by Chris Leibig
“This is your stop.” Raj eased the Bentley into a spot in front of a townhouse. Sam had been on the roof of one of the multi-million-dollar homes for a political fundraiser he attended with an ex-girlfriend back when he first started at the office. “The best view of the DC monuments,” their host had said.
“Where are you going?” Sam asked.
“Ring at 3301. I’ll see you soon enough.”
Sam neatly placed the files into his briefcase and slid out of the car, followed by Amelia. The Bentley eased away.
“This is some weird shit, Sam,” Amelia said. “This isn’t about your drinking, is it?”
“If it is, somebody has been spiking the shit out of my booze.”
Sam and Amelia climbed the steps of the huge row house. Sam pushed the bell. Minutes passed. Then fast, heavy steps and what sounded like a hard landing at the bottom of the stairs. The door swung open.
“Dude.” Barnabus looked at his huge Rolex. “About time.”
Camille sat in the center of a tan patio couch on the open rooftop, one leg folded over the other like an actress on a television talk show.
“Hello, Sam.”
Sam looked past Camille over the city. Briefcase hanging from his shoulder, he again felt like an unprepared lawyer—unsure of which document to use for cross-examination.
Sam looked at Camille. She sat straight, smiling slightly, a serpent once again.
“What are you doing here?” Sam asked. A simple question to stand in for a hundred more complicated others.
“Hiding out, I suppose. I’m scared. I want you to represent me.”
“Represent you for what?”
“For murder. What else?”
No one spoke for a long moment as Sam searched Camille’s eyes.
“Events are moving forward, Sam. They’ll know my name within hours. The attorney-client privilege might protect me for a few days, but soon enough, the federal authorities will find me. This is the biggest investigation in the country. The normal rules won’t apply. The FBI is in your apartment right now. Attorney-client or not, they’ll find me. My number is all over your phone records. They’ll learn about your past connection to Holy Angels. They’ll speak to Andrada. And they’ll have the DNA from the Lucas crime scene you told me about. It’s my profile on the chalice stem, not Andrada’s.”
Amelia glanced up and gripped her pen tightly—gestures that often accompanied an impulsive, and sometimes ill-advised, question to a client or witness. This time, Sam let it go.
“So, you killed Zebulon Lucas? What about the others?” Amelia asked.
Camille met Sam’s eyes. They watched each other for a moment before she answered Amelia’s question.
“I did what I felt I had to. I shouldn’t talk about the rest right now, except privately with my lawyers. But I told you, Sam. I was never going to let anything harm Andrada.”
“But the journal, all the bullshit? Why? You knew who Zebulon Lucas was before you met me? And my mother? Since I was a kid? What the hell is going on?”
Camille arched her back and returned Sam’s gaze.
“Let’s talk about problem number one first. I’m going to get arrested unless I turn fugitive, which I do not intend to do. So here’s the thing, Sam. Since the chief says all the murders are related, won’t they accuse me of being the Rosslyn Ripper? Your DNA friend is going to have to tell them what she knows, which will lead them to you and then to me.”
“I’m afraid that process has already begun,” Sam said. “But this whole shit-show, Camille. Why? Who are you?”
“First things first. I’m in trouble.”
“Fuck that. Why are you screwing with me?” He pulled out the photograph of his mother with Camille and Raj Buterab. “Explain this. Now.”
“We’ve got all the time in the world for those questions. I promise.”
CHAPTER 21
“THERE’S ONLY ONE THING to do,” Sam said. Barnabus and Amelia now sat on a long wicker couch across a coffee table from an identical couch occupied by Camille and Sam. “I’m going to make a couple of phone calls, and then you’re gonna turn yourself in tonight.”
“You’re going to have to explain to me how that could possibly be the right move,” Camille said.
