business.
Again, he was working her over with that penetrating stare, making her feel as if it were her turn to talk even though he’d said nothing.
“You sure you don’t want anything to drink?”
“Tell me something, Katrina. How’s the dirty-blood business?”
She shrugged, rolling with his sudden change of subject. “Fine.”
“You know, we invented the blood bank.”
“We?”
“Russians. Most people don’t know it, but blood banks never existed until the Soviets started taking blood out of cadavers in the 1930s. This was something I didn’t believe until a doctor showed me an old film about it. Soviet doctors figured out that there was a point, after someone died, before rigor mortis, and before the bacteria spread throughout the body, where you could actually take the blood from the dead body and use it.”