Most Wanted (36 page)

“Fine.” Christine didn't want to fight with him. She headed uphill, past the pretty row houses. Runners ran by, now that the humidity had dissipated, and residents were out watering their plantings. Lights glowed from within the mullioned windows, and the sky darkened to a soft shade of periwinkle.

“Have you seen
Zachary
?”

“No.” Christine ignored his tone. “How are you?”

“I'm fine. When are you coming home?”

“I'm not sure yet. I'll keep you posted. I'm fine, you don't have anything to worry about, and I'm doing something that matters to me.”

“What
are
you doing?”

“Come down and find out.”

Marcus scoffed. “So you won't tell me what you're doing and you won't tell me when you're coming home?”

“Marcus, if you really want to know what I'm doing, please, get in the car and come down. I'm staying at the Warner Hotel in town.”

“No, I have work.”

“You can take a few days off, and you know it.”

“What you're doing is wrong. I'm not buying in.”

“Then we agree to disagree.” Christine swallowed hard. Part of her wondered if this counted as separation. It felt like one. They'd never been at such odds. She thought of what Marcus had said in Gary's office.
This is ruining our marriage.

“I'm calling because Gary spoke with Homestead, and they won't confirm or deny that Jeffcoat is our donor without our filing suit. They aren't buying our waiver argument, at least not yet.”

“So now what happens?” Christine took a left turn and braked behind a line of other cars, a long line of red stoplights.

“Gary's going to file the papers and show Homestead we mean business. He's hoping that will make them more inclined to settle.”

“Good.” Christine glanced around, stalled in traffic. She had left the residential neighborhood, and busy restaurants lined the street.

“I didn't tell Gary where you were. I covered for you.”

“You can tell him where I am. I'm not ashamed of what I'm doing, and he's the one who said it was self-help, which it is.” Christine fed the car gas when the traffic started to move, inching uphill.

“Christine, I really hope you're not damaging our lawsuit.”

“Nothing I'm doing is going to hurt the lawsuit. Nobody here knows Zachary is our donor. Griff doesn't even know I'm pregnant.”

“They will when we file suit.”

“How? Zachary's in prison, Marcus. It's not like he has a phone, and I don't know if his email has been set up. They might not even try to contact him.”

“He'll have Internet. It's public record. He can find out. Your buddy Griff can find out, too.”

Christine couldn't help but smile, at the irony. Thank God Griff didn't have Internet. “I'll ask Gary how that works.”

“No, don't. I don't want you to do anything that interferes with this lawsuit.”

“It wouldn't interfere with the lawsuit. It would just be asking a question about what could happen. You heard what Gary said, it's a parallel track. What I already found out about Zachary improved our position. So the waiver argument didn't pan out, so what? Like Gary said, we haven't lost anything.”

Marcus groaned. “It's embarrassing. This whole thing is embarrassing.”

“Why? Because you couldn't control your wife? Like I'm not a person with a will of my own? Since when did you become so sexist?”

“I'm not embarrassed for my sake, I am embarrassed for your sake. You're embarrassing yourself.”

“Thank you for that vote of confidence,” Christine snapped, and on impulse, she pressed
END
to hang up, her throat tight.

The stalled traffic became a blur of red lights, and she tried to remember the last time she'd hung up on her husband. She'd never felt so separate from him, ever before. She wished she could have shared with him what she'd figured out about Linda Kent, so she could make him see that what she was doing was for a good reason. But she'd have to stop trying. Marcus had said it was too much to ask him to join her. With or without him, this was her mission, and she had to see it through, for her sake and for the baby's. It still didn't stop the tears from welling up in her eyes, but she blinked them away.

She had another call to make.

 

Chapter Thirty-eight

Traffic slowed, and Christine waited until it was safe to make the call. “Gary, do you have a minute?” she asked as soon as he picked up.

“I assume you talked to Marcus. Don't worry. Just because Homestead didn't cave on the phone doesn't mean—”

“That's not what I'm calling about.” Christine took a deep breath, giving the car gas. “I need to clarify something. We're still going to file suit against Homestead, is that right?”

