Under Cover of Darkness

by James Grippando

  Only once before in his legal career had Gus ever asked anyone to take a lie-detector test. Years ago the Justice Department had targeted one of his clients for a criminal antitrust indictment. Gus hired Pappy. His client passed, and Gus shared the results with the government. Although the results would not be admissible at trial, prosecutors and the FBI often gave the tests considerable weight outside the courtroom. The plan worked. There was no indictment. Gus had earned himself a very powerful and loyal client—until Martha Goldstein poisoned the ear of Marcus Mueller and swept him away. Hard to believe that was just two weeks ago. It was even harder to believe that Gus almost didn’t care. All he cared about right now was getting Shirley through the test, getting the results to Andie, and getting one step closer to Beth.

  They met in a special room reserved for attorneys who needed face-to-face contact with their clients, no Plexiglas between them. Usually that meant preparation for trial. Rarely did it mean a polygraph exam.

  Shirley sat in an old oak chair made more uncomfortable by an inflatable rubber bladder beneath her seat and another tucked behind her back. A blood-pressure cuff squeezed her right arm. Two fingers on her left hand were wired with electrodes. Pneumograph tubes wrapped her chest and abdomen.

  Pappy sat across from her, watching his cardioamplifier and galvanic skin monitor atop the table. The scroll of paper was rolling. The needle wobbled as it inked out a warbling line. “All set,” said Pappy.

  “Should I leave?” asked Gus.

  “Only if you’re making Shirley nervous.” Pappy looked right at her. “Does Gus make you nervous?”

  “Hell, no.” The needle barely swerved, but it was too soon for that to mean anything.

  Pappy said, “It probably would be best if you waited outside.”

  Gus stepped out and closed the door. But he didn’t go far. With an ear to the door he listened. In such a stark room voices carried clearly. Gus could hear everything.

  Pappy had the voice of a consummate hypnotist. He never came right out and told Shirley to relax. He just talked to her about innocuous things that would put her at ease. Did she ever watch television? Did she like dogs? The questions were so far from the point of the inquiry that Shirley probably didn’t even realize the test had begun. As she spoke, however, he was monitoring her physiological response to establish the lower parameters of her blood pressure, respiration, and perspiration. It was a fishing expedition of sorts. The examiner needed to quiet her down, then catch her in a small lie that would serve as a baseline reading for a falsehood. The standard technique was to ask something even a truthful person might lie about. Have you ever smoked pot? Cheated on your taxes? Thought about sex in church? Most people lied, and the examiner got his baseline. No problem for the average Joe. Big problem for a drug-using ex-prostitute who had tattooed her left breast with the peculiar likeness of her own genitalia while doing time for conspiracy to commit murder. Finding that one sensitive subject that tapped into her sense of shame and would make her squirm was going to take some ingenuity on Pappy’s part. Gus listened through the door as Pappy made his move.

  “Is your name Shirley?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you like ice cream?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are your eyes brown?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever stolen anything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever taken money for sex?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you broken any of the rules here in prison?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you a good mother?”

  She hesitated, then answered weakly, “Yes.”

  There was a break in the rhythm, silence in the room. Outside, Gus felt a little sorry for Shirley. That hadn’t taken long. Pappy had his control question. She had lied. Pappy knew what it looked like when she did. Now he could fish for the really big lie.

  “Have you ever killed anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Is today Saturday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you twenty-one years old?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever met Beth Wheatley?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sitting down now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you a woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know where Beth Wheatley is?”

  “I might.”

  Pappy grumbled. “You have to answer yes or no.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Are you blind?”

  “No.”

  “Are you in prison?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know where Beth Wheatley is?”

  “No.”

  There was another pause, but Gus could only guess at what it meant.

  Pappy continued, “Do you smoke cigarettes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is your mother alive?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  She’d thrown him a curve in response to what was intended as a neutral question. Pappy moved on. “Can you speak Japanese?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know how to swim?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you own a car?”

  “No.”

  “Did you have anything to do with Beth Wheatley’s disappearance?”

  “No.”

  Outside, Gus felt his weight nearly falling against the door. He was weak at the knees. It was over. He had his answers.

  But was it the truth?

  Forty-two

  Andie had hoped to hear that a deal with Shirley Borge was a slam dunk. Instead, Isaac had turned the heat right back on her. If Andie could continue to cultivate her own leads, they wouldn’t have to cut a deal with an inmate. The thrift shop seemed like the logical place to keep mining. Another day or so undercover wouldn’t kill her, though she wasn’t a hundred percent sure she could say the same about Beth Wheatley.

  Mrs. Rankin, of course, had found enough projects to keep Andie working undercover till they carried her out on a gurney. She’d actually made a handwritten list with little boxes on the side for Andie to check off each project before moving to the next. By mid-afternoon Andie had swept out the storeroom, laundered a box of baby clothes, and ironed a full rack of dresses.

