Since We Fell

by Dennis Lehane

  Ned placed the silencer to the side of her neck. It was hot enough to burn if he left it there too long. “If you scream, I have to kill you. I don’t want to kill you, Rachel.”

  But he would.

  No, Rachel, he will. The moment they’re done here. The moment they get whatever it is they want. A key. What fucking key? Brian had so many keys on his key ring that it would take a mathematical savant to notice he’d added one. But if he did have this key they were looking for, that’s where it probably was—on his key ring.

  Which was on his person.

  Which was sitting at the bottom of Massachusetts Bay.

  Caleb’s corpse slipped sideways in the chair and would have slid all the way to the floor, but his shoulder wedged underneath the arm. For a moment, the only sound came from him dripping.

  “So the answer you want to give my next question,” Ned said, “is definitely not ‘What key?’”

  No matter what answer you give, he will kill you.

  She nodded.

  “Are you nodding because you have my answer or because you agree that saying ‘What key?’ would be a big mistake?” He took the gun away from her neck. “You can talk. I know you’re not going to scream.”

  “What am I supposed to say?”

  On the other side of the table, Lars stood. Clearly bored. Ready to leave. And that was far more unsettling than if he’d tried to be menacing. What was happening here was coming to a close. And the period on the sentence would be another bullet to another face, this time hers.

  “So here we go,” Ned said. “Only one answer we’re looking for and that’d be the right one. Rachel,” he said with the utmost delicacy and concern, “where’s the key?”

  “Brian has it.”

  “And where’s Brian?”

  “I don’t know,” she said and then, rushing, as Ned raised his gun, “but I have an idea.”

  “An idea?”

  “He has a boat. Nobody knows about it.”

  “What’s the name of it, and where is it moored?”

  She’d never seen the name. She’d never thought to look. She said, “It’s moored—”

  The doorbell rang.

  They all looked at the door, then at one another, then back at the door.

  “Who would that be?” Ned asked.

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Your husband?”

  “He wouldn’t ring the bell.”

  The bell rang again. Followed by a knock on the door. “Mrs. Delacroix, it’s Detective Kessler.”

  “Detective Kessler.” Ned tried the words out. “Huh.”

  “I forgot my hat, ma’am.”

  Ned and Rachel both looked down at the half-fedora Rachel had placed on the table.

  Another knock, insistent, the knock of a man used to knocking on doors whether the people on the other side wanted him to come in or not. “Mrs. Delacroix?”

  “Coming!” Rachel called.

  Ned shot her a look.

  Rachel shot him a look back: What did you want me to do?

  Ned and Lars looked at each other. Whatever telepathic language they spoke, they arrived at a decision. Ned handed her the hat. He raised his palm in front of her face. “You see the width of my hand?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s how far you open the door. And then you give him his hat and you close it.”

  She started to step away from him, but he grabbed her arm at the elbow and turned her to face Caleb. The blood curtain on his face was darkening. If this were Haiti, his head would be covered with flies.

  “If you deviate from my instructions one iota, I do that to you.”

  She started to shake and he spun her toward the door.

  “Stop shaking,” he whispered.

  “How?” Her teeth chattered.

  He slapped her hard on the ass. She looked back at him and he gave her a small smile because the shakes had stopped. “Now you’ve learned a new trick.”

  She took the hat and crossed her apartment. To the left of the door, on a hook, was her bag, a mini shoulder bag, brown leather, a Christmas gift from Brian. She put her hand on the doorknob and decided what she was going to do as she was doing it, not giving herself time to think, not giving them time to think. She opened the door past the recommended two to three inches, opened it so that Detective Trayvon Kessler had a clear angle past her left shoulder, could see the hallway that led to the bedrooms, the half-bathroom door, the kitchen bar. She pulled her bag off the hook, crossed the threshold, and handed him his hat, pretty much all in the same motion.