“We can get you arrested without you admitting anything about actually killing Zeb. Juliana can help with that. Here’s the thing—Zeb is the only murder not committed on federal property. It’s a state case. The feds have no jurisdiction. In state court we have a much better chance to work things the way we want. If time passes and the feds figure out a way, as bogus as it may be, to label Zeb as a Ripper victim and charge you with all the murders, the case goes federal. And, believe me, we’ll lose any semblance of control over it. They can’t prove you did anything right now.”
“I’ll be in jail?” Camille said.
“Probably,” Sam said. “At least for a while. What are your alternatives? Go on the run for life? You said you would never do that.”
Camille stood and paced behind the wicker couch, back and then forth and again. Slowly. Sam could feel her mind churning, unsure, for once.
“I trust you,” she said finally. “I’ll do this if you say so.”
Sam stood. “There’s no going back from this call.”
Camille nodded.
•••
“Sparf.”
Sparf answered his cell phone on the first ring, even on a Saturday night.
“Hey, Chad. I’ve got some information for you. You’re gonna beat the feds to Zebulon Lucas’s killer. But you gotta hurry.”
A long silence ensued, but Sam could feel that Sparf believed him.
“You would never yank my chain about something like this.” Sparf said it like a statement.
“No way. Get O’Malley, and get over here. My client is ready to self-surrender but no questions. You’ll understand when Juliana Kim shows you what she has.”
Sam could hear Sparf breathing. “Address?”
•••
“They’re close,” Barnabus said.
A moment later, Sam heard sirens. The right ones.
“Locals. Sparf delivered.”
Camille rubbed her neck with both hands. She took a large gulp from her glass. Her eyes met Sam’s over the rim, and then darted away.
“Camille, tell me now. It’s time. I need some fucking answers before they get here. You hired me well before Zebulon Lucas was killed, and it turns out you knew my mother, and you’ve known some of my clients for years. Why are you playing games with me? Who wrote the journal, and why’d you feed it to me like that? What’s your game?”
They watched each other intently and Sam could feel her energy pumping towards him. He pushed back. He scrolled on his phone to Melvin’s e-mail with the manifest from La Liberación. He scrolled down and down, slowly this time, until he found it. The same tight, disciplined cursive writing, the same writing from the manuscript. Nombre: Angelica y Paul Paradisi. Edad: 18 y 10 Años. 2-1-58.
As for ages, I told the truth for Paul, and made myself an adult. We had good, new names. Strong ones, reflecting our hopes.
“Explain, Camille.” Sam’s hands shook.
“There’s no time.”
“If you tell me the manuscript story is true, at least I’ll know you’re crazy, and I can use that to help you. But I do know that somebody named Salome Becker was killed in Argentina, and that these Paradisi kids boarded a ship the next day. I also know, as I’m sure you do, that somebody named Paradisi became a nun in Miami in the sixties. You really did a lot of work to concoct this shit, but why?”
Camille sighed. “This is a long conversation. I’m sorry I placed this hiccup in our path with this whole Rosslyn Ripper business. But I had no choice. The journal story is true, and was written by my sister, who was indeed born in Bariloche in 1942. I remember the very day she was born. I was five. Her name was Fifika Kritalsh. She changed it to Angelica Paradisi when she boarded the ship. I later took the name Camil
le Paradisi. My plan has always been to let you in on all of this. It’s important for you to understand that.”
“Paul’s sibling was a woman? That makes you Trinity? Over seventy years old? Now at least I know you’re batshit crazy. All of you.”
“Father Andrada and I had been meaning to talk to you about this for years, but then she died, and things got sidetracked, and then the Rosslyn Ripper turned up at confession, and it seemed like a good reason to engage your services. For me to let you gradually learn about us, and for—”
“Why in the world were you always planning to speak to me about anything? Let’s have it, Camille!”
“It needs to be explained slowly—”
“Now!” Sam yelled loudly enough that he could tell his voice carried off the roof and down Monument Street, blending with the approaching sirens. Camille flinched back in her seat, and then glanced sidelong at Raj who Sam suddenly realized had joined them on the roof. Raj raised his eyebrows thoughtfully and shrugged.
