The Kill Wire

by Nichole Christoff

  Cody sent me another one of his shy smiles before burying his face against his father’s leg.

  And in that instant, I knew I didn’t want this child to have to hear his father had arrested his mother—or that she was never coming back.

  “If I do this,” I warned Marc, “I’m doing it my way.”

  Marc nodded, his obsidian eyes full of gratitude.

  “And I’m going to need more information,” I said. “You’re going to have to tell me everything.”

  The tension I’d spotted in the set of Marc’s shoulders released slightly. He gazed down at his boy. And he folded his son’s hand in his own.

  But Marc’s free arm circled my waist. He hugged me close, just as he’d done too many times before. And an undeniable spark of attraction flared between us.

  Being in Marc’s embrace—and knowing his child clung to his other hand—made unease climb my spine. I didn’t know why and I didn’t know what to do about it. Especially when Marc whispered against the shell of my ear.

  “It’s not enough to say it—but thank you, Jamie.”

  Awkwardly, I stepped away from him, shoved the square rims of my brainiac glasses northward along the bridge of my nose. “I’ll have to make some calls. And I’ll have to pack a bag. Where can I meet you?”

  “Dulles,” Marc replied. “I’ll book three tickets for the five-forty flight.”

  Sure enough, at 5:40, I found myself on an outbound plane, strapped into the seat beside Marc Sandoval.

  Once we were in the air, and Cody, wearing oversized headphones, was absorbed in some connect-the-dots game on his father’s cellphone, Marc told me how the boy had come to be.

  “Seven years ago,” he began, “I worked out of the Colorado Springs resident office. We’d just brought down this extensive trafficking operation. I had to testify at some of the trials. During the depositions, I met an assistant federal prosecutor named Elena Preble.”

  Marc ran a nervous hand through his black hair and shifted in his seat. Clearly, he didn’t like telling me this. But to help him—and to help Cody—I had to know.

  “I’d never met anyone like her, Jamie. She was something. So driven. So beautiful. She had waves of wild brown hair she’d twist into a bun when she was working so no one would know how gorgeous all those curls were. And she had a mind for law. For her, building the prosecution’s case was like weaving a tapestry. She could see where every thread should go. She had dreams of becoming the Colorado attorney general, maybe even going into national politics. She could’ve done it. She was brilliant.”

  Was, I noted.

  Past tense.

  “The final trial hadn’t even hit the docket and Elena and I started seeing each other outside the courtroom. That’s not exactly ethical according to the state bar, but we did it anyway. I felt like I could talk to her. Like I could tell her anything. That…that had never happened to me before.”

  Marc’s brow furrowed and embarrassment reddened the hollow of his cheek.

  “Four months later, we were talking about getting married,” he said.

  Marc had told me that part once. Or rather, he’d told me an extremely abbreviated version of it. Just three weeks ago, in the moonlight beneath fragrant boughs of Mississippi pine, Marc had told me he’d avoided the entanglement of marriage by the skin of his teeth—and then he’d leaned close to kiss me.

  But he shouldn’t have been with me, alone in the dark. And I shouldn’t have listened to his pretty words. Because I’d gone to Mississippi to see somebody else.

  In the here and now, Marc said, “I came up with this elaborate plan to pop the question. Champagne. A fancy suite in Aspen for the weekend. I stopped by her apartment to surprise her, to sweep her off her feet. I caught her in the bathroom, Jamie. At the sink. Snorting Adderall.”

  “Oh!”

  “Have you ever met a chronic alcoholic?” Marc asked, his black eyes flashing fire. “You never really see them take a drink, and you rarely see them drunk, but it turns out they nurse the stuff just to function?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well, that was Elena on Adderall.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that—for a lot of reasons. Intended to treat attention deficit hyperactivity disorder among other things, Adderall combines a strong psychoactive amphetamine and dextroamphetamine to short-circuit the central nervous system and make it behave in folks who have trouble focusing or fighting off a fidgety, overactive fight-or-flight response. Usually, Adderall is a time-release drug that comes in tablet form—by prescription only. It’s meant to be swallowed, with a doctor’s say-so. But crushing the pills, and snorting the dust, means its intensity goes straight to the brain in an instant. As a result, it’s become the darling drug of overworked, overtired overachievers everywhere. In exchange for a little clarity, some energy, and bit of focus, however, Adderall and drugs like it can bring on seizures, psychosis, cardio damage, paranoid delusions, and more.

