She gets up and retrieves the wine bottle from the counter, then sits beside me and pours another glass. “I didn’t tell you because this was risky to set up. I didn’t want you worrying about me every minute. I also hoped I wouldn’t have to do it. But now . . .”
“Jet, you’ve done a one-eighty on Max since this morning. What changed your mind about your plan?”
She takes a sip of wine, then turns to me and lays both hands on my knees. “Sally’s physician delivered a little bombshell down at the sheriff’s department this afternoon.”
Not wanting to betray my promise to Jack Kirby, I act like I know nothing about this. “What bombshell?”
“According to the doctor, Sally had a terminal illness.”
I try to look appropriately shocked. “And nobody knew about it?”
“Nobody but Dr. Kirby. Sally didn’t want anyone to know.”
“Cancer?” I ask.
Jet shakes her head. “Some kind of blood protein disorder. She had the worst form of it. Terrible prognosis.”
I take another sip of wine and consider how this must have affected Jet’s calculations about Max. “I understand now. Max’s claim that Sally killed herself just became easier to sell to a jury.”
“A hundred times easier.”
“Max thinks he can get acquitted without your help. So he won’t honor any promise to stay out of your divorce.”
“I never said you were slow.”
“I’d say Max’s fate depends on the jury. The crime scene was pretty damning. Max could still go to jail for life.”
“In this county?” Jet gets up and walks to the back window. She speaks without looking back at me. “Marshall . . . how would you feel if the Poker Club killed Max?”
In all the years I’ve known her, I have never heard this tone in her voice. Something has snapped. “I’m no fan of Max’s,” I say warily, trying to stall as I adjust to this new perception. “I never was. But you’re talking about murder. Potentially. Remote-control murder.”
“Hey—” She’s still looking out the window, and there’s a new rigidity in her posture. “I thought I saw something move in the trees.”
“Probably a deer. They hang out at the edge of the woods this time of evening, using the tree line for cover when they venture into the grass.”
She raises her hand to the window and squints. “Do you know how much better off Paul would be without Max riding him every day? Max has spent his life crippling Paul emotionally. Beating him down.”
“Granted. But the penalty for being a shitty father isn’t death.”
At last Jet turns from the window. “I also believe there’s a strong probability that Max shot Sally, no matter what Dr. Kirby says about her prognosis. Sally was genuinely religious. Not churchy—truly devout.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be defending him.”
Jet watches me in silence for half a minute. Then she reaches into her cropped pants and takes out what looks like a necklace with a jewel pendant.
“There may be one more way I can neuter Max,” she says.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the pendant in her hand.
“A sapphire necklace. Art deco. It belonged to Sally.” Jet hooks her fingers through the chain and swings the pendant slowly back and forth like a Hollywood hypnotist. Light from the window flashes blue from the stone, which appears to be surrounded by diamonds. “It was made in Moscow in 1930. Sally’s father bought it in Berlin in 1947, when he was in the air force. It’s a family heirloom.”
“And?”
“You know sapphires are my favorite stone. Sally always told me that after she was gone, this would be mine.”
“Okay.”
“This morning, while Max was in jail, I didn’t just go through his office. I wandered around the house thinking about Sally. I went into her bedroom. I could smell her, see the clothes she’d worn the last couple of days. I also went into her bathroom and looked through her jewelry box.”
“And you took the necklace.”
Jet nods.
“What’s it worth?”
“I don’t know. Maybe fifty thousand. You’re missing the point. It’s not just a necklace.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a white sticker on the back, and there’s writing on it.”
“What does it say?”
Her eyes flash. “It’s passwords, Marshall. A five-digit one on top. Then a longer one, a word followed by numbers.”
“Passwords to what?”
“I don’t know. I tried Sally’s computer—no luck. Same with Max’s laptop and desktop. The police have her iPhone, but I think she would have foreseen that. Whatever these passwords open, I think she put them where she knew I’d find them—not right away, but sooner or later.”
“What’s the word part of the second password?”
“Mai Loc. The whole password is MaiLoc1971.”
“My lock?” I ask, incredulous.
“It’s not English words,” she explains. “It’s M-A-I, L-O-C. I googled it. Mai Loc is a village in the central highlands of Vietnam. The U.S. Army Fifth Special Forces Group established a camp there in 1968.”
“Holy shit. That’s Max all over. Green Beret. But he was still in high school in ’68. Was the camp still there in ’71?”
“Yes. Wikipedia says the Special Forces had pulled out by then, but there was a sizable operation near there in ’71, and Max could have been part of that. He reached Vietnam in 1970, and I know he served in that area in ’71. Quang Tri Province.”
“Was the name of the operation ‘Mustang’?”
“Montana Mustang.”
“Max played some role in that. I heard him talk about it in high school. Those have to be passwords, at least the second one. The pun is so obvious. Mai Loc?”
Jet nods, her eyes filled with the primal excitement I’ve seen in men’s eyes before a hunt. “Sally left these passwords for me. But unless I can figure out what they open, it won’t help us.”
“Do you think Max killed her over whatever those passwords protect?”
“Maybe.”
“What could it be?”
“I think the first number is a cell phone password.”
Suddenly I see her intent. “You’re going to try to steal Max’s phone?”
“Given the stakes, I’d say it’s worth it.”
“You couldn’t get to it at the jail this morning?”
“I tried, but they wouldn’t give it to anybody but Max. The Poker Club owns that department, Marshall.”
I’m tired of hearing about everything the Poker Club controls.
“One more thing,” she says. “Two days ago, Max asked me about some manila folders he claims were stolen from his home office.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She shrugs. “I didn’t know anything about them. I didn’t take them. It never occurred to me that Sally might have. I figured Tallulah mislaid them.”
“Jet . . . I need to think about all this. But you remember one thing: you can’t put that Seychelles plan in motion. In fact, I’m telling you not to. It’s tantamount to murder.”
She studies me for what feels like a long time, not challenging me, but seemingly trying to understand my decision. “You realize it might be the only way for me to get out of this town with Kevin? Without hurting Paul.”
I’m on dangerous ground here. “I don’t think so. I think that after this craziness settles down, there’ll be a way to tell the truth—or some less cruel version of it—and still get what we want. Without damning ourselves for all time.”
In the silence that follows this exchange, I look back at the woman who at fourteen appeared to me as an earthbound angel. She’s almost as beautiful now as she was then, but I no longer see an angel. Of course, angels don’t exist. They’re the personification of wishful thinking by desperate humans. And that’s what I see before me now—a woman at the end of her rope.
My iPhone pings. Taking it out, I see a text from Nadine. It reads: I’m outside. Someone broke into my mother’s house. I freaked out and came here. I tried to call but you didn’t answer. Was going to use the key, but I heard voices. Should I leave?
“What is it?” Jet asks.
There’s no point lying now. “Nadine Sullivan’s outside.”
Her eyes widen. “At your gate? Or right outside the house?”
“The house, I think.”
“She has your gate code?”
“I gave it to her last night. Somebody broke into her store during the Aurora party, so she stayed here.”
Jet sits utterly still, but she’s sifting through the possibilities. “Nadine can’t see me here,” she says finally. “Not today.”