‘I don’t get it,’ Kelson said.
‘That’s because you’re a dumbass,’ Marty said. ‘And I’m a dumbass too, because I didn’t see it – but not as dumb as you, because I see it now.’
A windy noise came from Javinsky’s throat. Kelson stared at him and realized the man was laughing.
Marty said to Kelson, ‘Don’t you see it? The funds were never going to the customers. They were going to Voudreaux and whoever his partner was. Voudreaux and the other guy were ripping off G&G.’
Kelson tried to work through what Marty was telling him. ‘Voudreaux tried to hire you – and then he hired Neto—’
‘And he lined up Victor Almonte to light up the fucking library,’ Marty said.
Javinsky sounded as if he was gasping, but a horrible grin was pasted on his lips.
Kelson put it together. ‘Voudreaux was stealing the G&G money, and he blew up Neto to cloud over what happened – or at least to slow down the Cranes or anyone else who might figure out what he did. But then Neto stole it from Voudreaux.’
‘Neto fucked him over good,’ Marty said. ‘Him and whoever this is.’ He tapped the screen again.
As Kelson and Rodman watched over his shoulders, Marty ran through the numbers, showing them the places where the unidentified string appeared. In every case, it appeared next to the numbers he connected with Chip Voudreaux. He highlighted a longer set of numbers near the bottom of the screen. ‘And this is where Neto must’ve emptied the G&G accounts.’
‘How do you know?’ Rodman said.
Marty tapped the screen as if he could feel the power in the numbers. ‘Simple math,’ he said. ‘Intro to hacking.’
At some point, as Marty highlighted blocks of numbers and explained what they meant, Javinsky’s wheezing laugh stopped. No one noticed until Marty glanced from his computer to the security monitor over his desk.
‘Fuck,’ he said.
As he, Kelson, and Rodman watched, Javinsky sprinted down the basement corridor toward the stairwell.
‘No, no, no,’ Kelson said, and he ran after him – out through the door, down the corridor, and up the stairwell steps. He burst from the stairwell into the building lobby as Javinsky disappeared out to the sidewalk. Kelson ran through the lobby and outside after him. He looked up and down the street. He stared at the other building entryways. He stared at the second floors of the buildings, the third and fourth floors, and up and up, as if Javinsky might have scaled the walls.
But Javinsky was gone.
‘Dammit,’ Kelson said.
A woman passing with a Macy’s bag shook her head at him. ‘There’s no need for that.’
FORTY-NINE
Two hours later, as Marty’s fingers danced across the computer keyboard, Rodman went out and brought in dinner from Panda Express. After her shift at Rush Medical, Cindi met them for the meal in the basement. Marty refused to stop to eat. He crammed an eggroll between his lips like a fat cigar, and he worked and worked, sucking in bite by bite.
‘We aren’t safe here anymore,’ Kelson said.
Marty’s response got lost in his mouthful of eggroll.
After they cleaned up, they ate their fortune cookies. Kelson’s fortune said, ‘You have a deep interest in all that is artistic’. ‘I don’t know what that even means,’ he said.
Marty ignored his cookie and said, ‘I’m close, man, I’m fucking close.’
So Kelson called Doreen. ‘Lock your door tonight,’ he said.
‘I lock my door every night.’
‘It’s a metaphor.’
‘What’s metaphorical about locking my door?’
‘I pissed off Harold Crane. And I screwed up bad with one of his security guys. He’ll send his men after me, and if they can’t find me, they might go after the people I love.’
‘You love me?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘No, but I’d like to talk about it.’
‘Lock your door,’ he said.
‘You interested in joining me?’
‘I’m interested in all things artistic. I’ll come by, but then I’ve got to check on Sue Ellen and Nancy.’
‘I’ll leave the door open,’ she said.
‘Ha.’
Marty said Rodman and Cindi could sleep in his bed while he worked. ‘The more of us the better,’ he said. ‘We stay together.’
Rodman looked at Kelson. ‘You’re coming back here afterward, right?’ – more a command than a question.
‘I need to feed Payday and Painter’s Lane.’
‘How long’s that take?’ Cindi said.
