A Picture of Guilt Read Free

Except for the occasional scandal, which often turns out to be the result of poor judgment rather than deceit, currency trading just isn’t very sexy. Which is fine by me. My ex-husband played the market. Badly. I have the debts to prove it.
    But Abdul was clearly a man of wealth—and a member of the Saudi royal family. I should be polite. “I don’t understand currency trading very well, but I imagine you need dollars because—well, why do you need dollars?”
    A waitress in green and pink filled our coffee cups. He waited until she glided away. “You’re a curious woman.”
    I shrugged.
    He studied me closely, as if registering every detail of my appearance. I found it unnerving. I’m usually the observer.
    “It is not that complex.” He lowered his fork. “The price of oil is quoted in U.S. dollars, and most of my business is transacted that way. I use the proceeds to purchase currencies for my other investments.”
    “And what would those be?”
    He hesitated. “I am always looking for new ideas and technologies to bring back to my people. For example, I have invested in a genetic engineering company which is experimenting with drought-resistant seeds. Also an Internet search engine that teaches children how to retrieve information more easily.”
    “Really?”
    “It may be your David Linden and I will have more to discuss.” He laughed, scraping up a mouthful of grits. “But enough business. You seem more—how do I say it—anchored this morning.”
    “Nicely put,” I smiled. “The rafting…well, it isn’t anything I plan to do again.”
    He laughed again and went back to his food. When he’d finished, he pulled out a copy of the Journal . “You don’t mind?” He motioned to the paper.
    I held up the Chicago Tribune I’d bought earlier, and we settled back to read in companionable silence. I’d been surprised to find a Chicago paper in the mountains of West Virginia. But then, this was the Greenbrier. They probably had their own printing press in the back.
    As I scanned the paper, a story on page nine caught my eye. A murder trial was about to get under way at criminal court downtown. The accused, a man named Johnnie Santoro, allegedly beat up and then shot his girlfriend at Calumet Park on the Southeast Side. He was pleading not guilty, but according to the article, there was a wealth of incriminating evidence. The last weeks of summer are usually the dog days in terms of hard news, so in the absence of anything more newsworthy, the case had been heavily covered by the media, the local stations promising all the legal maneuverings and high drama of the O.J. trial. I’d paid scant attention until now, figuring that whatever local TV wants me to watch is exactly what I should avoid.
    Today, though, there was a grainy newspaper picture of Santoro in the paper. He was twenty-six, the article said, but he looked older. His eyes were hooded, and his hair was cut close to his skull. He was looking off camera, but his eyebrows were so overgrown and bushy they met over his nose, which gave him a simian look.
    I stared at the picture and felt my skin grow clammy. I reached for a glass of water.
    “Something is wrong, Ellie?” Abdul asked.
    I gulped down a swig, then held up the paper. “This man who’s on trial? He…looks familiar. I think I know him.”
    His eyebrows shot up.
    “Good morning, troops.” Strong hands squeezed my shoulders. I glanced up. David leaned over and kissed my cheek.
    “It’s the face,” I said to Abdul. “I’ve seen it before.”
    David pulled out a chair. “What did I miss?”
    I passed him the paper. “Look at this.”
    “What am I looking at?”
    “The man in the picture. Who’s on trial for murder.”
    David studied the article.
    “I think I know him,” I said. “But I don’t know how.”
    I felt Abdul’s eyes on me.
    “Guy beats up his girlfriend and shoots her to death.” David handed me back the paper. “What a nice person for you to know.”

C