“Sam, I will say only one more thing. When all of this is over you need to speak to Father Andrada.”
The sirens were very close now, perhaps rounding the corner. Sam’s phone buzzed. Sparf. He ignored it. Barnabus stood at the edge of the rooftop porch, hands flat on the rail, leaning over to view the street three stories below.
“Let me get this straight,” Sam said. “Before you get taken into custody, I need to know just how crazy you actually are. It may make a big difference in how we proceed. You’re saying the whole Ripper part just kinda happened? You really believe that crap in the journal about being the descendants of fallen angels banished from heaven? This entire time, you’ve wanted to hire me to, what, sue God?”
No one spoke for a long moment.
Amelia jotted something on her pad and earnestly nodded once.
“The jurisdictional issue is going to be difficult,” Amelia said.
Camille rested her eyes gently on Sam’s, just like in their first client meeting, the first time she hired him.
“I’ve been thinking through the jurisdictional problem. I’ve got a few ideas. But first you’ve got to get me out from under this murder charge.”
“You don’t ask much, do you?” Sam said.
“Sorry for the inconvenience.”
“You know I don’t believe this, right?”
Camille only smiled.
“The fuzz has arrived,” Barnabus said.
“I may have made the bail issue a little easier for you,” Camille said. “You told me it was easier to get pregnant ladies out of jail, right?”
Sam looked Camille up and down, her thin legs, face, and hands, her stylish, loose-fitting clothes.
“More than seven months,” she said.
Sam and Camille stood close now, out of hearing distance from Barnabus and Amelia, both of whom watched the street from the rooftop rail.
“Do you have any complications?”
“You want a complication, I’ll get you one.”
“Ever heard of preeclampsia?”
“As a matter of fact, it probably killed my mother, as Fifika wrote about in her journal. It also nearly killed Fifika herself.”
“We gotta move,” Barnabus said. Lights flashed below.
“You’re still missing a big piece of it, Sam. There’s so much more to tell. You’ll learn everything. Get me out of jail, and we can get to work on our case.”
Sam could hear dozens of vehicles approaching the front of the house.
Barnabus clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“Told you, dude. Biggest case ever.”
Moments later, Sam and Camille stood in the high-ceilinged vestibule downstairs. Sam expected shouts from outside and pounding fists, but instead heard only three slow knocks. Barnabus opened the door.
Chief O’Malley stood on the porch with Sparf.
“This better not be some of your bullshit, Young.” Surrounding them on all sides were patrolmen with hands on their holsters. Reporters and cameras lined the street.
CHAPTER 22
KATHARTA BATEY READ SAM’S business card. “Sam Young, Attorney and Counselor at Law. I’ve heard of you.”
“I know.” Sam and Amelia sat close to his new client in the jail visiting room.
Katharta perched in front of Sam on the short, fixed metal stool in the small visiting room. She had her legs folded one over the other. Her toe bounced in a rhythmic circle as she stared at her nails.
“There’s something you should know right up front about my case.” She reminded Sam more of a bored beauty salon stylist discussing local gossip than a prominent local businesswoman recently arrested for money laundering.
“Katharta, let’s start with something else. You don’t need to tell us all about what happened yet. I’ve read your press statements. I basically get it, at least enough for now. Tell me more about you, first of all. Are you okay? I know this has gotta be a shock to the system.”
Sam knew Katharta had attempted suicide her first night in jail and had spent the last week in the mental health unit, where she had been barred from receiving visitors of any kind. Today—her second day in the regular jail population—had been Sam’s first real chance to see her in person.
“I gotta tell ya, last week I thought my life was over. Wished it was over. You have no idea what it’s like to go from having everything to having nothing, all in a few weeks. I couldn’t … I don’t know how to say it … it’s like I couldn’t stand being in my own skin. I hated it. Hated myself.”