  She had saved the most undesirable job for last, stitching lost sequins back onto a used wedding dress. She couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the woman who had worn it, what made her get rid of it. Money problems possibly. Divorce probably. Or perhaps she had never really liked it in the first place. Andie had shopped weeks for her own dress, mainly to please her mother. The one Andie had wanted was too sexy for Mom’s taste. Her mother’s first pick was way too traditional. They settled on a thousand dollars worth of satin and lace that was now rolled in a ball and stuffed in the closet where Andie had thrown it after she’d raced home from the church and ripped herself out of it.

  The bell on the door tinkled. A customer entered, bringing a rush of cold air through the door with her. Andie looked up. It had been a fairly slow day, but she had made a point of discreetly checking out everyone who visited the store.

  It was a woman, Andie noted, at first blush much like the others who had come and gone today. Her clothes were clean but old. She was dressed in layers, like someone who spent a good deal of her time outdoors or in a poorly insulated home. Her face showed no smile, no discernible expression at all.

  She went straight for the sweaters Andie had folded that morning. She walked with polish—or like someone who used to have polish. Her appearance was anything but. The hair was short and lacked style. She wore no makeup, no polish on her fingernails. Her face was tanned and wind-burned, like a migrant worker. The ears were pierced, but she wore no earrings, no jewelry of any kind. Everything about her was functional with no excess. Yet she seemed different from the others, oddly out of place.

  Andie rose from her chair and started toward her. She’d offer some help, m
aybe strike up a conversation. Of all the customers who had come by today, this one was the most intriguing.

  “Get out!” shouted Mrs. Rankin.

  Andie froze. The bossy old woman was standing a few steps behind her. The customer looked up, nervous. Mrs. Rankin hurried past Andie. “I said, get out of here.”

  The woman seemed flustered. “I was just—”

  “I told you not to come around here no more. Now, get out.”

  Her hands shook as she placed the sweater neatly back on the stack. She glanced at Mrs. Rankin, then at Andie. She was embarrassed, not at all confrontational. Quietly, she walked to the door, opened it, and left without a word.

  Andie watched through the window as she crossed the street, then turned and faced Mrs. Rankin. The old woman just glared, as if to say, Don’t ask.

  Andie didn’t.

  Mrs. Rankin returned to her stool behind the counter. Andie went back to sewing sequins on the wedding dress, wondering what that was all about.

  The corrections officer took Shirley back to her cell. Gus and Pappy met alone in the attorney-inmate conference room to discuss the test results.

  “Well?” asked Gus.

  Pappy looked up from the long scroll of paper on the desk. “The good news is, I’m confident the results are reliable.”

  “And the bad news?”

  “No real bad news. The results are just interesting.”

  “Good interesting or bad interesting?”

  “Mixed.”

  “Cut to it, will you, Pappy?”

  “Any polygraph is good for about three, no more than four test questions. We had four. Two questions came clean. Whether she’d ever met Beth. And whether she had anything to do with Beth’s disappearance. She said no to both.”

  “True or false?”

  “No sign of deception there.”

  “Good. That should satisfy the FBI’s concerns that they’re dealing with an inmate who was behind Beth’s kidnapping. What else?”

  “I also asked her if she knew where Beth was. First she said, I might. Then she said no.”

  “What’s your take?”

  “I can’t tell whether she might know. But I can tell you this. I saw no sign of deception when she said she didn’t.”

  Gus felt a wave of disappointment. “So you’re saying she’s bullshitting me? She can’t lead me to Beth?”

  “I wouldn’t read it that way. She probably was able to say no because she isn’t a hundred percent certain where Beth is.”

  Gus nodded slowly, wanting to agree. “That’s why she initially said she might know. She has a theory about what happened to Beth. Probably a pretty good theory. But she can’t say for certain.”

  “I think that’s a fair interpretation.”

  “Which only reinforces the notion that she had nothing to do with Beth’s disappearance. This is perfect. I want you to type up your report right away, Pappy. I can’t wait to show this to the FBI.”

  Pappy made a face. “You might want to give that some thought.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There was a fourth question. I didn’t expect it to elicit any reaction, but it did.”

  “Which one was that?”

  “I asked if she had ever killed anyone. She said no.”

  “That’s the truth. She was convicted of conspiracy to commit murder, but the murder never happened. They nailed her for planning to kill someone, not for murder.”

  “Then she must have had another body in mind when she answered this question.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “She was lying, Gus. She has killed someone.”

  Gus couldn’t ask Pappy to leave that out of the report. The guy had too much integrity. He knew, however, that the FBI wouldn’t be eager to cut a deal with a woman who had apparently gotten away with murder.

  “You want me to type up the report?”

  Gus thought for a second, then said, “Hold on, Pappy. Let me look into this first.”

  Forty-three

  There was no panic at midnight, no missing glass slipper. Even so, if Mrs. Rankin made her mop the floors once more, Andie was going to change her alias from Kira to Cinderella.