  “Elena spent half her paycheck every week buying Adderall on the sly from students at two different high schools and a shady behavioral psychiatrist,” Marc continued. “And she’d managed to hide it from me. Hell, she’d managed to hide it from everyone. But I’m an agent with the goddamn DEA. I couldn’t be with someone like that. I told her it was over. And she told me she was pregnant.”

  “Pregnant,” I said, my stomach sliding sideways, “and abusing a controlled substance.”

  “Cody probably saved her life, but we almost lost him four times in the process. Elena left the U.S. Attorney’s Office, got into treatment right away. Still, Cody was born premature, underweight, and addicted. His lungs…” Marc shook his head as he remembered. “Every breath he took was a miracle. His grandparents stayed with him every day. After work, I’d hold him all evening and most of the night. Plenty of physical contact to help him develop. Kangaroo care, they call it. He spent five months in the ICU before we got to bring him home.

  “Elena and I had split by then. I couldn’t be with her. Not a woman who’d do that to herself, to her child, and to everyone around her. But she begged me to let her keep him.” Marc sighed. “Her parents agreed to help her, but that’s not the only reason I said yes. A slot in the DC office had opened up—with a promotion and a pay raise. I took it because we weren’t sure what Cody would need. We weren’t sure about his brain, his mental or physical abilities…I wanted him to have every chance, Jamie, and chances for damaged kids are expensive.”

  Marc clammed up at that point. Or he choked up. He turned to look at his son, to watch while the boy’s stubby index finger drew enthusiastic lines across the cellphone screen.

  “Cody’s come a long way,” I said.

  “He knows his letters and numbers. His teacher’s got him working on basic arithmetic. He can read Dr. Seuss on his own. We started him in T-ball last spring.”

  “That’s great.”

  Marc nodded, and the muscles in his jaw spasmed as he got his emotions under control.

  When he was ready, Marc said, “In the early days, I flew out to Colorado to visit him every chance I got. Now, since Cody’s been in school, I buy the plane tickets and Elena brings him to me for holidays: Christmas, his birthday, a week at the start of summer and at the end. And Spring Break.”

  “When she dropped him off this time, how did it happen?”

  “Same as always. I picked them up at Dulles on Saturday afternoon and brought them home with me. Elena did some shopping while I took Cody to the zoo. We don’t want him to get used to seeing his parents spending time with each other. But the three of us had dinner together. Elena spent the night at my place—on the sofa—and Sunday morning, Cody and I dropped her off at the curb outside Departures. That was it.”

  “There’s no chance she stayed in the DC area? No chance you and Cody drove off, and she hopped in a cab?”

  “None. She Skyped with Cody from her house Tuesday night and again on Friday afternoon. She was supposed to arrive to pick him up on Sunday morning
, but she never got off the plane.”

  That was two days ago.

  “And you haven’t heard from her?”

  “I’ve called her repeatedly and texted her, too. My calls go straight to voicemail. I haven’t been able to reach her parents, either.”

  “Well, here’s the big question,” I said. “And you aren’t going to like it—”

  “You want to ask me if Elena’s using again.”

  “That’s where I have to start.”

  Marc nodded, huffed out another sigh. “I don’t think so, but what do I know? She fooled me once, babe. She could do it again. And I can’t let it affect Cody. I won’t let it touch him.”

  And that was the heart of the matter.

  If Marc, as a DEA agent, uncovered any renewed drug abuse, he just might have to arrest the mother of his child.

  But if I found out about it for him, Marc could whisk his son off to Washington. He could arrange for permanent custody. And he could probably see to it his ex-girlfriend got squared away in some treatment program somewhere—rather than be thrown in jail.

