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  But what was her connection to Roscoe? Why would she cooperate with him, and then kill him?

  Shit. I had broken the rule I told Jack Slavas in our first meeting: I require knowing the intention of my employers.

  I had no information on Nora’s background. And I was trapped. I needed internet access, but couldn’t use my phone. That wouldn’t have been good enough anyway. I needed a computer. My only choice was the business center. The guest card on the night stand said it was in the lobby.

  Did I dare go down to the lobby, in the open? When an APB was surely out on me and any passing cop would arrest me on the spot? I couldn’t take that chance. But, then again, what was my alternative? Stay in this hotel room until I rot?

  ----------------------------

  The stairs at least lowered the chances of bumping into other guests. They dumped me off down the hall from the business center. It was a little room with three computers and required a key card to enter.

  My heart almost skipped a beat at the sight of the other man inside, but he was turned away, lost in the world of e-mail. I took the station on the other side of the room so we were back to back. A TV hung from the ceiling in the corner of the room. Some day time show was on. A doctor in scrubs was demonstrating how digestion works.

  I logged on and opened the browser, searched New York City Public Records and clicked on their official site. In the search criteria I plugged in “Nora Massey.” A preliminary screen came up with three Nora Masseys listed on the side. One of them was Nora Massey, age 63, who lived in Buffalo. Another, Nora Massey, age 78, who lived on Long Island. The last was Nora Massey, age 42, who lived in Manhattan. That had to be right, even though the Nora I knew looked much younger than 42. Compared to me, only a year older, she could’ve passed for a grad student.

  I clicked on View Search Results and I was brought to a page where I had to pay $19.95 for full access to her records, just like I had for Denny, only this time I couldn’t bill Slavas for the expense. When I got through, I brought up her comprehensive background report:

  Name: Nora Massey

  Address: 124 W. 78th St, New York City, NY

  The check she had left me in San Diego was still in my wallet, I had just remembered. I whipped it out and looked at the address to verify. It matched. This was her.

  County: New York

  Phone: 212-383-2455

  DOB: 07-21-1970

  Age: 43

  Gender: F

  Marital Status: Divorced

  Divorced? I was more curious than suspicious. She never told me she had been married. Then again, what would be the point?

  The man at the other computer sneezed and it almost turned my hair white. I forgot he was there.

  “Bless you,” I said. He replied with a grunt and continued typing.

  I went back to the previous screen and brought up Nora’s marriage certificate. She was nineteen at the time. Obtained a marriage license from the county clerk’s office and was married on September 8th, 1989.

  Name of the groom: Nathaniel Franklin Roscoe.

  Chapter 21

  “Oh my God,” I said, certainly loud enough for the man at the other computer to hear, but he didn’t say anything. Didn’t even grunt.

  Roscoe’s records matched. Marriage certificate; divorced in 1991; moved to California in ’92.

  They had been separated for twenty years. What brought them back together now? My guess would be Samantha. Maybe Nora for some reason didn’t want any contact with her daughter, but still wanted to check up now and then? Maybe she knew about Denny and Samantha’s abortion.

  Is that where all of this came from? I wondered. Was all of this just to get Denny back? What about Roscoe’s robo-signing operation? I had a strong hunch that he had a part in the mortgage securities Ned told me about.

  No. Denny wasn’t the reason. He was the leverage. Roscoe wanted Slavas dead, and wanted Denny to take the fall.

  All the gears working full-tilt in my brain came to a rusty halt at the voice coming from the television. “Our top story this evening. Police are on the lookout for a man suspected of killing Nathan Roscoe, a loan officer with Angel City Bank and Trust, and his wife Valerie Roscoe. The victims were found earlier today in their home. Both had been shot.”

  It was the five o’clock news on the TV. The voice of lead anchor Melissa Ranch, who I always thought to be very attractive, but at that moment was more vile than any demon encountered by Dante.

  “The suspected man is Marshall Santone, a former defense attorney turned private detective.”

  A picture was displayed in the upper corner; an old one ripped from my website ad, though still distinguishably me.

  “Police received a letter this morning in which the killer confessed to the murders and was signed by Marshall Santone, but he has since been on the run. Police ask that you call 911 or the number displayed below with any information that may lead to his finding.”

  Confession letter? What the hell was she talking about? I never signed any--

  The feeling came back. Choking. Sand in my throat. The pressure of Grossman’s fist on my cheek.

  That’s what I signed! I realized. What Grossman made me sign out in the desert.

  The man across from me. Had he seen me? His face was still buried in his computer. I clicked out of everything I had open and cautiously got up, hoping he’d keep his face buried. And he did.

