by Ben Sanders
A knock at the door killed the reverie, and she stood to answer just as the phone rang. She shuffle-stepped briefly, undecided, and then snatched up the phone thinking it must be Perry.
Dexter said, ‘You don’t know what you’re implicating him in, sweetheart.’
She said, ‘Whatever it is, you’ve done worse,’ and hung up on him again.
Two in a row. Surely he’d get the picture.
There was another knock as she was on the way down the stairs. She went to the door and found a United States marshal on the front step, holding up his badge to the peephole.
Dexter
When she hung up on him, his reflex was to throw the phone. He wound up a World Series pitch but backed out just in time. Breakage was a good high, but he needed a permanent fix.
There were too many unknowns. He didn’t know if Marie was bluffing, and he didn’t know how much she knew. It was like Rumsfeld said: he didn’t know what he didn’t know. He thought about calling Perry, telling him to get his woman under control, but then remembered Marshall had his cell.
Hands on his head and swearing quietly, he walked a loop of the downstairs. Marie, Christ. She was the last thing he needed. There was enough stress to handle without worrying whether she was going to have him indicted.
He called Ludo, but didn’t get an answer. Useless.
The dog yapped. He took a huge breath and shouted, ‘Shut up,’ and the animal actually held its tongue. Maybe the one thing he could finally control. He put the phone down in case he changed his mind about the throw and did another lap of the house, calmer this time, even as the yapping started up again. The crux of the problem was this: there was no guarantee Perry could placate his wife at all, let alone in the next hour, which meant he’d have to see her himself. There was no alternative.
He checked the load in the Ruger, found his keys and cell, and then went to the entry and checked the street. No black Lexus, no Chinese watchers, unless they’d gone covert on him. But he made it to his car without a bullet, and managed not to sprint, either. He started up and gunned it left onto Hicks Street and then onto the BQE, northbound.
It was a good run. He was going against the traffic, most people heading for Manhattan. He exited at Humboldt and drove south, grabbed a kerbside park about a block north of Perry’s. He checked his watch. The call from Marie was thirty minutes ago.
Thirty minutes to change her mind.
He watched the street. Both kerbs were full, but there were no cop cars. There was a black SUV, though, maybe a Dodge Charger, and a black . . . yeah, a fucking Lexus, those Chinese guys again, the same car he’d seen outside his own place. They must be rotating the surveillance, swapping it between him and Ludo and Perry.
He held the gun low between his knees, considering what he should do. Part of him said call her bluff, she doesn’t have enough to be calling 911, and she wouldn’t want to stitch Perry up anyway. But the louder argument was telling him this was too big a risk not to fix right now. It just depended on how he handled it.
He opened his door, but there was someone getting out of the Charger now, a guy in a suit in his late thirties, a coplike vigilance to him, the way he watched the street, checking licence plates as he walked up to Perry’s front step.
Dexter said, ‘Shit,’ and dialled Perry’s home number on his cell, watching the guy knock at Perry’s front door.
When Marie picked up, Dexter said, ‘You don’t know what you’re implicating him in, sweetheart.’ Trying to sound hard and in control, like she had a tough lesson coming.
She said, ‘Whatever it is, you’ve done worse,’ and hung up on him again.
He thought briefly about redialling, but there was no point now. He saw the guy raising a badge to the peephole, and he knew the truth was coming out.
He pocketed the gun and got out of the car.
TWENTY-TWO
Marie
The cop’s ID said his name was Lucas Cohen, and that he was a deputy U.S. marshal. Marie closed her eyes and let her forehead touch the door, knowing with that bet-your-life certainty that this was to do with Perry. She swore quietly and looked across her shoulder at the kitchen, like it posed some better course of action, but she was committed now. He would’ve heard her feet on the stairs, probably saw the peephole darken.
She opened the door.
The marshal was a good-looking guy in his mid-thirties, an easy smile on his face, not wanting to cause alarm.
He put his badge wallet inside his coat and said, ‘Ma’am. Is Perry Rhodes at home?’
Of course he wanted Perry.
He had a Southern accent, maybe Texan. Not a full-on drawl; more polite and gentlemanly.
She said, ‘No, sorry. He’s not here.’