  “Give me Elena’s number,” I said, pulling my iPad from the seat pocket in front of me. “Give me her address, license plate info, and anything else you’ve got, like her Social Security number.”

  Marc did. And I wasted no time logging onto the airline’s in-flight Wi-Fi. I plugged Elena’s vitals into every private investigator’s secret weapon, a particular professional database or two, and read the results somewhere over Iowa.

  In the last six years, Elena hadn’t been arrested. She hadn’t so much as received a parking ticket. She didn’t own a firearm, she rented the place she called home, and her credit score was solid. Her name was listed on the roll of Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic Church and so was Cody’s. She’d shown up for jury duty last July, and she’d voted in the last eight municipal elections.

  About four years ago, Elena had earned a hairstylist’s license from the Office of Barber and Cosmetology Licensure under Colorado’s Department of Regulatory Agencies. She’d renewed it, according to the law. Along with her other particulars, the organization had filed away a photograph of her in their data bank. And Marc had been right. Elena, with ferocious curls, button nose, and generous mouth, was indeed gorgeous.

  Altogether, these tidbits may’ve seemed less than informative, but in essence they suggested Elena Preble wasn’t continuing to snort her income up her nose. She probably wasn’t loitering where pill pushers set up shop, either. And she probably didn’t make a habit of hopping on the back of some dude’s motorcycle without a second thought for her kid—but you never could tell until you did the legwork.

  My own legs were ready for a good stretch by the time our plane touched down at the Colorado Springs Airport. Through the magic of time zones, the clock at baggage claim read 9:48 P.M., but my body was convinced it was closer to midnight. Cody’s must’ve proclaimed this loud and clear as well because he grew irritable on the shuttle to the car rental lot—and he pitched a full-on fit when we had to stand in line at the kiosk.

  In the middle of the tantrum, Marc lifted Cody in his strong arms, settled the boy on his hip. “Okay, little man, put your head on my shoulder.”

  Cody did as he was told, and his whimpering subsided as he nodded off to sleep.

  “That’s a neat trick,” I murmured.

  Marc winked at me over the boy’s head.

  And the lady ahead of us in line stepped close to me to whisper, “You have a beautiful family.”

  I felt my face flame, but before I could correct her, she and her husband got called to the counter. And then it was our turn. Marc signed for an all-wheel-drive Santa Fe, complete with two sets of keys and a child’s safety seat.

  After witnessing the ordeal of tucking the sleeping Cody into the vehicle without waking him, strapping him into the car seat, hefting his worldly possessions into the cargo area along with ours, and getting the car pointed in the right direction, I had a greater appreciation for parents everywhere. And for Marc. When it came to his son, his patience hadn’t flagged and his forethought hadn’t failed. This was a side of him I’d never seen before—because he’d never shown it to me. Until now.

  In the quiet of the night, Marc drove us to a place called Hearth’n’Home. Just past the downtown cluster, it was the latest and greatest property belonging to one of those mid-rise hotel chains specializing in long-term, homelike accommodations for business travelers and vacationing families. As if to prove the point, the vestibule between the hotel’s sliding doors boasted an honest-to-goodness welcome mat that wouldn’t have looked out of place in front of your own front door.

  Marc had booked an economical corner apartment, complete with a bedroom, a bathroom, and a sitting room/kitchenette combo. It was indeed homey—in a beige kind of way. And while I drew the taupe drapes across the wide windows, Marc carried the still-sleeping Cody into the bedroom to slip him under the tan covers of one of the two queen-sized beds.

  “That kid’ll sleep ’til dawn,” Marc reported, emerging from the bedroom and closing the door behind him.

  “Good.”

  The boy needed his rest. He had a big day coming up tomorrow. And so did Marc and I. Which meant I ought to hit the hay as well. I snatched a couple of buff-colored throw pillows from the sofa, tossed them into the room’s recliner. The couch was one of those fold-out, sleeper-sofa deals, and it was where I intended to lay my weary head—far away from Marc.

  “Hungry?” he asked, crossing the room to me. He grabbed one of the seat cushions, muscled it out of the way.