‘I’ll come back in the morning,’ Kelson said.
‘Be smart,’ Rodman said.
‘Always,’ Kelson said.
‘No, I mean, don’t be stupid – come back tonight.’
‘I know what you mean.’
Kelson drove to Doreen’s apartment. He glanced at the rearview mirror. ‘Be smart,’ he said to the face that stared at him. ‘As if that’s possible.’ He thought about the videos of Harold Crane with Genevieve Bower, Chip Voudreaux, and Sylvia. ‘Jesus,’ he said. He thought about Genevieve Bower at Harold’s house, sitting on the wicker sofa with bullet holes in her head and chest. ‘Jesus,’ he said again. He thought about Stanley Javinsky bolting from Marty’s hideaway. ‘Dammit,’ he said. He thought about Sue Ellen and – ‘No, no, no,’ he said, trying not to go there. Then he thought about the red thumb drive floating through the FedEx system. ‘Like an unscratchable itch,’ he said.
Doreen let him into her apartment, wearing an unbuttoned silk shirt, her ankle monitor, and nothing else. He stayed for an hour, and they didn’t talk about love. But for that hour, Kelson’s mind left the events of the day and of the days before it. The sounds that came from his mouth weren’t even words.
When he left, he drove to Nancy’s house, parked at the curb, and stared up at Sue Ellen’s window – dark now – and at the window in the room he once shared with Nancy, a light on behind the shade.
Sitting in his car, he checked the rounds in the magazine of his Springfield pistol and sighed. Nancy always took his concern for her as an insult, as if he questioned her ability to care for herself and Sue Ellen.
He got out, climbed the porch steps, and knocked on her door – softly, to keep from waking Sue Ellen. He practiced his words for when Nancy opened the door. But she didn’t open the door. He knocked harder and practiced some more.
Then Nancy opened and said, ‘What?’ She wore a shirt that looked too much like the one Doreen had worn.
‘Wow,’ Kelson said.
‘It’s eleven at night,’ she said. ‘You knock, looking like a frightened animal. And the best you can do is “Wow”?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘no.’ He offered her the Springfield pistol, grip-first. ‘I want you to have this.’
She didn’t touch it. ‘Why?’
He tried to remember the words he’d prepared. ‘In case you – if …’
She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. ‘You know I have my old service pistol.’
‘Loaded?’ he said. ‘By your bed?’
She squinted at him. ‘In the gun safe – where I always keep it.’
‘Maybe you should take it out.’
‘What’s wrong with you?’ she said. ‘You look like you did something you shouldn’t’ve.’ She stepped out of the house, as if she would poke him in the chest. Then she stopped. ‘You smell like sex. If this is a weird guilt trip, I don’t want it.’
‘It’s not. I didn’t. Well, I did, but—’
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Don’t bother – don’t say anything.’ She went into the house and slammed the door.
Kelson stood on the front porch, then yelled, ‘Lock it.’
He drove to the Harrison Street Police Station and tucked his Springfield and KelTec under his seat. ‘Be smart,’ he told himself, and got out. He wouldn’t mention Rodman or Marty LeCoeur if he could help it. He wouldn’t dip them deeper into the
mess than they dipped themselves. Not that he could necessarily help it. But he could try. Not that trying necessarily worked – sometimes it made things worse. But he could try to try. ‘That’s smart,’ he said, and he pushed through the revolving door into the station. ‘At least it’s something,’ he said, too loud.
The uniformed woman working at the metal detector said, ‘Sorry?’
‘Keeping them out of it,’ Kelson said. ‘It’s something. They’ve got enough troubles already.’
‘Whatever,’ the woman said. ‘Empty your pockets. Keys in the dish.’
‘I used to be a cop,’ he said, as he put his things in a basket for the X-ray machine.
She looked at him like he was just another kook. ‘You must be very proud.’
The man at the reception desk seemed to recognize him, or else treated everyone who came into the station that way. Kelson asked to see Venus Johnson or Dan Peters, and the man said, ‘Yeah, Peters walked out a couple hours ago, but I’ll see about Johnson.’