  The bullet entered her back, cut her spine in half, spewed the bone chips into her bloodstream as she collapsed into Detective Kessler. The fall kept him from clearing his own gun. Ned kept firing, shot Kessler in the head and the shoulder and the arm. He fell with Rachel. They landed in a heap on the marble floor, and Ned and Lars straddled their bodies. They looked down on them with nothing in their faces and fired into their bodies until their corpses jumped . . .

  “Detective.” She closed the door behind her. “I’d been wondering if you’d come back for that. I was about to call your cell.”

  He fell into step behind her as she walked to the elevators. “Heading out?”

  She looked back over her left shoulder at him. Brian, Sebastian, and two ex-boyfriends had all told it was her sexiest look. She could see it scored with Trayvon Kessler by the way he blinked at it, as if to deflect it from landing. “Just trying to walk off the buzz.”

  “Isn’t sleep for that?”

  “Can I come clean on something? A secret?”

  “I love secrets. Why I’m a cop.”

  They reached the elevator bank. She pressed down and risked a glance back up the corridor to her apartment door. What would she do if the door opened? Run for the stairs?

  They’d just kill her in the stairwell.

  “I’m a closet smoker,” she said. “And I ran out.”

  “Ah.” He nodded several times. “I bet he knows.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Your husband. I bet he knows you smoke but he chooses not to let on. Where’s Mr. Perloff?”

  “Passed out on the living room couch.”

  “I’m sure your husband’s cool with that too, another man sleeping over. He’s progressive that way, your husband. Nothing ‘antiquated’ about ol’ Brian.”

  She looked at the numbers above the left elevator and saw the car was stalled on three. Looked at the numbers on the right elevator and saw nothing was lit up. They’d shut it down for the night. It was probably on a timer to save energy costs.

  Fucking timers, she thought, and looked back at her door.

  “You expect it to move?” Trayvon Kessler asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “Your door. You keep looking back at it.”

  If Ned and Lars walked out now, guns drawn, they’d have the drop on Kessler. But if she told him—told him they were in there, told them what they’d done—he’d pull his gun, shield her with his body, and call for the cavalry. And this nightmare would be over.

  All she had to do was tell him. And prepare herself for jail.

  “Do I? I’m not myself right now.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Learning my husband is living a double life could have affected me a bit.”

  “There’s that.” He looked above the elevator. “Should we take the stairs?”

  She didn’t give it a thought. “Sure.”

  “No, wait. It’s moving.”

  The elevator car crawled from three to four and then picked up speed and shot from four to five to six to seven to eight to nine.

  And stopped.

  She looked at Kessler.

  He gave her a “Sue me” shrug.

  She said, “I’m taking the stairs,” and turned toward them.

  “It’s moving again.”

  The red light jumped from nine to ten, and then zipped from eleven to fourteen. And stopped again. She could hear laug
hter from the shaft, the people getting off on fourteen sounding Saturday-night drunk on a Tuesday.

  Trayvon Kessler had his back to the corridor when Ned stepped out of her apartment. She thought of screaming. She thought of running for the stairs, the red EXIT sign beckoning like the hand of God. By the time Kessler followed her gaze and turned, Ned had strolled up the corridor to them, his hands free, the gun probably tucked at the small of his back, hidden by the hem of his Members Only jacket.

  “Rachel,” he said. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “Ned.” She watched a quick flare of confusion in his eyes. “Been staying home mostly, ordering in.”

  Ned turned to Detective Kessler. “Ned Hemple.” He stuck out his hand.

  “Trayvon Kessler.”

  “What brings the Providence police to Boston?”

  Kessler looked confused for a moment, until he glanced down at his own belt, saw the gold badge clipped there.

  “Checking out a few leads.”

  The elevator dinged as the car arrived and the doors opened. They got in. Kessler pressed L.

  26

  MOUTHPIECE

  “Is everything okay, Rachel?” Ned looked across the car at her, his face the picture of concern.

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Well, I just . . .” He looked embarrassed as he turned to Trayvon Kessler. “I live next door to Rachel and Brian. Sorry, I should keep my big mouth shut.”

