“So what? Maybe I needed the money to support my habit?”
“Addicts’ lives crumble around them. Yet yours didn’t.”
Jessup didn’t say a word.
Damn, Jane was good. It’d be worth the agony of being in a courtroom to watch her in action. He’d love to see her work a jury.
“There’s one more thing. Before this incident, you’d never been charged with a crime. Not so much as a parking ticket or a fine for speeding.”
“Maybe I just snapped.” He cocked his head to the side.
“No, because people don’t just become Jack the Ripper one day. There’s no explosion. It’s a slow build which happens over the years. Betsy Spellman’s killer got a thrill out of it. I saw the crime scene photos—overkill doesn’t even cover this crime. She was sliced open, tortured, raped. The man who killed her enjoyed every single second of her terror.”
Jessup winced.
“You confessed to a murder you didn’t commit, Mr. Jessup.”
“How do you figure?”
“Because I’ve looked at all the evidence, and I’m not stupid—unlike the police who closed this case. It’s so full of holes it’s moth-eaten. And there’s something else.” Jane scooted closer. “I know about the money.”
“Got no idea what you’re yammerin’ about. I killed the girl.”
Byron could spot a bald-faced lie from twenty paces, and this fool was lying his head off.
“Three months after you were sent to prison, your wife received a wire transfer for $500,000.” Jessup didn’t contradict her, so she kept going. “The transfer originated in the Cayman Islands, and it’s completely untraceable.”
As soon as they left the prison, Byron would have Vick take a run at the bank, just in case.
Jessup coughed but didn’t reply.
“This crime occurred on the Valentine Estate, and I have an alternate theory of the crime.”
“I’m tellin’ you, I did it.” Jessup slammed his chained hands down on the steel table, startling them both. The guards tensed but didn’t bust in the room when the prisoner settled back in his chair.
Byron nudged Jane with his foot, afraid she’d reveal too much, but she raised a silencing finger.
“No, you didn’t. According to the reports, the victim was dating Oliver Valentine, the eldest Valentine boy. My guess is,” she said, turning to Byron with a brow raised, “one of the Valentine sons killed the girl—either Oliver or Oscar.”
“Yeah, well, Oscar is a strange son of a bitch.” Jessup didn’t meet their eyes. “Never liked the way that freak acted around his girlfriend.”
Jane sat up straighter. “Anything else you want to tell me about Oscar Valentine?”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “No, ma’am.”
“You were a landscaper—someone with access to the house who moved around almost unnoticed—and a very convenient scapegoat. Want to know what I think happened?”
“No.”
Jane ignored him. “I think the Valentines paid you to take the fall for one of their sons. Didn’t they, Mr. Jessup?”
“I done told you, I murdered the girl.”
Jane sighed, it was clear her patience was dwindling.
“I found the insurance records. You were drowning in debt at the time due to medical bills. Your daughter, Stephanie Jessup, was diagnosed with leukemia the year prior. Your wife had taken on a second job, and you were working seven days a week to make ends meet. Only they didn’t.”
“Our insurance paid for some of it, but there’s a lot of out-of-pocket expenses it didn’t cover.”
“And you were both desperate to save your daughter.”
Jessup kept his mouth shut.
“The Valentines took advantage of your need. I think they made you an offer you couldn’t pass up. Probably some untraceable cash up front because your outstanding medical bills were paid in full within a month of your confession. There’s no way you could’ve settled the debts so fast—you simply didn’t have the resources. And I bet they handled the rest of your daughter’s treatment, too.” Jane pulled out a death certificate. “Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to save her life.”
There were tears in Jessup’s eyes, and he didn’t bother to blink them away.
Byron had twisted arms and blackmailed people into doing all sorts of nasty things. It was a matter of finding the right pressure point and pushing it until he got what he wanted. But using a sick kid to save your homicidal son? That was too cold for Byron.
Jane folded her hands. “A devoted family man snapping wouldn’t sound right to the cops, though. So the Valentines shot you full of drugs and helped you construct a believable story?”