Spider Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  “Why me?”

  “You’ve seen Xander Lapasa’s file and photos.”

  “So have you.”

  “You’re an anthropologist. And you live more than fifty miles away.”

  I smiled at our old definition of an expert. Someone coming from afar and carrying a briefcase.

  “You’ll be in the reception area so you can observe Al up close and personal when he arrives,” Danny continued. “Can you look litigious?”

  “I’ll get coaching.”

  “Al will be taken to a conference room and told that Nickie wants the meeting recorded. You and Lô will actually be observing.”

  “Will Nickie be watching the interview?”

  “No. He wants nothing to do with it. Think you can handle the part?”

  “They’ll give me an Emmy.”

  Lô called shortly thereafter, repeated the instructions, and invited Ryan to tag along.

  The attorney, Simon Schoon, was a partner in a firm whose offices occupied the third floor of a modern brick building on Bishop Street, halfway between the Aloha Tower and Hawaii Pacific University.

  Ryan and I got there at two. A receptionist greeted us in a marble-floored foyer, indicated chairs, nodded conspiratorially. She had gray eyes, overplucked brows, and the tightest French twist I’ve ever seen. A nameplate on her desk said Tina Frieboldt.

  I picked up and pretended to read a copy of National Geographic. Ryan chose Sports Illustrated.

  Lô arrived twenty minutes after we did. He waited on the far side of the room, fingers laced, staring at nothing.

  At five past three, the elevator dinged. Seconds later, the door opened. A man entered and walked straight to Tina. He was short and stocky with thinning red hair. I guessed from the black jacket and tie that this was the driver.

  “Mr. Lapasa is here.”

  “Please show him in.”

  I flipped a page in my magazine, totally disinterested.

  “The gentleman prefers to remain in the hall. It’s a flu thing. He doesn’t want to be around people.”

  Damn!

  Feigning impatience, I checked my watch. Flipped another page. Shifted in my seat.

  Through the open door I could see a man in the corridor.

  My heart dropped.

  The man had thick black hair and stood at least six feet tall.

  THE MAN’S BACK WAS TO ME. HE WORE A NAVY SUIT. THE EDGE of a frayed white collar circled his neck.

  Very tall. Dark hair.

  Like Xander Lapasa.

  Nickie’s driver recrossed the marble, exited to the corridor, and spoke to his passenger.

  “I’ll take you straight to the conference room, Mr. Lapasa.”

  Navy Suit turned and stepped sideways. Another man came into view.

  The second man was of average height, with wispy gray hair and pasty skin. Covering his nose and mouth was a surgical mask, the kind sold in drugstores to ward off germs.

  Navy Suit gripped his companion’s arm, then the trio turned left down the hall.

  “What the hell?” Lô was on his feet. “Which one’s Lapasa?”

  Tina remained serene, her updo flawless.

  “I wouldn’t know, sir. Shall I take you to your observation post?”

  “Yeah,” Lô growled. “Do that.” Then, to me, “You know which one of these turds is Lapasa?”

  I shook my head.

  “Let’s go,” Lô said.

  We left the reception area and turned right.

  “Observation post?” Ryan whispered from one side of his mouth.

  “Sshh,” I warned.

  “The chick thinks she’s Moneypenny.”

  Tina led us to a glass-sided room with a long, gleaming table and twelve swivel chairs. As we settled in she picked up a remote and hit several buttons.

  An image sparked on a large flat-screen monitor wall-mounted at one end of the room. Voices piped from its speakers, clear and static free.

  Handing Lô the remote, Tina withdrew.

  “This puppy definitely beats your setup,” Ryan said.

  “We don’t get to charge three fifty an hour,” Lô replied.

  “Good point.”

  Ignoring the banter, I watched Navy Suit ease Face Mask into a chair. The man moved gingerly, as though ill or fearful of injury. Once seated he kept his eyes on his hands.

  The table on the screen was round and smaller than ours. Seated at it was a man with a bow tie and tortoiseshell glasses. In front of him lay a yellow legal pad and a silver Cross pen.

  I assumed this was Nickie’s attorney, Simon Schoon. Behind the lenses Schoon’s eyes looked dark and sharp.

  Navy Suit took the chair beside his companion.

  I studied the two men from California. Which was Al Lapasa?

  Schoon spoke first.

  “My client appreciates your willingness to appear in person.”

