Free Trophy Widow by Michael A. Kahn Page A

your father’s money, the simplest way to get it was to marry him. If she was a gold digger, her best strategy was to keep him alive until the wedding. If he died before that, she’d have no claim to anything—she wouldn’t be the wife, she wouldn’t be the widow, she wouldn’t even be the longtime live-in girlfriend who could try to portray herself as the common-law wife. Look at her situation today. In the eyes of the law, she’s a nobody. She can’t even be a plaintiff in the Son of Sam case. No, if she were looking for money, the last thing she’d want is for your father to die before the wedding.”
    â€œI don’t care,” Sonya said, her voice laced with anger. “Some things aren’t logical. I’m telling you that whore was behind the murder. I may not know why—at least not yet—but I know what I know, and I know there’s some connection between her and whoever killed him.”
    I backed off the topic. We talked more generally about her mother’s predicament. Sonya visited her every month and they corresponded frequently. She’d been much closer to her mother than her father while growing up. The opposite had been true for her older brother, Michael junior.
    â€œMike’s been brainwashed,” she said, snorting in disgust.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œHe turned completely against Mom. He hasn’t talked to her since the trial. Can you believe that? His own mother.” She shook her head. “But he was turning against her even before my father was killed. Did you know he was planning to go to that awful wedding? I couldn’t believe it when I found out. I told him I wouldn’t stoop to be in the same room with that whore. He got mad at me, said our father was entitled to happiness, too, said she was a sweet girl. Let me tell you something.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I sometimes think Mike might have had the hots for that whore himself back then. He used to visit her whenever he came to St. Louis. Even after the murder. I bet he still talks to her once in a while.”
    â€œI’m going to see him tomorrow afternoon.”
    She looked surprised. “Really? Is he coming down here?”
    I shook my head. “I’ve got meetings in Chicago. On this case, in fact. Your brother agreed to meet me in the afternoon before I fly back to St. Louis.”
    â€œThen you’re going to see what I’m telling you. When it comes to my father, Mike’s a total believer. Like one of those Moonies.” She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “Funny how things change.” She sighed. “When we were growing up, Mike was the rebel and I was Daddy’s girl, little Miss Perfect. When Mike was in high school, he and my father used to scream at each other all the time. He actually hit my father out in our backyard one afternoon. Hit his own father. In the face. Have you ever? My father grounded him for a month and took away his car. They didn’t speak for more than a year. But now, to hear Mike talk, you’d think he’d been raised by an angel of God.” She paused, frowning. “Strange how some things turn out.”

Chapter Seven
    Maria Fallaci stared at me, incredulous. “And the punch line is?”
    We were in her law office, which was on the fourth floor of an older high-rise along LaSalle Street in Chicago’s Loop.
    â€œNo punch line.” I shrugged. “I’m just saying there were traces of Rohypnol in her blood.”
    â€œWhich means what? That I should have argued to the jury that he drugged her and fucked her, and when he came out of the shower she rose like some zombie from The Night of the Living Dead and cut off his cock? Come on, Rachel. I’m a defense lawyer, not a horror-flick producer.” She paused, trying to get herself under control. “Look, I’m sure you’re a fine