by M. P. Cooley
“Afraid of a new investigation?”
“I didn’t think of that at the time, but now . . . yeah, he was worried. When he asked me to go, I signed right up because that bitch? She deserved to die. I was always the one that took care of people who stepped out of line.”
“So walk me through it. Tell me the story of what happened in New Mexico.”
Jake took a deep breath. “I lined up a fake ID, the van, the works, stuff I’d need to kill her and hide the body. But for the first time in my life, I panicked. I grabbed her, threw her in the back and drove back across country. But then I had second thoughts.”
“About killing her?” Hale asked.
“About letting her live. I’d had to listen to her pissing and moaning across 2000 miles, and no way would Maxim trade for the bar if she was alive. So when I got back, I took her and the van over to Sleep-Tite and torched the whole thing.”
“But killing Luisa wouldn’t help Bernie get out of jail,” I said.
“It would if I let the cops know who she was.” He jutted out his chin. “And you would have received a call from the Albany Bus Station the day after she died.”
“It’s interesting,” I said, “Because if I were going to arrange a hit on someone, I’d probably ask a person who’d been trained to kill. Like Brian.”
Jake smiled meanly. “That’s where you’re wrong. The army didn’t spend a whole lot of time on turning him into some kind of weapon. Him? He’s such an honorable kid, they spent time training him to save lives.” Jake smiled to himself. “He defused bombs and . . . he still gets letters. Men who wouldn’t be around if it wasn’t for him.”
“Something I’ve made note of,” Hale said, “You haven’t once asked if your brother is alive or dead.”
“Because I figure it might hurt my case if I talk about how much I hope he rots in hell. I never got away from my brother, and Brian was going to stay free and clear of him.”
Chief Donnelly pushed open the door, and Jake jumped up. “Brian?”
“Your son is out of surgery,” Donnelly said. “The doctor says—”
Jake sidestepped me, stopping only when the chief threw his arm across the doorway and grabbed the frame, blocking Jake’s way.
“No visitors while he’s in recovery,” Donnelly said. “But Jake, your son, he has a good prognosis. They got the whole bullet, and he kept both his spleen and his kidney.” He looked from me to Hale to Jake. “How’s it going in here?”
“We made a deal he could stay until Brian woke up, but Jake isn’t keeping up his end of the bargain.”
“Mr. Medved here,” Hale said, “is being less than honest.”
Jake took offense. “Donnelly, couldn’t it be you and me? You know I’d be straight.”
“You know I can’t do that, Medved. Look, you’ve had enough experience with this—you make a deal, even just over a handshake, and you have to live up to your side of things.” Donnelly guided Jake back to the bed. “You’re a man of your word, aren’t you?”
Jake was not. He spent another fifteen minutes throwing out lie after lie. Finally, I gave up, reaching over and handcuffing Jake to the bed. “We’ll let you stay here until we find out for sure how your son is. Then you’ll be transported to jail.” I turned to Hale. “I have some questions for the Lawlers and Dave, if he’s up to it. Can you watch him?”
“Absolutely,” Hale said, grabbing a pillow and lying down. “And since talking to Jake is going to just be a waste of time, I’m going to use my time wisely and nap.”
The news about Brian had lifted the mood in the waiting room. When I’d left, Dave and Lucas had been on one side of the room, and the Medveds and the Lawlers had been on the other. Now the groups had mixed. I found Bernie, Dan, and Deirdre telling stories about Vera to Lucas. They didn’t even notice me when I slipped inside and grabbed a chair in the corner.
“I was a little thing,” Deirdre said. “And quiet as a mouse.”
Dan laughed.
“Shut up,” Deirdre said, but her husband’s laughter lit her up. “You know I was. With all the troubles at home and Bernie in high school, I made an easy target for bullies. They would corner me on the bus, so I’d walk, cutting through backyards to avoid the worst. They still caught me. One day Vera arrived when I was getting the crap kicked out of me—”
“Dee! I’m shocked!” Bernie said in mock horror. I watched as he gauged Lucas’s response, upping his gestures to make Lucas smile. “Such language.”
