even weeks in the offing, a protracted path of suffering punctuated by sharp, futile screams. The decision-making process was deceptively simple. He’d follow his targets home at night and watch them go inside. If they left the porch light on, death would be quick and painless. Porch light off, not so quick-and definitely not painless. The choice was theirs. They sealed their fate without effort and without even knowing it.
He took another hit of
Peering through night-vision binoculars, he watched her fumble for her house key, unlock the door, and disappear inside. Patiently he waited, his eyes glued to the porch light. Two minutes passed, and it was still burning brightly. He gave her more time, careful not to rush things. He couldn’t actually see her moving about inside the house, but it was easy enough to monitor her movement from room to room. Kitchen light on, kitchen light off. Bathroom lit, bathroom dark. Finally, the bedroom light came on and remained lit for several minutes. Then it switched off.
He narrowed his eyes, as if peering into the bedroom window, though he was merely imagining the scene unfolding behind drawn curtains. The unexpected cold front had surely left her bedroom colder than usual. Nipples erect, for sure. She’d shed her clothes quickly, slipped on a nightgown, and jumped beneath the covers. At that point, only a lunatic would jump out of a warm bed, run downstairs, and flip off the porch light. It appeared as though she’d made her decision. Porch light on. Quick and painless.
He lowered his binoculars, then did a double take. The porch light had suddenly switched off. A twist of fate. It was apparently controlled by electronic timer. Arguably, it wasn’t her decision, but rules were rules. Porch light off: No more quick and painless. A sign of the times. We are all slaves to our gadgets.
A perverse smile crept to his lips as he slipped on his latex gloves, like the hands of a surgeon. It was a real source of personal pride, the way he managed to inflict all that suffering and still make death look like anything but homicide. He grabbed his bag of tools and pulled a black knit cap over his head, the same cap he’d worn on every job since his first mission as a mercenary soldier, a sneak attack on a rebel camp-six women, three old men, and two teenage boys, the first in a long line of noisy amusements for his knives. This job would be much cleaner and quieter, but the hat was still his lucky charm of sorts.
He moved quickly across the yard and toward the darkened house, yearning for that look on her face when she’d look up into his eyes, unable to move, unable to scream, unable to do much of anything but accept the fact that Fate had found her.
25
•
I’m back,” said Rosa as she entered Jack’s conference room. “That was quick,” he replied.
There was nothing like the government overplaying its hand to set off a career criminal-defense lawyer, and the morning raid by the IRS had propelled Rosa into orbit. She’d insisted that he go to the emergency room while she marched off to an emergency hearing to block the IRS from accessing his computers. Thankfully, his tests had ruled out serious injury. A mild concussion, at worst. He was discharged with some Tylenol and a sheet of preprinted instructions about things he should avoid over the next few days-loud noises, sudden movements, general stress and aggravation. A trip to Disney World seemed out of the question.
“I still can’t believe those sons of bitches took your computer,” she said. “You’re a criminal defense lawyer, not a hardware store. There’s privileged information in there.”
“What did the judge say?” asked Jack.
“He wouldn’t invalidate the warrant. But I persuaded him to appoint an independent special master to examine your hard drive.”
“So the government won’t see anything that’s on my computers?”
“Not unless the special master determines that there’s something the government should see.”
“What exactly are they looking for?”
“I’m glad you asked that question. Because we need to talk.”
Jack grimaced. No matter what the context, the words “we need to talk” could never be good. “Okay, sure.”
“Basically, the government wants anything that shows money flowing back and forth between you and Jessie Merrill. Particularly, they want to know if you ever accessed that Bahamian account that named you and Jessie as joint account holders.”
His head was suddenly hurting again. “Oh, that.”
“Is there something you forgot to tell your lawyer, Mr. Swyteck?”
“I just found out about that last night from the PR of Jessie’s estate, Clara Pierce.”
“She obviously told the IRS, too. But let’s go back to what you just said: What do you mean, you just found out about it? Your name’s on the account.”
“I don’t know how it got there.”
“Well, think hard. Because I don’t want to walk into a courtroom ever again without an explanation for it.”
Jack went to the window, shaking his head. “I didn’t share this theory with Clara, but I’m pretty certain it ties in with Jessie’s threats.”
“What threats?”
“I told you before. After I figured out she’d scammed me, she threatened me. She said if I told anyone about it, she’d make them believe I was part of it from the beginning.”
“So she put your name on her bank account?”
“Sure. You know how some of these Caribbean banks are. Most of them never meet their customers. Adding a name is a snap.”
“But why would she do it?”
“It makes sense,” he said, convincing himself as he spoke. “It was the only way she could give teeth to her threat. If I leaked the scam, I’d take myself down with her. The joint account would make it look as if we were splitting the pie, fifty-fifty.”
“Pretty risky on her part. As a joint account holder you could have cleaned out the entire account.”
“Not if I didn’t know about it. It’s an offshore account. No tax statements, no IRS notices to tip me off that it even existed.”
“What about bank statements?”
“Mailed to her address, I’m sure. Probably a post office box in Katmandu. Assuming a bank like Grand Bahama Trust Company even issues bank statements.”
“So you say this was her little secret?”
“Her secret weapon. Something she’d spring on me if I ever threatened to expose her scam. It makes me look like I was part of it.”
“Now that she’s dead, it also has a way of making it look as if you killed her.”
Jack knew that the conversation was headed in that direction, but her words still hit hard. “The million-and-a- half-dollar motive. With no more Jessie, I’m the sole account holder.”
“Murder among coconspirators. That’s about the size of it.”
“You think that theory flies? That I killed her for the money?”
“Not with me it doesn’t.”
“Thanks, but you’re not the jury. Honestly, what do you think?”
“I think we just take this one step at a time. Right now, we have the IRS breathing down your neck. The ugliest