  “My client has his reasons for agreeing to do so.” Navy Suit.

  Yes! The tall guy was a lawyer.

  I focused on Lapasa, the man in the mask.

  “And you would be?” Schoon asked.

  “Jordan Epstein.” Epstein slid a card across the table. “I represent Mr. Lapasa.”

  Schoon glanced at but did not touch Epstein’s card.

  “Before proceeding, we’d like the courtesy of knowing who you represent,” Epstein said.

  “My client prefers to remain anonymous,” Schoon said.

  “I’m afraid we must insist.”

  “I’m afraid I must decline.”

  Epstein pushed back his chair. “Then this interview is over.”

  Throughout the exchange, Lapasa had not raised his head. He did so now.

  “It’s Nickie Lapasa, isn’t it?” Muffled by the pharmacy mask.

  Schoon’s face betrayed nothing.

  Lapasa raised his voice and spoke to the room. “You out there, Nickie? You getting this?”

  Epstein laid a hand on his client’s arm. Lapasa shook it off.

  “I got people know the Internet as well as yours do, Nickie. You find me, I find you.” The words were overly precise and paced, like those of a drunk trying hard to sound sober.

  “Mr. Lapasa, I advise you to remain silent.”

  Lapasa ignored his lawyer.

  “You looking for your brother, Nickie? Might be I could help you out with that. First you tell this douche bag to quit dicking us around.”

  “Very well.” Schoon licked his lips. “Let’s work with the assumption Nickie Lapasa is seeking information on the death of his brother.”

  “What makes you think he’s dead?”

  “Let me rephrase. Do you know anything about the whereabouts of Xander Lapasa?”

  Epstein swiveled to face his client. “Don’t answer that.”

  “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?”<
br />
  “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 Lô 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 Lô.

  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.”

  “Where?”

  “Vietnam.”

  “Go on.”

  “That’s it. I killed the guy, stole his wallet and passport, and headed up-country.”

  “Your motive?”

  “I wanted out.”

  “Out of what?”

  “The army, Nam, the whole fucking war.”

  “Why was that?”

  “You for real?”

  “Please answer the question.”

  “I was eighteen, liked my ass in one piece.”

  “Why Xander Lapasa?”

  “He wasn’t military. I figured having civvy ID would buy me freedom.” Lapasa turned to Epstein. “These fucking meds are kicking the shit out of me. I gotta take another leak.”

  Lapasa shuffled out, supported by his lawyer.

  My mind pinwheeled with questions.

  Neither of the men was Xander Lapasa. Epstein was a lawyer. Face Mask was far too short. Who was he? Where in Vietnam had he crossed paths with Xander?

  Face Mask had been living as Al Lapasa since the sixties. Where was he prior to arriving in Oakland? What was he doing?

  I chewed a cuticle, too agitated for speech. Behind me, Ryan and Lô were also silent.

  An eon passed. Another.

  The cuticle turned raw.

  Finally, Epstein and his client returned.

  Schoon picked up where he’d left off.

  “How did you kill Mr. Lapasa?”

  “Shot him with my M16.”

  “You then stole his identity papers, went AWOL, and lived as Al Lapasa.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Why Al?”

  “What?”

  “Why not Xander?”

  Lapasa shrugged. “The guy’s passport said Alexander. I figured Al.”

  “What is your actual name?”

  “That ain’t important.”

  “We’ll come back to that.” Schoon made a note on his tablet. “Where did you meet Mr. Lapasa?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly say we met.”

  “Very well.” Prim. “Where did you kill Mr. Lapasa?”

  Face Mask slowly wagged his head, eyes steady on Schoon.

  “Sir?”

  “I give you that, you squash me like a Napa grape.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “This is where you give me something, Mr. Lawyer.”

  Schoon’s eyes held steady behind their lenses.

  “You think I’m scum.”

  Schoon started to object. Face Mask stopped him with a raised hand.

  “Kids today talk about something called a bucket list. You ever hear of that?”

  “No.”

  “It’s shit you want to do before they plant you in the ground. You know, before you kick the bucket.”

  Schoon said nothing.

  “I did some things when I was young don’t make me proud. I spent most of my life looking over one shoulder. Now they tell me my insides is hash. My list says I gotta put things to rest.”

  Face Mask drew a long, deep breath.

