The Viper

The way she settled herself at the end of one of the couches made it increasingly obvious that the long tee shirt was all she was wearing. Gurney sat at the far end, determinedly focusing on her face. A cool hint of a smile suggested that she found this amusing.

“So,” she said, “you want to know about Ziko?”

“I do.”

“Because he’s appealing his conviction?”

“Yes.”

“Even though he’s a totally guilty piece of shit?”

“On the phone, you called the Lerman murder the tip of the Ziko iceberg. What did you mean by that?”

She shifted a bit in her seat, making the sight of her thighs more distracting.

“Some people do nasty things, but underneath they’re not so bad. Their crazy shit makes you kinda like them. But with Ziko, it was the opposite. He’s a sweet talker, lots of charm, does favors with a smile. But underneath all that grinning he’s a piece of shit. He lies the way other people breathe. People think what a charming guy. How nice. How open. Doesn’t seem to have a secret in the world. And that’s exactly what he gets off on. Ziko’s got nothing but secrets. The man’s a walking, talking, smiling lie.”

“You don’t buy the truth of his new life?”

“Give me a fucking break!”

“You don’t believe he’s changed?’

“He’s changed, alright. The lies are bigger now. He’s not just lying about who he’s fucking, he’s lying about being a fucking saint!” She leaned forward, as if she were about to spring off the couch. “You don’t goddamn get it, do you? You’re dealing with the most poisonous, deceptive scumbag on the face of the earth!”

Simone’s display of rage felt authentic. But Gurney wasn’t sure if it was rage against an evil hypocrite or against a former partner who moved on to a better life—a life that excluded her.

“Why did you stab him?”

She shrugged. “We weren’t getting along. We argued about everything.”

“And in the middle of one of those arguments you decided to stab him?”

She yawned, as if she suddenly found the subject tiresome. “I discovered he’d been fucking my mother, which I found . . . inappropriate.”

It was far from the first revelation of intergenerational infidelity that Gurney had encountered, but it was definitely the most nonchalant. It made him wonder whether she was as corrupt as her tone suggested, or coke-addled, or lying.

She yawned again.

He decided to move on. “As you know, the trial narrative was based on the premise that Ziko was the target of a blackmail attempt. Do you know of any particular event in his past that could be the basis for that?”

“Ziko was capable of anything. He did things all the time that could come back and blow that fucking halo off his head.”

“Anything he’d be absolutely desperate to keep to himself?”

“Could be a hundred things. When he was high, nobody in the fucking world was crazier than Ziko.” She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Maybe there’s another headless body out there. You ever think of that?”

He had, but he preferred asking questions to answering them.

“Does the case of a victim being crushed to death ring any bells?”

She recoiled. “Fuck, no!”

“Where did Ziko’s money come from?”

“What do you mean?”

“A big estate in a pricey area like this can’t have been cheap. Did the money come from his drug dealing?”

She uttered a dismissive laugh. “Most of that went up his nose. Along with thousand-dollar bottles of wine. Ziko liked to drink Lafite Rothschild with takeout pizza.”

Gurney detected a nostalgic note. The good old days with crazy Ziko, before he put an end to it all by fucking her mother. Or was it by finding religion with Emma Martin?

“So where did it come from—the money for this place, the money he still has?”

“Some from the sale of his sportswear company. But mostly it was handed to him by his father. Nasty prick who wanted nothing to do with his son. Threw money at Ziko to keep him away.” She yawned again. “How much more of this shit you want to wade through? The family crap is totally boring.”

“Ever hear the name Sally Bones?”

“Yeah, at Ziko’s trial.”

“That was the only time you heard it?”

“Yeah.”

“How about the name Jingo?’

“Same. The trial.”

“Okay, Simone. That’s it. Unless there’s anything else you want to tell me.”

She sat quietly in her corner of the couch for a long minute, with those cold eyes fixed on him. When she spoke, there was ice in her voice.

“He’s guilty. Burn that into your fucking brain. He deserves to be where he is. I hope he dies there.”

26

“YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT?”

Madeleine was gazing at him across the table by the French doors, where they were having a mostly silent breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee.

“Not really, but it might help.” He put his fork down on the edge of his plate and took a moment to collect his thoughts.

“I was hoping that Slade’s ex-wife would provide some new insight into the case. Or into Slade. The fact is, she only added to the fog. She insists his reformation is a con job, and she hates him with a venom that’s hard to overstate.”

“A woman scorned?”

“Scorned and having an affair with a kid who looks about sixteen.”

“How old is she?”