Along Came a Spider

Sitting there in the perfect Caribbean surroundings, I believe that I felt more duplicitous, and completely unreal, than I had in my entire life.
    I watched the grilled pompano and grouper and turtle come and go. I listened to the reggae band get ready. And all the while, I was thinking that this beautiful woman beside me had let Michael Goldberg die. I was also certain she had murdered Maggie Rose Dunne, or at least been an accomplice. She’d never shown a hint of remorse.
    Somewhere back in the States was her share of the ten-million-dollar ransom. But Jezzie was smart enough to let me “split” the trip expenses with her. “Right down the middle, Alex. No free rides here, okay?”
    She ate island lobster and an appetizer plate of shark bites She drank two ales at dinner. Jezzie was so smooth and smart. In a way, she was even scarier than Gary Soneji/Murphy.
    What do you talk about to a murderer, and someone you loved, over a perfect dinner and cocktails? I wanted to know so many things, but I couldn’t ask any of the real questions pounding in my head. Instead, we talked of the coming vacation days, a “plan” for the here and now in the islands.
    I stared across the dining table at Jezzie and I thought that she had never looked more physically striking. She kept tucking her blond hair behind one ear. It was such a familiar and intimate gesture, that nervous tic. What was Jezzie nervous and concerned about? How much did she know?
    “All right, Alex,” she finally said. “Do you want to tell me what we’re really doing on Virgin Gorda? Is there another agenda working here?”
    I had prepared myself for the question, but it still took me by surprise. She had fired it in beautifully. I was ready to lie. I could rationalize what I had to do. I just couldn’t make myself feel particularly good about it.
    “I wanted us to be able to talk, to
really
talk to each other. Maybe for the first time, Jezzie.”
    Tears started in the corners of Jezzie’s eyes. They slowly ran down her cheeks. Shiny streams in the candlelight.
    “I love you, Alex,” Jezzie whispered. “It’s just that — it will always be so hard for the two of us. It’s been hard so far.”
    “Are you saying the world isn’t ready for us?” I asked her. “Or aren’t we ready for the world?”
    “I don’t know which of those is right. Does it matter that it’s just so hard?”
    We walked along the beach after dinner, down toward a ship-wrecked galleon. The picturesque wreck was stranded about a quarter of a mile from the main pavilion and restaurant. The beach appeared to be deserted.
    There was some moonlight, but it got darker as we approached the fallen ship. Shredded pieces of clouds streamed across the sky. Finally, Jezzie was little more than a dark shape beside me. Everything about the moment made me extremely uncomfortable. I had left my gun in the room.
    “Alex.” Jezzie had stopped walking. At first, I thought she’d heard something, and I looked over my shoulder. I knew Soneji/Murphy couldn’t be down here. Was it possible I could be wrong?
    “I was wondering,” Jezzie said, “thinking about something from the investigation, and I don’t want to. Not down here.”
    “What’s bothering you?” I asked her.
    “You stopped talking to me about the investigation. How did you wind up with Chakely and Devine?”
    “Well, since you brought the subject up,” I said to her, “I’ll tell you. You were right all the time about the two of them. Another stone-cold dead end. Now. Let’s have a real vacation. We’ve both earned it.”

CHAPTER 83

    GARY SONEJI/MURPHY
watched
, and his mind wandered. His mind traveled all the way back to the perfect Lindbergh kidnapping.
    He could still picture Lucky Lindy. The lovely Anne Morrow Lindbergh. Baby Charles Jr. in his crib, up in the second-story nursery of the farmhouse in Hopewell, New Jersey. Those were the days, my friends. Fantasy days at their best.
    What was he actually watching in the much more banal here and now?
    First, there was the pair of FBI goonigans in a black Buick Skylark. A male and a female goonie, to be precise, who were on stakeout duty. They were certainly harmless enough. No problem for him there. No challenge whatsoever.
    Next, there was the modern high-rise building where agent Mike Devine still lived in Washington. The Hawthorne, it was called. After Nathaniel, of the dark, brooding heart? Rooftop pool and sun deck, garage parking, concierge service