“Why not?”
“Remember our discussion.”
“It’s the reason I dragged my sick ass onto that goddam plane.”
Epstein’s eyebrows plunged into a downward V. He was losing control of his client.
My attention stayed riveted on Lapasa’s face. Above the mask, his eyes looked jaundiced and dull.
And something else.
An alarm pinged softly deep in my brainpan.
Epstein returned his attention to Schoon. “Please tell us about Theresa-Sophia Lapasa’s will.”
“I can’t do that without proof of your client’s identity.”
“I’m the fucking Wizard of Oz.” Lapasa’s laugh morphed into a cough.
Epstein plucked a hanky from his pocket and handed it to his client.
Schoon’s lips formed a thin hard line as he waited out the hacking.
Recovering, Lapasa jammed his fingers and danced his thumbnails against each other. The action traveled through the speakers as a series of clicks.
I studied Lapasa’s eyes.
Again the ping.
What was my subconscious noticing that I was not?
Lapasa broke the silence. “It’s a scam, right?”
“Excuse me?” Schoon asked.
“I can smell a scam at fifty yards out. There’s no goddamn will.”
“Sir?”
“Enough of this horseshit.” One thumb flicked at Epstein. “Tell him what I got.”
“Mr. Lapasa, I can’t help you if you won’t follow my advice.”
“What the fuck. I’m dying.”
“You’re certain about this?”
Lapasa nodded.
Epstein paused a moment, clearly disapproving. Then he began.
“Mr. Lapasa has cancer. His prognosis is not good. He is willing to provide information in exchange for amnesty concerning his involvement in certain events.”
“I have no authority to negotiate criminal charges.”
Epstein glanced at his client.
Lapasa signaled for him to continue.
“These events took place over forty years ago.”
I drew in my breath.
Epstein’s client was the right age but far too short to be Xander Lapasa. Who was he? Where was this going?
Schoon undoubtedly knew that no such warning was needed for an interrogation that was neither custodial nor conducted by law enforcement, but knowing that Lo was listening, he thought he would gild the lily. He spoke directly to Epstein. “If your client plans to admit to criminal activity, I must insist on a Miranda reading.”
“I am present as Mr. Lapasa’s attorney. My client understands his rights and the implications of his actions.”
“Is that correct, Mr. Lapasa? You’ve discussed your statement with counsel and are making it freely and without pressure or promise of gain?”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I’ll be dead in three months.”
“Let me remind you that this interview is being recorded.” Schoon picked up his pen. “Proceed, Mr. Lapasa. I’d like to hear this directly from you.”
“I killed him.”
“Killed who?”
“A guy named Alexander Lapasa.”
My eyes shot to Ryan. To Lo.
Their brows were floating an inch up their foreheads.
“When was this?” Schoon’s voice revealed nothing, no surprise, no censure, no jubilation. It was completely neutral.
“Nineteen sixty-eight.”