  Kessler gave that a loose grin. “Should he keep his mouth shut, Rachel?”

  “Not on my account.”

  Kessler held out his hand. “Proceed, Mr. Hemple.”

  Ned hemmed and hawed and looked at his shoes for a moment. “I heard some, a little, uh, shouting a few minutes ago. I guess you and Brian aren’t getting along. Same thing happens with me and Rosemary. No big deal. I just hope everything’s okay.”

  “Shouting?” Kessler’s grin grew broader.

  “People fight,” Ned said.

  “Oh, I know people fight,” Kessler said. “I’m just surprised Rachel was fighting with Brian. Only a few minutes ago, huh?”

  The car stopped at seven and Mr. Cornelius, who owned three nightclubs in the Fenway, got on. He gave them all a polite smile and went back to texting someone on his phone.

  Ned had served her up to Kessler on a platter. Even if she managed to get away from both of them when they reached the lobby—and she had no idea how she’d manage that—Kessler would go back to her apartment, this time with a warrant, and find Caleb dead inside. Not passed out. Dead.

  She realized they were both looking at her, awaiting a response. “It wasn’t Brian, Ned, thank you.”

  “No?”

  “It was his partner. You’ve met him a few times. Caleb?”

  Ned nodded. “Good-looking fella.”

  “That’s him.”

  Ned said to Kessler, “Like I’m always telling the wife, though, looks fade.”

  Rachel said, “He wanted to drive home and I didn’t want to let him. Too much bourbon.”

  Kessler said, “But he took the T.”

  “What?”

  “Over from Cambridge, he told us he took the subway.”

  “But he lives in the Seaport and he didn’t want to take the T back there. He wanted to borrow my car. That’s what the fight was about.”

  Jesus, how many fucking details could she keep straight here?

  “Ah.”

  “Makes sense,” Ned said in a tone suggesting that it didn’t.

  “Why wouldn’t he just take a cab?” Kessler said.

  “Uber,” Ned ventured.

  “What he said.” Kessler jerked his thumb at Ned.

  “You’ll have to ask him when he sobers up,” she said.

  Now Mr. Cornelius was watching the three of them, not sure what was going on, but recognizing conflict when it was in front of his face.

  They reached the lobby.

  The moment they exited the building, Kessler would, she presumed, leave her. Even if she stalled, chatted Kessler up on the sidewalk, Ned would just act as if he’d walked away. And the moment Kessler did, in fact, drive off, Ned would reappear. Or just shoot her from across the street.

  She placed her hand up to the back of her neck, fingered the clasp of her necklace. If she could twist it a bit and then snap her fingers, she might be able to break the strand. The beads would hit the floor. The men would bend to retrieve them. And she could scoot out through the mail room.

  “Got a bite?” Kessler asked.

  “What?”

  “An itch,” he said. “Is your neck itchy?”

  Now Ned was looking at her.

  She dropped her hand. “Yeah. A little bit.”

  They walked into the lobby. Mr. Cornelius turned right into the hall for the garage elevators. Ned and Kessler kept moving forward.

  Dominick, behind the desk, glanced up at them, seemed mildly baffled by the presence of Kessler and Ned, but he gave Rachel a nod and went back to his magazine.

  “No garage?” she asked Ned.

  “Hmm?” Ned followed her gaze to the garage door. “No.”

  “You’re parked on the street?” she said.

  Ned looked back over his shoulder at her. “Oh, no, I’m just going out for a walk, dear.”

  “Everyone’s going for a walk tonight,” Kessler said. He patted his stomach. “Makes me feel like I gotta hit the gym.”

  He opened the front door, inward, and made an “after you” gesture to them both. Ned went through the door, followed by Rachel.

  On the sidewalk, Rachel said to Ned, “Enjoy your walk. Tell Rosemary I said hi.”

  “Will do.” Ned stretched out his hand to Kessler. “Nice to meet you, Detective.”