Cohen put a foot on the threshold, looked along the street as he said, ‘I called the diner but he wasn’t there, either.’ Looking back at her now, wanting her take on it.
Marie said, ‘Oh. Then I don’t know where he is.’
Cohen nodded, the pleasant manner unchanged, like none of this was a setback. He looked past her and lifted his chin as he said, ‘You mind if I come in?’
Her body language had already made the offer, the way she was standing back, holding the edge of the door. But she didn’t want him inside, scared of what he would say about Perry. It showed her hypocrisy: her reluctance to admit the guy, despite her threat to Dexter to get the law involved. She wanted events to obey her preference, for Perry to call and say it’s all OK, to keep the hard truths hidden. Let that option have its chance before she decided whether this was trouble worth sharing. But the moment for excuses was short and it had passed, and the cop’s manner made him hard to disoblige. He seemed to realise all of that, stepping forward as she opened her mouth to say, ‘Sure. Come in.’
He stood in the hallway and looked around, glancing at the kitchen and then up the stairs, keeping the smile in place to make his vigilance seem idle. Thumbs in his belt, fingers of his right hand loose on the gun on his hip.
He said, ‘I take it you’re Mrs. Rhodes?’
She put the chain on the door and faced him. ‘Yeah, Marie. Perry’s wife.’
He nodded, looked at the coatrack beside her, the boys’ bright snow gear hanging from hooks, various shoes beneath it. He said, ‘Shall we take a seat, maybe?’
‘Sure.’ Sounding relaxed enough, but probably looking cagey, arms folded across her chest, the cordless phone still in her hand.
He followed her into the front room and sat down in Perry’s chair, waited for her to get settled on the sofa before he said, ‘The name Terrence Arceneaux mean anything to you?’
She didn’t know anyone named Arceneaux. She shook her head slowly and said, ‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’ Pleased she didn’t need to bend the truth.
Cohen said, ‘I understand he worked with your husband a while.’ He shifted in his seat, getting comfy, didn’t move his eyes from her. He said, ‘Terrence was up on an assault charge a couple years back, your husband got him out of it, gave him an alibi.’
She said, ‘I didn’t know about that.’
Cohen didn’t answer.
She said, ‘What, he worked at the diner?’
‘Yeah. I believe so.’
She shrugged. ‘I never heard that name.’
He took a phone from his pocket and swiped and tapped for a moment, leaned forward to show her a photo on the screen. A young man she’d never seen before.
She said, ‘Sorry. Don’t recognise him.’
It struck her as a dead end, now that she’d gone no on all counts. But the marshal just nodded to himself, pointed at the coatrack in the corridor. Seeming amused, he said, ‘You have boys?’
She nodded. ‘Yeah, two. Eight and ten.’
‘Nice. Yeah, I got two little girls. They haven’t learned how to use a coatrack yet. Everywhere they go, it’s like a bomb went off in a wardrobe.’
She didn’t answer, not knowing if he’d digressed to get her off guard, or if it was genuine
fatherly reflex.
Getting back to it, he said, ‘Hopefully your husband can recall a thing or two.’ He looked away, thrummed his fingers on the armrest, as if deciding whether to go on. He looked back at her and said, ‘Terrence was in New Mexico a few weeks ago, involved in a kidnapping. Ended up shot in the head.’
News of death and kidnapping made her slow to answer, even slower when she thought that maybe Perry had a link to it. She wiped her lips with a knuckle, took a long breath before saying, ‘That’s terrible.’
He said, ‘Yep. I’d say that’s about right.’
It seemed like the kind of news that needed a moment’s silence, but she wanted him out of the house, unsettled by the way he sat there patiently, like awaiting a confession.
She said, ‘Well, if you’ve got a card or something, I can ask Perry to call.’
Most would have taken that as a cue to get moving, but this marshal had endurance. Making a steeple with his hands, watching the fingers as they bounced slightly, Cohen said, ‘Marie, is there anything I can help you with?’
So he knew there was something.
And of course they needed help, but now that the chance was here, she didn’t want it. It was too soon. There was still time for better outcomes, time for Perry to cut his ties without it all going wrong. But to voice suspicions to the marshal now would be to take a certain road before the other could be laid. There was still time.