When Johnson came into the lobby, her forehead was oily with sweat. She carried two thick black binders, as if to show Kelson how busy she was. ‘I’ll give you ten minutes before I kick you out on your ass,’ she said, and she led him down a corridor to a little conference room that smelled of old coffee and rotten food.
Then she gave him forty minutes and – after leaving to call the Mundelein police about Kelson’s story and then returning with a digital recorder – another half hour. He told her about going to Harold Crane’s house to get Genevieve Bower. He told her about Stevie Phillips shooting Genevieve Bower in the head and chest. Though he tried not to, he told her about Rodman shooting Stevie Phillips. He told her about the thumb drive and the videos on it, and he started to explain the strings of numbers, but Venus Johnson was hung up on the videos.
‘Harold Crane is fucking his own daughter?’
‘Or she’s fucking him. They both seemed into it. Unlike Genevieve Bower, which was straight-out abuse. Harder to tell with Chip Voudreaux. Genevieve Bower included him on the highlight reel, whether because it was gay sex or because it was forced, I don’t know.’
Johnson said, ‘The lady I talked to in Mundelein said they recorded the nine-one-one from Rodman, but, as you guessed, the reporting officer said Harold Crane told him nothing had happened at his house, and the officer saw no reason to investigate.’
‘Crane’s people would’ve cleaned the place by the time he came anyway,’ Kelson said. ‘At least cleaned it enough to ease the minds of the local PD.’
‘If I want to move this at all, I need the thumb drive,’ Johnson said. ‘The captain will laugh at me without it. The DA won’t even waste breath laughing.’
‘Because I’m the source?’
Johnson looked at him square. ‘Yes.’
Instead of arguing, Kelson said, ‘The thumb drive comes to my office in two days, but I can get copies of the files.’
‘Do it.’
So, as she watched, Kelson called Rodman, gave him Johnson’s email address, and asked him to have Marty send the copied files from his computer.
Rodman sounded angry. ‘You’re talking with the cops?’
‘Just with Venus Johnson.’
‘I thought I told you to be smart.’
‘Send the files, OK?’
‘You know how they’ll twist this?’ Rodman said. ‘I shot a man, dammit.’
‘I don’t know how they could twist it more than it already is.’
‘They’ll find a way.’
‘Send the files.’
‘I don’t think so. I’ll see what Marty says. In the meantime, shut up with Johnson before you talk yourself – and your friends – into more trouble.’
‘Lock the door,’ Kelson said.
Twenty minutes later, with no email from Marty, Kelson left the station and drove home. He parked in an alley a half block away, got his guns out from under his seat, and snuck into the building through the service entrance. He hit the call button for the freight elevator and then listened to the sounds of the building – the clicking and running pipes, a cooling unit, a quiet rushing of air from somewhere he couldn’t identify. The elevator came, he hit the button for his floor, and, as the doors closed, he told the sounds to shut the hell up.
When the doors opened again at his floor, he gripped his KelTec, listening again. He heard only the muffled voices of late-night TV playing in a nearby apartment. He stepped into the hallway, and no strange shadows shifted in his neighbors’ doorways.
He went down the hall to his door. No worrying sounds came from inside.
He shoved the door open a crack, slipped into the crack, and closed it behind him – all in an instant. He left the lights off and stood listening, his fingers sweating on his KelTec, ready to shoot anything that moved.
Something hand-like touched his ankle. He yelled and kicked at it.
Then something touched his other ankle.
It made a mewling sound.
Kelson reached down and petted Payday. ‘I could’ve killed you,’ he whispered. ‘You could’ve killed me.’
He jiggled the lock mechanism on the door and felt the reassur-ing clack of the deadbolt against the strike plate.