“Yes, that's correct.”

“When are you going to do that?”

“Tomorrow.”

“And my name is on the case, right?”

“The caption? Yes. The caption reads Marcus Nilsson and Christine Nilsson versus Homestead and its parent company, Homestead International. Is that what you're asking?”

“Yes.” Christine could imagine it, having seen the papers. “Now here's my question. When you file that in court, is it public record?”

“Yes.”

“So people can see it?”

“In theory, yes, but only in theory. Marcus asked me the same question since the fact that you used a donor isn't public knowledge.”

Christine felt surprised since Marcus hadn't mentioned that detail to her.

“It's public but it's not easy for the public to know. It's not like the court sends out a bulletin to anybody. You have to know a lawsuit was filed before you even search for it, then you have to search for it on the district court's website, which is impossible to use if you're a layperson. Hell, it's not easy to use if you're a lawyer.”

Christine breathed easier. “Right, okay, so how does Homestead get a copy?”

“I serve it on them.”

“Does that mean you mail it?”

“Yes. I mail it to their lawyer. He's agreed to accept service.”

“Do you send a copy to Zachary Jeffcoat?”

“No. He's not a party.”

“Does Homestead send a copy to Zachary Jeffcoat?”

“No, I doubt it. As I say, he's not a party.”

Christine breathed a relieved sigh. “So Zachary won't necessarily know that a lawsuit is being filed that involves him?”

“Correct, but let's be precise. As a legal matter, our lawsuit doesn't involve Zachary Jeffcoat. It involves only his donation. I doubt Homestead will notify him about the lawsuit.”

“Why? They know, because of us, that Zachary is Donor 3319, and therefore they know he's in Graterford. Why don't they mail him papers?”

“They have no reason to. If this were a case in which Jeffcoat's donation was tainted or carried a disease, for example, if he carried Tay-Sachs or some other illness, then I could see them notifying him. But there's no regs or laws that require that. That's part of the problem we're dealing with in our lawsuit, the absence of laws in this area.” Gary snorted. “They're hoisted on their own petards.”

“So they wouldn't have any reason to notify him?”

“No. Besides, the only other reason parties to litigation reach out is to join others as codefendants or to seek indemnification against them for damages. In other words, to get money out of them. Homestead doesn't need to do that with Jeffcoat. It and its parent company have a deep pocket, and I'm sure Jeffcoat is judgment-proof.”

“What does judgment-proof mean?”

“Broke. So I doubt they'll let him know. Why are you asking?”

Christine decided to come clean. “I'm back in Pennsylvania, working as a paralegal on Zachary's defense.”

“For real?” Gary asked, surprised. “But you're a teacher.”

“Never underestimate the power of a teacher.”

“I'm not, but you're not trained in legal research.”

“I'm not doing legal research, I'm doing factual research. It's common sense. Your wife is a paralegal, isn't she? Did she go to paralegal school?”

“No, she didn't. I trained her.”

“Same here. The lawyer is training me.”

“This Griff guy?” Gary chuckled softly. “Oh, man. But Griff doesn't know why you're really there. I get it, now.”

“Yes, and I was wondering how much time I had before my cover was blown.”

“You have time.” Gary chuckled softly again. “I'm going to be in trouble with your husband, aren't I?”

“I'm your client, too,” Christine shot back, firm. “Last question. This doesn't hurt our lawsuit in any way, does it?”

“No, it doesn't.”

“I'm just engaging in self-help, like you said.”

“I created a monster.”

“No, it's not on you, it's on me.” Christine felt the conviction in her words as she drove into town. “The more I learn about this case, the more I doubt that Zachary's really a serial killer.”

“What does Marcus say?”

“He's not happy.”

“But he knows where you are, you told him?”

“Yes, I asked him to come, and he said no. I know what I'm doing and I know why I'm doing it. I don't have to justify it to anybody.”