  Now it wasn’t just Grayson and the police who were out for me, it was the whole goddamn city. What if Gordy had been watching? Or Charlotte?

  What if the kid at the front desk saw it? He’d call it in and Grayson would be here by the time I got back to my room.

  Going up the stairwell, my legs moved as if I was moving through cold molasses. It felt as if I wasn’t in a stairwell at all, but swimming through the river Styx while the condemned souls of murderers and heretics tried to drag me down to the seventh circle of Hell.

  But I was innocent, I had to remind myself, and innocence can’t be faked, as one of my law professors once said. Innocence can’t be faked, it can only be proven. In fact, it was on that principle that I went into criminal defense. Never thought I would once be my own client.

  I got to my room unseen, though just as I was opening the door, a couple stepped off the elevator, but I couldn’t have been more than a passing blur.

  The moment I entered the room, I ran for the toilet and puked. There wasn’t much that came out except for those chocolate truffles and some accompanying stomach acid, but I actually felt better afterward, like I was vomiting up my panic as well.

  I went back to the bed and sat, thinking, wondering. Hoping. I was lost.

  I’m not religious, I told Nora that night in San Diego, the last night I saw her, and I don’t necessarily believe in God or fate, or destiny. I still didn’t. But my parents did, and in my bedroom when I was a kid, they had hung a wooden plank with a scripture inscribed on it. Proverbs 3:5 - Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.

  It was with that memory that I begrudgingly took the Bible out of the top drawer of the night stand, opened it and started flipping through random pages, reading random passages, Old Testament and New, searching for something that would help me. Minutes ticked by, minutes leading up to my discovery and arrest, and I found nothing.

  “Come on, God,” I muttered, “I don’t have time to be patient.”

  Flipped through more pages, read more passages. Nothing. I was a rabbit tail’s length away from closing the book, cursing it, cursing God, cursing everything, when I turned to a passage in Samuel. First Samuel 17:57 - And as David returned from the slaughter of the Philistine, Abner took him, and brought him before Saul with the head of the Philistine in his hand.

  David and Goliath. Every kid knows the story, though I’m sure most Sunday school teachers leave out the part where David cuts off Goliath’s head.

  The future King of Israel’s triumph over evil wasn’t where the inspira
tion came from, however. It was Goliath. His head had been severed, just like a certain, unidentified cadaver behind the Monkey Barrel on 33rd street in New York City.

  I reached for my notebook, which had fallen on the ground, and scanned the pages.

  My interview with Dashiell. Didn’t have a head, he had told me. Nora told me Denny was in the hospital that night. Hell of a chance of that. And Gordy had gotten me the name of the lead detective. Damnit, I should have kept it.

  My arm sprung for the phone and dialed his number. Gordy’s was one of the few numbers I could remember without my cell phone.

  While it was ringing, I closed the Bible and set it back in the drawer, whispering what I intended to be a small thank you to the Man upstairs, but it sounded more like a drunken mumble. I’m sure He understood, though. If He heard me. If He was there.

  Voicemail. I couldn’t leave a voicemail. I couldn’t take the chance. It had just barely occurred to me that the cops might go to Gordy for questioning, and Gordy, a great friend, but a cop first, would cooperate.

  I called again. This time one of the boys answered. The older one, it sounded like, since his voice was lower and I wondered if he had already hit puberty.

  “Jake?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said, with some suspicion and nervousness. He was panting too. Probably had just come in from practice in the backyard with Hunter.

  “It’s Marshall Santone. Remember me?”

  “Oh, sure.” He sounded relieved. As was I, since he obviously hadn’t just watched the news. “Hi.”

  “Listen, I need to talk to your dad. Is he there?”

  “I think he’s in the shower. I can tell him to call you back?”

  “No, that won’t work. Would you mind running up and grabbing him. It’s kind of important that I talk to him right now.”

  “He really doesn’t like that.”

  “It’s okay, Jake. Trust me. Tell him that I’m calling. It’ll be fine.”

  “All right. Hold on.”

  I heard him set the phone down and heard the thump-thump-thump as he ran up the stairs, probably two at a time. The kid had long legs.

  It was silent for a couple minutes. Then a slower thum-thump...thum-thump...thum-thump of Gordy and his cane.

  “Marshall?”

  “It’s me, Gordy.”

  “What in the holy hell is going on?”

  “You saw the news, I take it.”

  “Goddamn right I saw the news. Where are you?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “All of this better be the shitload of all shitloads of misunderstandings, or I’m hanging up this phone right now.”