  “Goodness, no,” I replied. The snack Marc had packed for Cody to eat on the airplane could’ve fed an army and there had been plenty for us grown-ups, too. As a result, I was still full of apple slices, string cheese, whole-grain crackers, baby carrots, and white-grape juice. “But I can hold down the fort if you want to run down to the mini-mart in the lobby.”

  “No, I’m good.” Marc seized the remaining cushion, spoke to it instead of me. “Thank you, Jamie, for everything.”

  “I haven’t done anything, yet.”

  “That’s not true. You rearranged your entire schedule for me, babe. You agreed to fly out here with me.” Marc forgot about the sofa for a moment, wrapped a capable hand around my wrist. He tugged me to him and his voice grew husky. “You didn’t run in the opposite direction when I told you about Elena—or about Cody.”

  I couldn’t quite look at Marc straight on when he said that. I didn’t want to see the heat in his eyes. Or to think about what that heat meant.

  “As I recall,” I mumbled, “you flew to Mississippi not that long ago to help me out.”

  Marc released me slowly. He bent to grasp the nylon tab of the bed’s fold-out frame. As a result, I couldn’t read his expression.

  He said, “How’s the jarhead these days?”

  Marc meant Lieutenant Colonel Adam Barrett. Except Barrett wasn’t a jarhead. That was a nickname U.S. Marines used among themselves. And they didn’t like to share it. Especially with soldiers.

  And Barrett was definitely a soldier. A military police officer, to be exact. But I didn’t bother to correct Marc. He knew the difference. Besides, he wasn’t asking about Barrett’s health anyway.

  “Barrett’s fine,” I said.

  And he was.

  As far as I could tell.

  Last month, at Barrett’s invitation, I’d flown to Mississippi’s Gulf Coast for our first romantic weekend together. Our plans, however, had hit the skids when a dirty bomb killed forty-one soldiers and civilians—and placed my best friends squarely in harm’s way. But the situation had also pitted Barrett and me on opposite sides of the ensuing investigation—and more.

  That divide only deepened when Marc, worried about me and the news reports coming from the Gulf Coast, rushed south to check up on me. For Barrett’s sake as well as my own, I should’ve sent him packing. But when push came to shove, I’d turned to Marc to help me apply a little off-the-record pr
essure to a particularly skeevy suspect. In the end, I’d crossed the line between lawful questioning and something worse. Before I was through, I’d damaged a man, lost my dearest friends, and sent someone on a one-way trip to Mississippi’s Death Row—and I wasn’t proud of any of it.

  Marc grunted as if he’d heard everything I hadn’t said. And the springs of the fold-out bed screeched as he yanked the frame from the sofa’s insides. “Well, if you want to grab a shower, babe, I’ll get this thing set up for you.”

  I didn’t quibble. I snagged my backpack and retreated to the beige bathroom. In a scant fifteen minutes, I returned to the living room wearing flannel jammies patterned with blue toile. Marc had moved to the farthest reaches of the kitchenette. There, leaning against the countertop, he murmured into his cellphone.

  “No, I haven’t told him,” he said softly. “I appreciate it…I will…I’ll fill you in when you get here.”

  He disconnected.

  And I got busy digging through my backpack for my hairbrush.

  “That,” Marc said, “was my mother.”

  “Oh?”

  I turned, found Marc studying me a little too closely. I climbed into the center of my makeshift bed, tucked my legs under me, and began to brush my towel-dry hair. He dropped into the neighboring recliner, propped his elbows on his knees.

  “She’s agreed to fly out tomorrow. She’ll take care of Cody.”

  While the two of us track down Elena.

  Marc didn’t say as much, but that’s what he meant.

  “Fly out,” I said, “from where?”

  “San Antonio.”

  “That’s a great town.”

  Marc shrugged a reluctant shoulder.

  “Did you grow up there?”

  He shrugged again and I took this for an affirmative. In the five months we’d known each other, Marc hadn’t told me much about his past. And if our conversation on the plane was any indication, that might be because he wasn’t proud of his personal history.

  Even now, Marc cut the discussion short.

  “I’d better let you get some rest,” he said, rising to his feet.