Then he fed the kittens in the dark, showered and brushed his teeth in the dark, laid his KelTec on the carpet next to his bed and his Springfield pistol next to the KelTec, and climbed into bed in the dark. He talked to the kittens about the deeper darkness he’d traveled through in the bright light of day. Images of Genevieve Bower overtopping her black bikini, two spots of blood cratering her skin – and images of Stevie Phillips falling down in Harold Crane’s dim hallway when Rodman shot him in the face – and images of the shattered pane of glass from the French doors leading to the sunroom – and images of Greg Cushman’s face staring through the pickup truck windshield as Kelson and Rodman aimed guns at him on the street outside Harold Crane’s house – images and images flashed and flashed through his brain. ‘You’ll never, never understand,’ Kelson told the kittens, and that thought reassured him as much as jiggling the lock did. When Painter’s Lane tried to lie on his face, he told her to be smart. When she tried again, he rolled over and fell asleep facedown.
In his dream, he’d failed to come home, and the kittens, raging with hunger, shredded his apartment, tearing his bedspread, the mattress, and bedframe, grinding holes in the kitchen cabinets with their little claws. He couldn’t blame them. He fought obstacle after obstacle to get to them but never got closer. They ate the torn-up furniture – the tattered bedspread, the clothes from his closet, strips of torn carpet, wooden drawers, and a broken lamp. They gnawed on the bathroom door. They grew to the size of adult housecats, then larger – the size of German Shepherds – and larger, until they prowled the apartment like cougars.
Kelson startled awake – or seemed to.
His room was dark, darker than when he climbed into bed, though he sensed the shape of his bed around him, and sensed the dresser and table across the room – whole, uneaten – which reassured him again. But he sensed an absence too. Payday and Painter’s Lane were gone. He made a ntching sound, but the kittens were hiding. He mumbled for them. They didn’t come.
He waited for them. Waited. Then he closed his eyes and seemed to sleep without dreaming – for moments or minutes – before startling awake again.
He sensed with dread that something new had come into the room. Three objects. Standing by his bed.
He made himself close his eyes. He thought he must be dreaming again.
Then his bedside lamp went on.
Kelson opened his eyes.
Christine Winsin and her brothers Bob and David gazed at him. She wore a neatly tailored dress the beige color of a safari jacket. It had button-down epaulettes. Bob wore a white Oxford shirt and black slacks, David a pink golf shirt and khakis. A black satchel hung from David’s shoulder.
‘Wake up, sunshine,’ Bob said.
Kelson asked him, ‘Are you a dream?’
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The man shook his head. ‘A goddamned nightmare.’
FIFTY
‘Be smart,’ Christine Winsin said, when Kelson shouted. ‘With our kind of money we can get in anywhere. Building superintendents, landlords, everyone is happy to help when we show our generosity.’
Kelson grabbed for the guns he’d left beside his bed. They were gone. ‘Be smart, be smart,’ he said. ‘Everyone wants me to be smart. What if I want to be stupid?’ Still he groped for his guns – until Payday swatted his hand from under the bed.
‘Get up,’ David Winsin said.
Kelson held his bedsheet. ‘No.’
‘Are you a child? Get up.’
‘What do you want with me?’
Christine Winsin said, ‘When Neto LeCoeur played hide-and-seek with our money, we lost five million dollars – five million, eighty-three thousand, eight hundred and seventy-seven, to be exact. We want it back.’
‘Give me a moment, I’ll check my wallet,’ Kelson said.
‘You’re too easy,’ she said. ‘The only surprise is you didn’t get shot in the head long before you did. Or were you sharper before your accident?’
‘I hate when people call it an accident,’ Kelson said.
‘Get up,’ Bob Winsin said.
‘How’s it work with you?’ Kelson said. ‘Do you all live together in a big castle – with a tower for each of you?’ He gripped the sheet. ‘You know, it’s strange for you to lurk in a guy’s apartment in the middle of the night.’
Christine Winsin said, ‘We would much rather be home in our beds. But certain times call for wakefulness.’
‘Five million bucks of wide awake?’ Kelson said. He looked at her feet. She wore plain brown shoes.
‘Enough to keep us pacing at midnight,’ she said.
He sat up in bed, still holding his sheet around him. ‘What do you want?’
‘Take us to see Marty LeCoeur,’ David Winsin said. ‘Convince him to use the information from the files to get our money.’
‘How do you know Marty has the—’ Then he realized. ‘Squirt ratted?’
‘Excuse me?’ Christine Winsin said.
‘Stanley Javinsky told you?’
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