Katharta shook her head as if shrugging off a long-ago memory. Sam watched her carefully. Even in jail clothes and without makeup, or any of the trappings she sported in public, Katharta was a beautiful, mature woman. Regally so. She reminded Sam of a famous actress. Maybe Katherine Hepburn, slumming it as a prisoner in an old movie.
“Yesterday I was released from the nut-job unit and given a cell, a cellmate, some clothes and soap, and well—” Katharta paused, as if assessing her next statement cautiously to make sure it was fully true.
“Go on,” Sam said.
“Your client Camille. She came in last night. She’s the one who told me to call you. Since the second I met her I’ve felt better than I ever have in my life. And to top it off, my back seems suddenly cured. I’ve had terrible back pain for several years. On pills for it—that’s a whole ’nother story. But anyway, I haven’t had a pain pill, or my anxiety meds for that matter, in days, and my back feels great. And you know what else?”
Sam urged her on with a shrug.
“I have this sense of inner peace I’ve never felt before. It’s like thank God she’s my cellmate, even if outside the cell is constantly video recorded. I swear … I mean I’d actually pay to live in a cubicle with her for a few weeks. You must think I’m crazy.”
“No.” Sam closed his notebook. “I really don’t.”
“Oh, and Camille whispered to me to warn you that they are going to record your lawyer visits with her, so she can’t talk about her lawsuit. Whatever that means. Anyway, you’d better get Camille out of here soon.” Katharta leaned forward. “This morning she was vomiting, like, a lot. Last night she was shaking in her bed, like violent shivers. Like maybe she’s having something like a seizure, and—”
Sam stood. “I’m on it. Really. As for your case, Katharta, you’ll do six months at the country club where you can drive your own golf cart. Martha Stewart made it, so will you.”
“I know.”
“But there’s something you can do for me. For Camille. She may need your help. You’re going to be brought over to court to testify in the next day or so. When we go for bail.”
Katharta stood, eyes wide. “You ask, you got.”
“It won’t be anything you wouldn’t do anyway,” Sam said. “Just tell the truth.
“I have a question. How did she cure your back?” Amelia said.
Katharta crossed her arms and gripped her own shoulders. “She just held me for a moment.”
; Amelia put a hand to her chest and stared at Sam.
The automatic door popped slightly open, signaling the end of Sam’s visit.
“Sam,” Katharta said, “you never asked what I wanted to tell you about the evidence against me.”
“You were going to tell me you’re guilty of what you’re charged with. The fraud.” He winked at her. “But I don’t give a shit.”
Sam walked calmly out of the jail, taking quick note of the number of press cameras and reporters behind the barrier. Three reporters. Two cameras.
“Mr. Young, Mr. Young! Will Camille testify?”
“Is Paradisi crazy?”
“Will she be out of jail tomorrow?”
Sam ignored their shouts, walking slowly past them with a nod. His Escalade glided up just as he reached the street, its occupants hidden by the newly darkened tint. Sam eased into the front seat and Amelia got in back.
Sam glanced back over his shoulder. Nguyen, sunglasses perched on his nose, fidgeted with an electronic gadget that hung from the side of his computer.
“Those medical documents better be good,” Sam said.
“On it, boss,” Nguyen said.
Sam sat back and listened to Nguyen’s tapping computer keys as the Escalade cruised west on I-66. He scrolled through his phone for Alfredo Torres’s number.
CHAPTER 23
“THE DEFENDANT’S MOTION FOR bail is worse than absurd,” Sparf whined from the podium. “This defendant is under federal investigation for being a serial killer, and this court never gives bail for first-degree murder.”
Sam could sense the differing emotions of the silent horde behind him in the gallery. The deputies had packed the rows tightly and allowed standing room all along the back and sides of the courtroom. Camille sat with perfect posture as usual, her face impassive. But she also had dark circles under her eyes, and her face seemed thinner than normal. She looked ill. Beaten down. Her radiance dimmed by only a few days of incarceration.