“Okay, relax, I understand.” Gary's voice softened. “You and Marcus are in a tough position. I don't want to get in the middle. My only word of caution is that Jeffcoat could be manipulating you. He's desperate right now, desperate to get anybody to help him, listen to him, or champion his defense. Don't be his sucker.”

“I won't,” Christine said, more confidently than she felt.

 

Chapter Thirty-nine

“I brought you some carbohydrates,” Christine said, leading with her pizza box as she entered the lawyer's office, which was dark. Night had fallen outside the window, and his desk lamp had an old-fashioned green glass shade, which glowed in a homey, throwback way.

“Trying to get on my good side?” Griff looked up from his cluttered desk, his eyes pinkish with strain and his eyelids heavy behind his tortoiseshell glasses, which needed cleaning again. The sleeves of his oxford shirt were ringed with wrinkles, and his bow tie angled on a slant, like a stopped airplane propeller.

“Hoping for a raise.”

“Good luck. Though we did get paid.”

“Really, how?” Christine cleared a space on the desk for the brown bag containing sodas, napkins, and plates, and the pizza, which wreathed the air with delicious tomato-and-mozzarella smells.

“The girlfriend dropped it off.”

“Did you meet her?” Christine asked, intrigued.

“No. It came in while I was out. She left it at the front desk. They take hand-deliveries for me.” Griff dug through the papers on his desk, which was messier than before, and produced a white envelope.

“Can I see?”

“Here.” Griff handed her the envelope, which read F.X. Griffith, Esq., on the front, in handwriting. She opened it up and looked inside to see a cashier's check made out to F.X. Griffith, Esq., for $2,500.

“A cashier's check?” Christine said, surprised. “Did you ask her for this, as opposed to a personal check?”

“No.” Griff slid off his glasses, set them aside, and rubbed his eyes, then tugged the pizza box toward him. He opened the box, raising an unruly white eyebrow. “You ate three pieces? Sheesh. You can really pack it in.”

“Thanks.” Christine didn't explain that she was eating for two, or that it was an excellent excuse. She set the check on the desk and sat down in one of the chairs.

“My wife ate like a pig, too.”

Christine ignored the “pig” part since he said it with affection. Kind of. “You didn't mention a wife.”

“She's dead,” Griff said matter-of-factly. “Five years ago. Pancreatic cancer.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. She's in a better place, if you can imagine a better place than living with me.” Griff took out a gooey slice of pizza, and before she could stop him, he turned over one of the legal pads and plopped the slice on its cardboard back, using the pad for a plate.

“Griff, there's a paper plate in the bag.”

“This is fine.”

“Napkins are in the bag, too, and a can of Coke.”

“You got kids?” Griff took a bite, chewing noisily.

“None, yet.” Christine felt her face flush, but Griff seemed not to notice, tearing into his pizza. Grease covered his lips almost immediately, but she didn't remind him about the napkins. “You?”

“Six. Three girls, three boys, twenty-one grandkids. You're married, aren't you?”

“Yes.” Christine shifted forward in the seat, wanting to change the subject. “So I learned a lot tonight, and I want to fill you in. You can let me know if it helps the case.”

“Good.” Griff finally wiped his mouth. “You talk, so I can eat.”

Christine complied, telling him about the flip-flops and cigarette lighter, then that Linda Kent's neighbor had seen Zachary at Robinbrecht's on the Thursday before the murder. By the time she was finished, Griff was sipping his Coke, having gone through three slices of plain pizza and nine napkins, crumpled on top of his desk like greasy origami.

Christine asked, “So what do you think?”

“I think the pizza didn't have enough cheese.” Griff sniffed. “Next time get double cheese.”

“I mean about what I found out. On balance, I think it helps us because it suggests that there was another person who might have done it.” Christine's thoughts were racing. “And the cigarette lighter and the flip-flops show that Mrs. Kent could have let somebody into her apartment, somebody who killed her then carried her downstairs. What if that person was Gail's killer? That's very possible.”