“Might? Either you do or you don’t.”
“I do.” He grabbed his keys. “Trust me for once, will ya?”
Karl parked five houses down from Candace’s. Standard procedure. If he were on duty with his police cruiser it’d be a different story, but she didn’t like having his personal truck near her house at night. Didn’t want people getting the “wrong idea”—her words, not his. As he hiked the sidewalk, he eyed her bedroom window. It overlooked the town like a queen’s balcony. Looking at it now, he wondered what exactly waited inside her wall safe. More importantly, he wondered what he’d have to say, or do, to get up there alone.
Simplest plan was to coax her upstairs into bed. She always showered afterwards, and a shower could buy him five or ten minutes. Trouble was, he couldn’t picture her being in the mood right now. Not after that look she gave him during Mac’s burial.
He rang the doorbell. Mick answered and pointed him to the living room. Karl found Candace hunched over her laptop with a cup of coffee. On her screen were the camera feeds.
“Evening, Candy.”
“Don’t ‘Candy’ me.” Her eyes never left the screen. “What do you need? I’m busy here.”
So much for her being in the mood.
“I need someone to talk to.” He smiled. “My go-to gal.”
She sipped her coffee. “This isn’t about Snare, is it?”
“It’s about my grandson. Not sure if you heard the news…”
“Christ above.” Candace slapped her forehead. “That was Jake? Is he okay?”
“Thankfully, yeah. Ashlee found him.”
“I should’ve been out there searching.” She shook her head, disgusted. “You should’ve called.”
“Everything happened so fast.” He lowered himself onto the cushion next to her. Her orange-scented shampoo sent his pulse hopping. “Heck, I’m still wound up. I was at home just now and there were some Blue Moons in the fridge.”
She turned to him, alarmed. “You didn’t drink them, did you?”
“No. But I had to get outta the house. Had to see you.”
“Smart move.” She patted his thigh. “Now relax. Your grandson’s okay. Nothing to get worked up over. Give it time, you’ll settle down.”
“Hope so.” He put his hand over hers. Gently brushed her knuckles. Met her eyes and smiled. “You want to?”
She flinched. “Right now? While Mickey’s home?”
“Send him out on an errand.”
“I could, but I’ve got things to take care of.”
“Won’t take long.” He gave her hand a playful squeeze. “You know me.”
She snorted. “Won’t take long to finish. But getting started…”
“Whoa, now! That’s cold,” he said, fake-offended. “Ice cold.”
“And yet,” she said, cupping his crotch, “you seem to be warming up.” She shut her laptop and called out, “Mickey!”
While the two Lapinskis argued in the kitchen, Karl ventured upstairs. In the bedroom, he went straight for Candace’s wedding photo, hanging across from the bed. Usually he avoided looking at it out of respect for her late husband, but not now. Karl lifted it off its hook and spotted the polished steel safe underneath. Above the number pad, a digital display read LOCKED in neon green letters. Karl set the photo frame aside and punched in 1217—Mick’s birthday. When he hit enter, the safe beeped.
Access denied.
Uncomfortable heat pushed against his forehead. So much for that. He tried Mick’s birthday again, using all six digits instead of four.
Access denied.
A series of footfalls sounded from downstairs. Mick groaned in the foyer as Candace listed his chores. Her voice grew closer. Too close.
“Now, Mickey!”
“But, Ma, why can’t it wait?”
“Because I’m your mother. Now get moving.”
The front door slapped shut.
Her feet thumped upstairs.
Karl squatted to lift the picture. He almost had it on the hook when the doorbell rang. He heard Candace stomp downstairs, open the front door, and bicker with her son, unknowingly buying Karl extra time.
Setting the picture aside, he tried her wedding anniversary. The safe beeped twice, followed by a metallic whirring sound. Access granted. Seemed Candace still wasn’t over her late husband. Karl could feel bad about that later. Once the steel door floated open, he reached inside and grabbed a bulky manila envelope sealed with tape.
“Karl?” Her voice was nearby. The hallway floor creaked as she approached. “You ready or what?”
No, no, no! He slid the envelope under the bed—not as far under as he’d like, but he had bigger concerns now. He shut the safe and grabbed the picture frame. He touched its upper end to the wall and dragged downward, trying to catch the hook. It missed. He scraped up and down till it finally latched on.
“Hey!” Candace stood in the doorway, fists planted on her hips. “What’re you doing with that picture?”
“I…” He stood there, hands frozen to the frame. No words came to him. He needed to think of something. Fast. Otherwise, he wouldn’t leave with his head, let alone the envelope. “It’s just…”
“Just what?”
“Just…” He stood back, holding the wedding photo at arm’s length. “The way you looked back then… It gets me going.”
For a moment she paused. Then she crossed her arms. “So that’s it? I’ve lost my looks, have I?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Better not be.” She flashed a wicked grin. “Don’t worry, though. In the dark, I picture you the way you looked when you first moved here. Back when you had that lean build and those strong, muscular arms.”
Smirking, she flicked the lights off.