“Shut up, Bern,” Deirdre said. “Anyway, Vera threw rocks at them until they ran away. Then she taught me a great trick. When the bullies are on your tail, and are about to catch you, turn around, stick your arm out straight, form a fist, and let the assholes run smack into you.”
“A passive fistfight?” Lucas’s lip quirked up.
Deirdre pointed at Bernie. “He’s the Zen master, not me. But here’s the thing, after I punched one guy in the nose, word got out, and no one messed with me again. I tried to thank your mother, but she wouldn’t have it. Just told me to keep up the good fight.”
Dave gave me a brief wave as he walked in, before going to Lucas and resting his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Who said that?”
“Mom.” Lucas stood. “How’s Natalya?”
“It’s hard to say,” Dave said. “She didn’t get dosed the same way the judge did, but . . . she needs the ventilator.”
“Can I go in now?” Lucas asked.
“Sure thing,” Dave said. “But a warning. There are wires and tubes everywhere. If you were expecting the same bossy teta, you are not going to get it.” He shoved both hands in his pockets. “She’s weak.”
Lucas touched Dave’s shoulder on his way out the door.
“I should go visit the patient, too,” Bernie said, standing.
“Brian’s not . . . oh. You mean Maxim,” Deirdre said.
“He’s still our brother, Dee.”
“He wasn’t acting too brotherly when he set you up to go to prison,” Deirdre said. She stood, gathering her jacket and gesturing for her husband to follow.
Bernie shrugged. “I barely said hello to him. I should at least say good-bye.”
“Say good-bye for me, too,” she said. “I won’t be making a visit.” She walked up to Bernie, placing one hand on his cheek while kissing the other. “You were really the best of all of us.”
“IS IT WRONG THAT I FEEL HAPPY?” DAVE ASKED ONCE WE WERE alone. “Lucas is a basket case, and Aunt Natalya might not make it. If she does, she’s probably going to jail. But I feel at peace. For the first time in a long time. Maybe the first time in my life.”
There was a low hum of activity in the hallway—a doctor being paged by the oncology department, the wheels of a gurney bouncing off the wall, a cry silenced. Normally I wouldn’t have brought Natalya’s crimes up at a time like this, but he had mentioned it first. “You know, prison is a very real possibility for your aunt.”
“She wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said. “Not that we don’t already have Deirdre on retainer. Natalya’s sense of responsibility, well she is also going to want to face the firing squad.” He looked down at his hands, twisted together in his lap. “Me, too. I did some not-so-great stuff. I hope I don’t lose my job, Lyons. My dad and Natalya did right by me, but the best part of myself? Comes from the work we do.” His chin softened, and I thought he might cry. Instead he winked. “Plus Annie needs someone to yell at.”
I ignored his joke. “I hope you get to keep your job, too. But as your friend? Please, please go talk to someone. Get some help.” He laughed, but I kept my face serious. “I mean it, Dave.”
There were whispers from the corridor. I turned around to find Theo being pushed backward through the door by Nate.
“Just talk to him,” Nate said, stepping left and then right to prevent his brother from leaving the room. “You don’t have to be best friends.”
Theo tripped back and Nate grabbed his arm, steadying him. Theo turned around, lo
oking past us, his eyes scanning the room. Finally, he spoke.
“Is my father here?”
THE NEXT TWO WEEKS SWUNG BETWEEN NO MOVEMENT AND rapid progress on the cases. Brian Medved looked like he’d make a full recovery, at least physically. He awoke, calling for his father, but went silent after hearing that Jake was in jail for the kidnapping of Luisa. The Judge remained unconscious. His brain waves read active but his blood oxygen remained low. The doctors couldn’t figure out if he was in a coma, or just pretending to be unconscious, their pokes and prods met with absolute stillness.
Natalya was a different story. Her brain waves and heartbeat remained weak, and the ventilator periodically stopped, as if she was holding her breath.
“The doctor’s said she’s got a 50 percent shot,” I said.
