J is for Judgment Read Free Page A

engenders. My friend Vera and I were currently enrolled in a beginning Spanish class through Santa Teresa’s adult education program. So far, we were confined to the present tense, short, mostly declarative statements of little known use—unless, ofcourse, there were some black cats in the trees, in which case Vera and I were prepared to point and make remarks.
¿Muchos gatos negros están en los árboles, sí? Sí, muchos gatos.
I saw the trip as an opportunity to test my language skills, if nothing else.
    Along with the clippings, Mac had included several eight-by-eleven black-and-white shots of Jaffe at various public functions: art openings, political fund-raisers, charity auctions. Judging by the events he attended, he was certainly one of the select: handsome, well dressed, a central part of any group. Often, his was the one blurred face, as if he’d pulled back or turned away just as the camera shutter clicked. I wondered if even then he was consciously avoiding being photographed. He was in his mid-fifties and big. Silver hair, high cheekbones, jutting chin, his nose prominent. He seemed calm and self-possessed, a man who didn’t care much what other people thought.
    In a curious way, I felt a fleeting bond with the man as I tried on the idea of changing identities. Being a liar by nature, I’ve always been attracted to the possibility. There’s a certain romance in the notion of walking out of one life and into another, like an actor passing from one character role to the next. Not that long ago I’d handled a case in which a fellow, convicted of murder, had walked away from a prison work crew and had managed to create a whole new persona for himself. In the process, he’d shed not only his past, but the taint of the homicide conviction. He’d acquired a new family and a good job. He was respected in his new community. He might have continued pulling off the deceptionexcept for an error in a bench warrant that resulted in a fluke arrest some seventeen years later. The past has a way of catching up with all of us.
    I checked my watch and saw that it was time to go. I packed away the clippings and grabbed my duffel bag. I moved through the main terminal, cleared security, and began the long trek down the concourse to my posted gate. One immutable law of travel is that one’s arrival or departure gate is always at the extreme outer limit of the terminal, especially if your bag is heavy or your shoes have just begun to pinch. I sat in the boarding area and rubbed one foot while my fellow passengers assembled, waiting for the gate agent to call our flight.
    Once I was seated on the plane with my duffel stowed in the bin above, I pulled out the glossy hotel brochure Mac had enclosed with the tickets. In addition to my flights, he’d booked accommodations for me at the same resort where Wendell Jaffe had been seen. I wasn’t convinced the guy would still be in residence, but who was I to turn down a free vacation?
    The picture of the Hacienda Grande de Viento Negro showed a three-storied structure with a stretch of dark beach faintly visible in the foreground. The blurb under the photograph boasted of a restaurant, two bars, and a heated swimming pool, with recreational activities that included tennis, snorkling, deep-sea fishing, a bus tour of the town, and complimentary margaritas.
    The woman in the next seat was reading over my shoulder. I nearly shielded my paper as if she were cheating on a test. She was in her forties, very thin, verytanned, and sleek. She wore her black hair in a French braid and was dressed in a black pants suit with a tan shell underneath. There was not a hint of color on her anyplace. “Are you headed for VN?”
    “Yes. Do you know the area?”
    “Yes, I do, and I hope you’re not planning to stay
there”
she said. She was pointing at the brochure with a little moue of distaste.
    “What’s the matter with the place? It looks fine to me.”
    She pushed her tongue along the inside