  “Here’s the deal. Take it or leave it. You get what you need on Lapasa. I go home to die at peace in my bed.”

  Schoon thought it over.

  “I’ll have to clear this with the DA.”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Face Mask slouched back in his chair.

  SCHOON JOINED US SECONDS LATER.

  “How do I proceed?” he asked Lô.

  “I’ve got no objection to you dealing on Xander Lapasa. He’s talking forty years ago. A murder in Vietnam. Jurisdiction would be a nightmare. Besides, the guy may have zilch. Maybe he’s trying to cash in on some rumor he heard.”

  I’d thought of that, too.

  “But stay away from Kealoha and Faalogo,” Lô said. “If the scumbag’s moving drugs into my city he’s going down. Cancer or no cancer.”

  “This may take a while,” Schoon said.

  It didn’t. Ten minutes later he was back.

  “The DA agrees. We give Lapasa rope, hope he hangs himself on something else. A prosecutor will join us shortly, but the DA said to proceed since we’re recording and Lapasa has counsel present. Besides, he doesn’t think we have jurisdiction since the alleged crime took place in Vietnam and the perp was active-duty military.”

  Schoon left. A minute later he reappeared on the screen and took his seat.

  “All right,” he said. “You have immunity on anything you say regarding Xander Lapasa.”

  Face Mask looked at his lawyer.

  “We’d like that in writing,” Epstein said.

  “You shall have it,” Schoon replied.

  Epstein nodded.

  Schoon picked up his pen. “Tell me about the death of Alexander Lapasa.”

  The pharmacy mask shrank inward, puffed out. Then, “Lapasa and I are waiting for a chopper to take us up-country.”

  “Where was this?” Schoon asked.

  “Long Binh.”

  My heart began beating so loud I thought the others might hear it.

  “To pass the time we start chewing the fat. I ask why he’s out of uni. He says he’s civvy, in-country looking for business ops once the war wraps up.

  “We finally lift off. The chopper’s barely in the air when we take a hit, go down hard. The pilot, copilot, and crew chief buy it. Same for a kid riding in back. I walk away. So does Lapasa.” Face Mask shrugged. “Seemed like a perfect business op for me.”

  Sweet Mother Mary!

  I shot a hand out to Ryan. “Give me your cell.”

  “What?”

  “Just give me your cell.” Sharp.

  Ryan did.

  I punched buttons, my eyes jumping between the phone and the man
on the screen. Schoon was now asking about dates.

  “January, nineteen sixty-eight.”

  “The day?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Danny answered on the first ring.

  “The maintenance worker who witnessed the Huey crash at Long Binh. Did you ever track him down?”

  “Harlan Kramer?”

  “Whatever.”

  “I talked to him. He’s retired and living in Killeen, Texas. Didn’t learn anything new—”

  “Did you ask how many men boarded the Huey?”

  “The manifest listed five. Four crew members and Spider Lowery.”

  “But did you ask him how many boarded?”

  “No.”

  “Call him back. Ask him.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s going on—”

  “Just do it. Let me know what he says.”

  I got up. Paced. Gnawed flesh from my thumb.

  Ryan and Lô looked at me like I’d gone over the edge.

  On the monitor, Schoon was asking Face Mask to describe Xander Lapasa. The weapon.

  Finally the phone rang.

  “Kramer saw six men board—four crew, a recently released prisoner, and a civilian.” Danny sounded embarrassed. “He said no one ever asked him that question. All they wanted to know was how the chopper went down.”

  “And he never mentioned it because he figured they had a manifest.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks, Danny. I’ll explain later.”

  I refocused on the man on the screen.

  “How far did you and Mr. Lapasa travel from the scene of the crash?”

  Face Mask shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe a quarter mile.”

  “On foot.”

  “No. We called a fucking cab.”

  “And you shot him.”

  “How many times I gotta keep saying it?”

  The dark pupils. The Al Pacino brows.

  Of course.

  That was the message my id was pinging.

  “Then what?”

  “I put one of my tags on his body and split.”

  “What was your reason for being in Long Binh at that time?”

  “I was getting out of jail.”

  “It’s Spider,” I whispered.

  “What?” Ryan asked.

  “Who?” Lô asked.

  “John Lowery. People called him Spider.”

  “Tabarnac.”

  “Who?” Lô repeated.

  “Ssshh.” I hushed them both, wanting to hear the rest of Spider’s account.