  The store had been closed on Sunday, but Andie had worked a full day just cleaning the place up. Monday had started the way the weekend had left off, one menial task after another. In the make-believe world, Kira was about halfway to earning that necklace the old lady had promised her. In the real world, Andie was trying to find a discreet way to get the story behind that innocent-looking woman Mrs. Rankin had run out of the store Saturday afternoon.

  Andie squeezed the soapy brown water from the mop into the bucket. Mrs. Rankin stood over her and inspected the damp and shiny floors.

  “Not bad,” she said, arms folded across her sagging bosom. “Corners need some work.”

  Andie rose and leaned defiantly on her mop handle. She’d about had it. “The corners are just fine.”

  “They’re fine when I say they’re fine.”

  “This is a thrift store. Not an operating room.”

  “Don’t sass me. Or I’ll fire you on the spot.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A nice power rush.”

  “Watch yourself,” she said sternly.

  “What is it with you? You sit on your butt all day long just waiting for the chance to jump down somebody’s throat.”

  “I’m warning you, Kira.”

  “No, I’m tired of it. You abuse me, you abuse your customers. Like that woman in here yesterday, just minding her own business.”

  “Don’t get into that.”

  “She wasn’t hurting anybody. Just looking at sweaters.”

  “Shut your trap. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I was standing right there. I saw what happened.”

  “I had every right to throw her out of here.”

  “Well, people also have the right to be treated with a little respect. A little kindness. Maybe you should try it sometime.”

  “Maybe you should zip it up before I fire you.”

  “Maybe I’ll quit if you don’t start treating people nicely.”

  “What’s your problem? You don’t even know that woman.”

  “Makes no difference. She seemed nice enough to me.”

  The old lady was steaming. She grabbed Andie by the arm.

  “Let go of me!” said Andie.

  She squeezed harder and led Andie to the door.

  “What are you, crazy?”

  She flung open the door and led Andie outside. “Come on!” she said harshly. “You think she looks nice, huh? You want to be friends with that woman, do you? You be my guest.” They stopped at the lamp post a half block away. A flyer was tacked to it at eye level. Mrs. Rankin snatched it down and shoved it at Andie.

  “Here you go, you stupid brat. You want to be chummy with her, you go right ahead. Just don’t ever step foot in my store again.”

  She turned and stormed back to her shop. Andie stood at the curb, confused. The printed flyer was a crumpled ball in her hand. She unfurled it and read it. Instantly Andie knew her work was done at the thrift shop.

  Tomorrow night there was someplace else she had to be.

  Gus couldn’t stop thinking about the polygraph results.

  His first instinct had been to summon Shirley and confront her. As a lawyer, however, he knew that cross-examination without preparation was a recipe for disaster. He needed to gather his thoughts, review the information he had. Unfortunately, nothing in his possession offered any insight into whether Shirley had ever really killed anyone. He had a copy of her criminal record. He had all the newspapers relating to her arrest and trial. He could turn his private investigator loose to scrounge for more, but that would take time. Too much time.

  He returned to the Washington Corrections Center for Women on Monday morning, a little calmer but otherwise no better disposed to interrogate Shirley than he had been on Satur
day. As he sat behind the Plexiglas partition, even the calmness disappeared. She had kept him waiting nearly twenty minutes. Finally, the door opened behind him.

  The guard said, “Shirley doesn’t want to meet with you.”

  “What?”

  “She says she doesn’t want any visitors this morning.”

  “I drove all the way over here to see her.”

  “Sorry.”

  “What else is on her schedule, lawn tennis at Wimbledon?”

  “Hey, if she doesn’t want to see you, I can’t make her.”

  Gus rose, struggling to contain his anger. He took two steps closer and invaded the guard’s space. The guard was little more than a kid, less than half Gus’s age, much smaller in stature. “Get her.”

  The guard took a half step back.

  “Get her right now,” said Gus. “Or I have no choice but to call the warden and tell him you are interfering with confidential communications between an attorney and his client.”

  “Don’t do that. I just got this job.”

  “Then don’t let an inmate jerk you around. Bring me Shirley Borge.”

  He blinked nervously as he backed out through the door. Gus went back to his chair in front of the glass. His anger was rising. Shirley was toying with him, playing games about whether she did or didn’t know where Beth was. Concealing the fact that she had indeed murdered someone. Maybe she was even lying when she denied any involvement in Beth’s disappearance and had simply fooled the machine. Now she was pulling this “I don’t want to see him” crap. It was time for Gus to get in her face.

  The door opened and Shirley entered the room on the other side of the glass. She stepped forward and stopped, glaring at him from five feet away. Gus’s anger turned to confusion. Her face was purple and puffy. The left eye was nearly swollen shut. A nasty split on her lower lip had been stitched closed.

  They picked up their phones. “What happened to you?” he asked, both curious and concerned.

  “I fell out of bed.” She was deadpan, then added, “I got the shit beat out of me, what does it look like?”