  “It is. Gordy, you’ve known me for twelve years. You know I’m not capable of killing anybody.”

  He didn’t answer. That scared me. I could picture him standing there, in a robe, still dripping wet, with a look of shame on his face that could shatter a stone heart.

  “Gordy?”

  After another couple of gut-twisting moments. “I know. What do you need?”

  I asked for the New York detective’s contact number again. He dug around for a bit, found it, and gave it to me.

  “If they ask me anything about you, Marsh, I’m telling them the truth.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to do any different,” I said, and I meant it. There wasn’t a dishonest molecule in his make up. “Thanks, Gordy.”

  “Be careful, Marsh.”

  “I’ll see you soon,” I said and pressed my finger to the hook.

  “Donovan,” said the voice. A deep voice that rolled the “oh” sound in a New York accent.

  “Is this Raymond Donovan? NYPD?”

  “Yeah, who da hell is ziss?”

  “My name is Marshall Santone. I’m in Los Angeles. I may have some information regarding a murder you’re investigating. You found a headless body behind the Monkey Barrel comedy club on 33rd street a little over a week ago, correct?”

  There was movement. Sounded like he was taking his feet off his desk and scrambling for a pen while signaling his partners to listen in.

  “Yeah, uh...what’s the information?”

  Next to the phone, my notebook was open to the page I’d read earlier, my first conversation with Nora, her description of Denny; “scar left arm. tattoo removal.” I told this to Donovan, and we proceeded to have a long conversation.

  ----------------------------------

  Turned out the kid at the front desk had seen the news, because the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. When I stepped off the elevator into the lobby, Grayson had just walked in from outside. Marber was next to him, along with a posse of patrolmen.

  Grayson and I looked at each other.

  “Hello, Detective.”

  “Hello, Detective.”

  Chapter 22

  This room was now so familiar, it almost felt like coming home. The smell hadn’t changed.

  What had changed was Marber’s demeanor when he entered the room. He was calmer, not as threatening; maybe because he entered without the agenda of getting me to confess anything, just to get the details. Grayson followed him. He was carrying a plastic bag with a tag on it. My gun. They found it in the search after my arrest. They both took a seat across the table. I was in my jumpsuit and chains.

  “I assume you’ll be representing yourself,” Grayson said.

  A nod seemed a sufficient answer. Marber laid down the confession letter, also in a plastic bag, and slid it over to my side. “Is that your signature?” Grayson asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Is this your gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you didn’t kill Roscoe and his wife?”

  “No.”

  “Why’d you sign the confession then?”

  “I was forced to sign it. Two days ago.”

  “By who?”

  “He’s on vacation.”

  Grayson knew who I meant, I could tell. Not Marber, but he didn’t feel compelled to ask. Grayson stood up, flipped the sides of his jacket back and rested his hands on his belt. “What if I don’t believe that?”

  “Then I would ask why you think I would voluntarily confess to a murder and then run.”

  “And I’d ask why you would run if you were innocent.”

  Innocence can’t be faked, I told myself again. “Why would I give myself up if I was guilty?”

  “Look. Santone, I’ve seen the mind games and all the tomfuckery that guys like you pull. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, you’re just trying to confuse us. It’s not going to work.”

  A smirk crossed my face. I didn’t even know it until Marber told me to wipe it off.

  “We have something in common, Detective,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Each of us can recognize when someone is trying to cause confusion.” He looked at me curiously, but didn’t say anything. “You’re a little faster at it, admittedly, but nonetheless.”

  “What are you talking about, Santone?”

  “My personal belongings have been confiscated. If you want to know what I’m talking about, I’ll need my little red notebook.”

  He looked at Marber and flicked his head toward the door. Marber stood and walked out.

  “I should have listened to you,” I said.

  “About what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Marber came back a couple minutes later with my notebook in his hand. He slapped it down on the table. “Now what?” he said.

  “Turn to the back, a few pages in.”

  Grayson did. The back page was the $29.95 I had written down as an expense to charge Slavas the first night I did a background check on Denny. Two pages behind it was...

  “Sloane Gardens. SW18EA. Chelsea. London, England.” Grayson flipped a couple other blank pages. “That’s it?” I nodded. “How does that clear you of murder?”

  “Because it’s the address of the timeshare Nora Massey owns and is probably headed to right now.”

  He clos
ed the notepad, still looking at me skeptically.

  “That’s why I should’ve listened to you,” I said. “I was protecting Nora because I didn’t want her talking to you. I thought it would put her in danger with whoever the real killer was. Turns out she was the real killer all along.”