33
Karl didn’t last long. Not under that much pressure. It felt like it was four-thousand degrees in the bedroom, and for once Candace’s presence didn’t bring him any comfort. He couldn’t get his mind off that envelope. It lay under the bed, but not far enough under. Her foot might bump it when she climbed out to use the bathroom. If that happened, he’d be a dead man.
Nervously, he pulled out and lowered her legs onto the mattress.
“That’s it?” She asked. Her disappointment clouded the room. “I sent Mickey out the door for this?”
“Sorry, I fell a little short.”
“Clearly.” Fuming, she sat up and grabbed her phone off the dresser. She swung her feet over the edge of the bed, right above the danger zone.
“Whoa now!” Leaning forward, he hugged her around the stomach, twisting her until her feet were back on the bed. “Wait a sec.”
“What for?”
“I’m not finished.”
“You sure seem finished.”
“Lot on my mind is all.” He kissed her neck, making sure to tickle it with his mustache. She always liked that. Even now, it made her twitch. Still kissing her, he crawled across the bed, guarding the edge overlooking the envelope. “Another minute, I’ll be ready for an encore.”
“Usually it’s the audience who requests an encore.”
He sighed. “Hey, Candace?”
“What?”
“If you could leave town—”
“No. Stop right there. We’re not taking Snare’s deal.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.” He took her hands in his. “If we could leave, what would happen with us?”
“Us? You mean the Traders?”
“I mean you and me.”
She cleared her throat. “Well, I’d go see Mickey’s games and you’d probably visit your family in Pittsburgh.”
“Not that. I mean…” His cheeks burned. His lips trembled. “I’m talking about the two of us. Together.”
“Oh.”
The flat way she said it made him wish he hadn’t asked.
“Listen, Karl.” Her hand cupped his cheek. “I really do enjoy our arrangement.”
“Arrangement?”
“You k
now what I mean. We’re up there in age, we’re comfortable with each other, we have our fun… It’s good.”
“Just good?” he asked, his voice rising.
“Shh, relax.” Her knuckle grazed his cheek. “You’ve had a rough week. Between your grandson going missing and Ash—”
“How do you feel about me?” The words coming from his mouth sounded silly. He sounded like one of them soap opera floozies, the ones always trying to wrangle vacations out of their rich-doctor boyfriends. “I wanna know. Ever since you helped me get off the bottle, you’ve meant something to me. Then when we started this…this arrangement, it got me wondering.”
She glanced sideways. No response.
“Candace?”
“I’m gonna grab a shower.” She hopped off the opposite end of the bed. He should’ve felt relieved, but he didn’t. Not entirely. “We can talk another time.”
She shut the bathroom door behind her. The fans whirred, followed by the hiss of the shower spray.
Karl dressed with a mix of sadness and frustration. For a moment he almost forgot about the envelope. He tucked it in his jacket and carried it out the door.
Though he walked out a thief, he couldn’t help feeling like the one who’d been robbed.
34
Ash took the manila envelope, peeled away the Scotch tape, and lifted the flap. Her father stood beside her at the kitchen table, his arms folded. Since returning home, he seemed upset. Probably conflicted about robbing Candace and violating his policeman morals. He stared blankly ahead, sweating despite the fridge-like temps inside their house. Whatever was bothering him, she wanted to get his mind off it.
“Dad,” she said, extending the envelope toward him, “want to do the honors?”
He reached inside and pulled out two smaller envelopes. The first contained real estate papers, investment documents, and a signed will, in which Candace predictably bestowed her kingdom to Mick. In the second was a rubber-banded stack of hundred-dollar bills. Ash flipped between the bills, checking for secret notes. She found nothing. Dad studied the documents while she double-checked each envelope.
“Anything we can blackmail her with?” she asked.
“Hard to say. Papers look clean.”
“Shit. I thought you said there’d be something Trader-related in here.”
“Was hoping for that. Something like a master list of who traded what or a diary where Candace confessed everything.” He rubbed his eyes. “Should’ve known she wouldn’t keep Trader stuff in a household safe.”
“Where would she keep shit like that?”
“Beats me.”
“Fuck.” Ash spread the bills atop the table. Never had the sight of Ben Franklin depressed her more. “So that’s it. A few thousand bucks, some legal docs, and a will.”
“Looks like it.”
“So much for gaining leverage.” She grabbed a few bills. “Maybe we can buy some shotguns and—”
“Let’s not.” He snatched the money from her. “Remember, I gotta return all this.”
As he gathered the bills, one fluttered off the table. Ash caught it and noticed something odd. On the back of the bill was an image of a colonial-era building on a lawn. Penciled into the lawn were five letters. BWSKU. The letters meant nothing to her, but her brain tingled. She recognized the handwriting.
“Dad, check the backs of those.”
“What? Why?”
The others bore writing as well. Always five letters, though some included the number two at the end, such as GNHIP2. None of the codes unscrambled into any normal word, and some didn’t have vowels. Undeterred, she spread them across the table, looking for a pattern. She arranged them in alphabetical order, then grabbed a nearby notepad. As she jotted codes down, Dad clapped her shoulder.
“Ashlee!” His face lit up. “There’s seventy-eight bills here. Seventy-eight!”
Ash smiled, confused. “Did Candace owe money?”