  “You too, Mr. Temple.”

  “Hemple,” Ned said, shaking his hand.

  “Of course. My bad.” Kessler dropped his hand. “Take care, sir.”

  For an odd few seconds none of them moved. Eventually Ned turned and headed east along the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets. Rachel glanced over at Detective Kessler, who seemed to be waiting on something. When she looked back down the darkened street, Ned was nowhere to be seen.

  “So that’s Ned.”

  “That’s Ned.”

  “He and Rosemary been married a long time?”

  “Ages.”

  “No wedding ring, though. He didn’t strike me as the bohemian type thinks rings are just symbols of societal oppression from the dominant paradigm.”

  “Probably just in for a cleaning.”

  “That could be it,” he said. “What’s he do, our friend Ned?”

  “You know, I’m not sure.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Some kind of manufacturing, I think.”

  “Manufacturing?” Kessler said. “We don’t make shit in this country anymore.”

  She shrugged. “You know how it is with neighbors these days.”

  “Oh, do tell.”

  “Everyone guards their privacy.” She gave him a tight smile.

  He opened the passenger door to a dark four-door Ford. “Let me give you a ride to get your cigarettes.”

  She looked back down the street. Every twenty feet was a pool of light cast by the streetlamps. In between those lights lay the dark.

  “Sure.” She got in the car.

  Kessler got in, put his hat between them on the seat, and pulled away from the curb. “I been on some fucked-up cases, if you’ll excuse my language, but this is one of the more fucked-up ones I been on of late. I got a dead blonde in Rhody, a missing guy leading a double life, his lying wife—”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Oh ho!” He wagged a finger at her. “Yes yes yes you are, Mrs. Delacroix. You’re telling so many lies I can’t even count them. And your neighbor there, the married guy in the Members Only jacket and the JCPenney slacks without the wedding ring? Guys like him don’t live in buildings like yours. He didn’t even know where the fucking garage was, an
d the doorman had clearly never seen him before.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Lucky I’m a cop. They fucking pay us to notice shit like that.”

  “You say ‘fuck’ a lot.”

  “And why not?” he said. “It’s a great word. Verb, noun, adverb, adjective. ‘Fuck’ is fucking utile.” He turned left. “My problem with your lying is that I don’t know why or what you’re lying about. It’s still too early in the case. But, man, do I know you’re lying.”

  They stopped at a light and she felt certain Ned was going to appear by Kessler’s window and start firing into the car.

  The light turned green and Kessler took another left and parked outside the Tedeschi’s on Boylston, across the street from the Prudential. He turned in the seat toward her and all the hard mirth left his eyes and what replaced it was something she couldn’t identify.

  “The late Nicole Alden,” he said, “was executed. As professional a hit as I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a few. So your husband with the double life? There’s a good chance he’s a pro at, you know, ending lives. And either him or some of his friends may come a-calling. And Rachel?” He leaned across the seat, close enough that she could smell the Altoids. “They will fucking execute you.”

  He couldn’t save her. Even if he was interested, and she doubted he was. His job was to close the Nicole Alden murder. He’d decided with a cop’s narrow certitude that the best way to do that was to pin the murder on Brian. But when Brian didn’t turn back up, Kessler would dig deeper. Maybe he’d find out she’d been in Providence just before the victim was killed. Zipcars, she was fairly certain, had tracking devices on them so the company always knew where their cars were. Wouldn’t take much to put Rachel on that street outside Nicole Alden’s house. And then the scenario was easy to see—wife discovers husband has another wife with a baby on the way to boot and kills her. And if that scenario wasn’t damning enough, there was the dead body of her husband’s business partner sitting up in her apartment. And a coroner’s examination would prove said partner was dead prior to Rachel claiming to this very police officer that he was alive and well and passed out on her couch.

  “I don’t like being bullied,” she told Detective Kessler.

  “I’m not bullying you. I’m stating facts.”