You Can't Catch Me(14)

“It’s a perfectly respectable beer.”

The waitress brings our drinks, and we spend a few minutes catching up, the small talk of old compadres, banded together like a group that’s gone through war.

“What’s up?” Daisy asks. “Why the SOS?”

“I needed to see some friendly faces.”

“Is it that stuff with your job? I know you didn’t do it.”

“That’s sweet, D. But I did.”

Miller flips his bottle cap up in the air and catches it. “Wow, big confession.”

“Shut up, Miller,” Cov says.

“It’s okay. It’s true, I did it.”

“Why?” Daisy asks. Despite her predilection for chemicals, she’s the rule follower of the group. She won’t even jaywalk. She allows herself to break the rules she needs to survive, but needs the regular conventions of society to bind her in. So, cocaine and hash—her medicines—are permitted. Letting your parking meter expire is not. I’m guessing plagiarism falls into the latter category.

“Did you read the piece?” I ask.

“I thought it was great.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because I found someone else’s article that was great, but unread.”

“You made out okay, though, from what I’ve seen,” Cov says.

“Thanks for trying to take on some of the trolls.”

“I like arguing with those guys.”

“You would.”

Covington smiles. “Anyway, now you’re on easy street.”

“Well, that’s where it gets interesting.”

I tell them about Jessica Two. The airport, the drinks, the ATM, the wire transfer.

“Fuuuccck,” Miller says when I’ve finished.

“Yep.”

“That’s kind of genius, though,” Covington says.

“Genius?” Daisy says.

“Yeah, like, figuring out that you have a common name and that this could help you con people . . . It means you have all the ID you need, right? Like at banks and stuff.”

“Assuming it’s her name,” Miller says.

“You don’t think so?”

“It would be a big risk.”

“Right,” Daisy says. “Can’t they go interview all the Jessica Williamses and figure out who did it?”

“They say no,” I say.

“But she wouldn’t have known that beforehand,” Miller says.

Covington leans forward. “I bet she did. I bet she started off small, years ago. She has ID for this common name. Maybe it’s hers, maybe it isn’t. But she tries something, a small scam. Nothing happens. She gets away with it. She looks for other Jessicas. She researches them, finds one worth bilking. She pulls it off, gets away with it again. The police don’t come knocking. She bides her time. She waits until the right moment. Then, boom. You’re in the news. You’re vulnerable. An easy mark.”

“Thanks ever so,” I say. But Covington’s right. “It doesn’t matter if it’s her real name or not. Either way, she’s gotten away with it so far.”

“So far?” Miller asks.

“Maybe she messed with the wrong Jessica.”

Covington raises his bottle and clinks it to mine. “You bet she did.”

Many drinks later, the room’s a bit blurry. I’ve been outside with Covington smoking cigarettes off and on all afternoon. My mouth feels dirty, and it’s that moment in the evening when I regret drinking at all. I’m drunk, too drunk to sober up quickly, and I don’t like being out of control. The music is thumping, and Covington signs that it’s time for another smoke, and I follow him. We’re all ingrained followers, us Toddians. You can take the girl out of the cult . . .

“Do you ever wonder who did it?” Covington asks when we’re outside, a flame near his face. He has a scar along the edge of his chin that reaches down to his throat—he hit the razor wire on the perimeter fence when he left and almost bled out before making it to Liam’s car.

“Did what?”

“Killed Todd.”

“He had a heart attack.”

“You believe that story?”

I take the lighter from him, light the cigarette he offers me, and inhale deeply. I never smoke, usually, but tonight—today, whatever—feels like a day to indulge in bad habits.

“What do you think happened?” I ask.

“Someone gave him a drug that caused the heart attack.”

“How?”

“Those IVs he was always taking, his vitamin concoctions, or whatever. It would be easy to swap out a bag.”

I concentrate on the cigarette. “You seem to have given this a lot of thought.”

“I used to fantasize about it during meetings. Whether it would act quickly. Whether he’d be in pain. Whether he’d know it was me.”

“Maybe you did it, then?”

“Nah, I was already free, remember?”

“So why do you think someone did?”

“That guy was obsessed with his heart health. His whole diet was designed to make sure he lived as long as possible. He checked his blood pressure every day. He ran six miles every morning up a fucking hill. It doesn’t make sense.”