“No, but there are sixty-six Traders, and some folks traded twice. About a dozen people double-dipped at the creek. If each bill matches a trade, we’ve got something.”
“Holy shit!”
“What’re you guys yelling about?” Trent limped in with an empty beer bottle. His eyes popped when he saw the cash. “Christ, Ash, were you out running drugs?”
“These are Candace’s,” Dad said. “They got codes written on them. Gotta be connected to the Traders.”
“Codes?” Trent leaned over the table. “What do they mean?”
“If they each correspond to a Trader,” Ash said, “they might hint at what was traded.”
She studied her list:
AJNOS
AYNEC
BTSPI
Her pen stopped down at KHKNE2. She tapped each letter. K… H… K… N… E.
K… H…
Karl Hudson.
She circled the two letters and looked to the remaining three. “KNE” had to mean something. She barely finished underlining the letters when she realized what. They were the first three letters in the word “knee.” If the number two on the end meant anything, it had to mean two knees.
KHKNE2.
Karl Hudson. Knees. Two.
“Think I got it,” she said, her pen trembling above the list. “Look.”
They leaned in.
She circled the first two letters in each string, then underlined the next three. She stopped on JMKID2. That was the one that sealed the deal for her. “JM” meant John MacReady, the man who died the other day. The “KID2” part meant two kidneys. She wrote out his name and parts.
“Ahh, I get it now,” Trent said. His finger landed beneath the one reading RWEYE2. “Looks like Rosita Werner has the eyes.”
35
By midnight they had deciphered most of the list. Trent contributed little more than brewing a pot of coffee while Dad and Ash scribbled diligently. They didn’t mind his lack of participation, so he made no effort to get more involved. Instead, his mind wandered. His heart pounded. His mug went empty. If Trent had another cup, he’d be up till sunrise, so he decided to call it a night. With a yawn he announced he was heading to bed. He rose from his seat, planted his cane, and put weight on his bad leg. Pain snagged it like a lobster claw.
“Trent?” Ash said, her tone hopeful. “You in?”
He grimaced. “For the leg, you mean?”
She nodded.
“We’ll see,” he said, limping off. “Let me get some sleep.”
When he hit the pillow, he got none. He lay on his back, overheating beneath the sheets. His mind raced like a man on two good legs. Tomorrow, they would make the final trades, and he intended to participate—but only if Jake joined him. In order for that to happen, Trent needed to make the eyes available. And he would. Even if it meant Rosita would lose hers permanently.
He had two options—murder her or remove her from the zone. Though he often said he’d kill to get Jake’s eyes back, that was, of course, hyperbole. Killing Rosita would land him in prison, and the whole point of replacing Jake’s eyes was so they could live normal lives together.
That meant there was only one true option: stuff her in the trunk and drive ten miles north. Easy job. Fifteen or twenty minutes, tops. Then again, Trent wasn’t built for kidnapping; he could barely wrestle a shower curtain. And while Rosita was old, he didn’t have the strength or mobility to strong-arm her. He considered holding her at gunpoint, but he didn’t have a gun, and even if he did, he wasn’t sure he could coax her into the trunk of his car with one. If she called his bluff, he’d wuss out on shooting her, and Jake would remain blind.
Forever.
Nope, he thought. Can’t risk it. No room for error on this.
He needed help.
He needed Ash’s help.
36
It was nearly one o’clock in the morning when Ash noticed something odd about the coffee-stained list. Even with all the names and parts written out, she couldn’t wrap her sleep-deprived mind around one particular item: JMHIP.
The only “JM” in Dad’s Trader directory was John MacReady, the dead guy. He surrendered two kidneys, which matched Snare’s request and made total sense. But if MacReady had also lost a hip, they had a problem.
First of all, the code “GNHIP2” suggested the pizza shop owner Gina Narducci had already claimed both hips. The second, and more troubling, problem was that Snare had never requested a hip or any hip-related parts. MacReady’s kidneys had returned to Snare, which meant the “HIP” part should’ve returned too. But Snare hadn’t requested anything like it. Whatever body part it was, it had likely been claimed again—discreetly and not long before Ash’s first chat with Snare.
“Think Candace had him killed?” she asked, feeling her gut drop. “She or somebody she knew could’ve needed a hip replacement. It would explain why she’s been so touchy about the creek today.”
Dad frowned. “She’s never betrayed us before.”
“Not that you know of,” she said. “Any way you can check?”
“Not without admitting we robbed her.”
“Hmm.” She circled GNHIP2. “Think Gina Narducci’s involved? Like maybe she traded a hip years ago and got the other this week?”
“No. Narducci traded after a nasty car accident back in the nineties. It was in the papers. Both her hips were badly broken.”
Ash tapped her pen against JMHIP. “This has to mean something.”
Dad shrugged. “Could be overlapping parts. Snare’s always been flexible with that sort of thing. Like how I traded my knees and got some of the surrounding muscles fixed.”
“In that case, it looks like there’s nothing we can use against Candace.” Sighing, Ash grabbed her phone. “Guess I’ll call Berke and take down those cameras.”
Bad Parts Page 13