“My aunt is making up her mind, trying to figure out whether she wants to live,” Dave said. “You, me, the doctors—none of us will get a vote if she decides she’s done.”
And then there was Oksana. Despite running DMV, Social Security, and tax record searches on the missing woman, it seemed as if Oksana had disappeared off the face of the earth in 1986. We even checked with the Association of Legal Secretaries, but there wasn’t a single Oksana on their list. I was ready to take a crack at Jake, currently out on bail, when I arrived at my desk to find a pink slip with Lorraine’s perfect Palmer penmanship.
“Tomas Wolschowicz was here. All day.” The words “all day” were underlined three times. I tried his number, but he didn’t answer, and I promised myself to call him in the morning.
When I showed up at work the next day at 7:30, Tomas was waiting for me, sitting on a bench in the reception area, quiet and very, very sober.
“My sister,” he said. “Do you have word on the DNA?”
“Let me make a call,” I said. He sat in the chair next to my desk, hands folded, waiting as I dialed Hale’s number.
“What can I do for you this fine morning?” Hale said, alarmingly chipper.
“Agent Bascom, I’m looking to see if the DNA results came in.”
“From the basement wall?” Hale asked. “Didn’t we get positive ID that it was Vera’s?”
“No, not the basement. I’m sitting here with Tomas Wolschowicz and am looking for results from,” Tomas sat straighter, listening in, and I kept my question vague. Asking about the blood in the tub and drain at Bernie’s house seemed like a cruel thing to do in front of him. “Do we have the results from the other location?”
“Oh, of course,” Hale said. “Let me call the labs.”
I hung up, explaining that we hoped to have an answer soon.
“I can wait,” he said. I offered him coffee, but he declined, and as I typed up reports, he sat quietly.
I got up to retrieve my first document from the printer. Tomas was looking at the far wall, where “missing” posters were tacked up, sometimes overlapping.
“Would Oksana have had one of those?”
“Oksana did. Jake reported her missing three years after she disappeared, and it’s standard to create one.”
Tomas was now standing. “Is Oksana’s poster over there now?”
I looked over the wall of smiling faces, mostly teenagers. “Usually those are just the current cases, but give me a second.” I opened up my computer, clicking through until I arrived at the National Missing and Unidentified Persons Systems. I typed in her name, and her face popped up. It was hard to see any resemblance between Tomas and his sister other than their blue eyes, hers bright and alert, his hidden under heavy lids.
“See,” I said. “She’s in the system.”
Tomas leaned close to the screen and then sat back. He needed bifocals. I offered to print him a copy.
“Good idea,” he said, nodding. “That way if we need to still look for her, I can make copies and hang ’em up.”
I had a feeling that there wouldn’t be a hunt for Oksana after the DNA tests came in. When we compared the typewriter in the judge’s office to Oksana’s letters to her brother, they were an exact match—Maxim Medved had been sending those birthday presents to Tomas. When I asked Jake Medved about her during one of our interrogation sessions, he wasn’t surprised.
“Those letters didn’t start coming until after I reported Oksana missing,” he said. “Before that, all quiet. I thought she’d run away from me, and I hoped maybe if someone found her they’d make her come home.” Jake dropped the belligerent attitude he’d held for all our interviews. “But now I know. Maxim killed her.”
I asked him why.
“You heard all those stories from Natalya, about the girls he ruined.” Jake stared up at the corner of the interrogation room. I was happy to let him do it, since it meant he was being honest. “I don’t think it was their age that attracted him. Well, not only their age. My brother, if you told him something was off limits, he grabbed for it. Oksana was mine, the first person to see me as me and not Maxim’s brother, the first woman to love me. My brother could not let that stand. Not when she was so very, very lovely.” Jake traced the vein on his left arm from the wrist up, a gentle soothing movement. “He had killed Vera. He knew where to do it, and he knew he was smart enough to pull it off.” His face was grim. “If you don’t find Oksana living in Arizona? Look under the rosebushes at his house.”
I gave Tomas a copy of the poster, and he read her details closely—height, weight, and age—and ran his finger over her picture.
“She was so pretty,” he said. “I’m really going to work to find her this time.”
He jumped when my phone rang. Hale. Tomas held his breath as I picked up the phone.
“June?” Hale said. “That blood in the bathroom was a match, or close enough to it. We did a check . . .”
As Hale talked, Tomas watched me, his grip on the poster tightening.
“Let me call you back, Hale.”
I hung up and leaned forward on my knees, making eye contact with Tomas, who stared at the floor. “I have some bad news about Oksana.”
Two days later, Oksana’s remains were found under the rosebushes. We added those murder charges to the ones the judge was already facing.
LUISA WOKE UP.
She didn’t stay awake for long, the pain medications sending her slipping in and out of consciousness. By the time we arrived the first day, she was sleeping deeply—not in a coma, but unreachable. On the second we arrived to find a crowd clustered around her, Nate and Darius each holding a hand and Elda perched on the bed, petting the soft gray hair that had grown on Luisa’s scalp, almost an inch in length at this point. When we asked Luisa to identify her attacker, she looked at Theo before answering.
“My memories of that time are lost,” she said. “Before, I remember my house, the sun in my backyard in New Mexico. But how I got here? It’s gone.” She closed her eyes, drifting off, then woke with a start. “All that’s in the past now, right? It doesn’t matter.”
It would be quite some time before she could stand up to a questioning. Theo and Nate had nothing to add, and spent much of their time holed up in the first floor lounge talking with Bernie about the new business they were going to start.
“June!” Nate said. “Nana’s going to build us a factory.”
So Elda was “Nana” now. Bernie’s grin was just as wide, but his comments were more measured. “Possibly.”
Dan Jaleda had offered to swap the Sleep-Tite land for a factory downtown, and Theo and Bernie debated rebuilding versus gutting, taping huge sheets of paper with to-do lists and graphs charted out, as if they planned to move in.
“The retail space would be hard without a more visible storefront,” Theo said, pointing to a place where the graph dipped.
“Retail would be a small part of what we are doing,” Bernie said. “We need super-clean indoors.”
“Going into biotech?” I asked.
“No, no,” Nate said. Outdoor wear.”
“I kept up on all the trade journals while I was away,” Bernie said, pulling out a stack
of magazines that had been heavily flagged. “The advances in fabrics are amazing, and I have a few ideas . . . and Nate and Theo will know what our customers will want.”
“I love it already,” Nate said. “We’ll be in the perfect location to catch people heading up north to fish or heading to Vermont to ski or climb.”
“Plus we’re close to the New York City weekend places,” Theo said. “Those folks who kit out in full gear for a walk around the block. You’ll have a huge market.”
“Good luck with your venture,” I said. “I think it would be wonderful to have a new business down here, one with real jobs, not service jobs.”
“Me, too,” Bernie said, and the men returned to their plans.
I WAS ALMOST SORRY TO SEE MY MOTHER GO. I WATCHED HER pack, her suitcase was only half full. Her cotton shifts didn’t take up much room and her crystal collection had been coopted by Lucy, who asked to keep Grandma’s “jewels” in Hopewell Falls for safekeeping until she visited again.
Mom held up a sage stick in a plastic bag. “Do you want to keep this? It will help you purify spaces.”
“No thank you, Mom,” I said.
“Perhaps David would like it,” Mom said. “He seems so proud of the house he’s rehabilitating and the dark spirits in his life . . . he’s probably ready to clean them out.”
“Probably,” I said. The doorbell rang. “That’s probably him, coming to say his good-byes.”
Dave had practically moved into my house. He and my father dumped all their case files related to Vera and Luisa in the shredder, carefully recycling them under my mother’s watchful eye. My mother stuffed him with vegetarian dishes whose recipes he wrote down, promising to re-create them later. I’d leave my father and Dave talking as I went to bed at night and wake up to my mother making him coffee.
“Is he living here?” I asked.
“He needs family,” my mother said. “We all do.”
I opened the door. “I don’t know why you rang the bell. You know the side door is always unlocked.”