Her silence, though, was just more evidence of her dilemma. Gesturing vaguely, nothing extra in his tone, the marshal said, ‘I walked up the street just now, saw two guys sitting in a black Lexus.’ He tilted his head, indicating south. ‘Nothing too sinister about it, other than that you don’t see it a lot, people hanging out in parked cars on suburban streets. Made me wonder if they were here to keep an eye on you. Then you opened the door, seemed kind of anxious, but not that surprised, like you mighta been expecting a knock eventually.’
She didn’t answer. She hadn’t noticed a Lexus. There were cars at the kerb all the time.
Cohen said, ‘And then I saw you’ve got a thirty-eight pistol in your jeans, and I figured I was probably right.’
It took some self-control not to react when he said that. How stupid to forget about the gun. He would have seen it as soon as he stepped inside—she’d had to turn her back to lock the door.
He said, ‘If there’s something happening, Marie, we can fix it. But once I leave, things go in a different direction, and it may not be as easy.’
She didn’t answer, and she knew that was as good as confirming his suspicions. Nothing short of full denial would have a hope to change his mind, but in the same way as she’d missed her chance to stop his entry, she’d missed her chance to tell him he was wrong.
She said, ‘I think you can go now. If you leave a card, Perry will call you.’
Cohen looked straight at her, quiet for a long time in case she had a change of heart. But she said nothing.
He said, ‘If your husband knows anything about kidnappings down in New Mexico, he really needs to tell me about it.’
Making it sound like Perry knew the full story, whatever it was. Marie didn’t answer, worried her voice would catch.
The marshal opened his wallet and put a business card on the arm of his chair, and then he let himself out.
Cohen
Seeing the scared woman with the gun told him a story in broad terms. He could have pushed harder, told her people end up dead if they don’t come clean, but that was a tough line to go with, based on nothing other than a pistol in a waistband and two guys in a Lexus. Knowing there were kids in the frame made him hesitate as well. Although maybe that was instinct gone awry. Maybe delicacy was at the exact wrong end of the response spectrum.
He stood on the sidewalk and checked the street carefully, nothing in the parked cars jumping out at him, other than the two guys in the Lexus, the pair of them shadowy behind tinted glass.
He took out his phone and called Karen Kaminski in Santa Fe, told her voice mail that the Perry Rhodes tip-off was good information. He called Sean Avery again as well, left a similar message on the FBI man’s answering machine, that Perry Rhodes and his wife were part of something that she, at least, wanted out of.
Then he walked back along to the Charger and got in and pulled out slowly onto Humboldt, southbound. He drove slowly, watching his mirror, saw the black Lexus let him have a three-car cushion, and then ease out into traffic.
Marie
After Cohen left, she went to the kitchen and poured a drink, two fingers of tap water over ice in a tumbler. Vodka would be better, but she worried numbness would be too appealing. Hard to stop at one, though she needed something to take her mind off Perry. New Mexico and kidnappings and whatever else it was. The marshal hadn’t gone as far as accusations, but how could there not be a link? Perry strung out for weeks, on a job he kept secret, and then a federal cop shows up talking kidnappings. It would take some crazy luck to make them unrelated.
She poured another inch and arched back and drained the glass in one swallow. The gun dug into her lower spine. What a stupid move that was. Lucky the guy hadn’t shot her in her own hallway. The kids coming home to ambulances and a corpse. She closed her eyes and chewed ice.
New Mexico and Perry and murder.
Problem was, she couldn’t kill the theory by saying it was crazy. Perry went away at times, a few days every few months, the details always scarce. Work with Tolson. Something for Dexter. She was past the point where she could rationalise, past the point where she could make it trivial, or say it’s all coincidence. When there’s a U.S. marshal in your living room, you can’t keep saying it’s not as bad as you think.
You’re orbiting a worst-case scenario.
The knowledge made her dizzy, and she braced herself on the counter, telling herself she wouldn’t be sick. Maybe a real drink wasn’t such a bad idea. She opened the cupboard over the fridge and brought down Perry’s Jack Daniel’s. It was lighter than it should have been. Maybe it had been propping him up the last little while. She left the bottle on the counter while she went to the living room to get the phone. She’d given Dexter an hour, so Perry still had, what? Thirty minutes? If she didn’t hear from him, she had Cohen’s number. She’d talk to either him or Dexter.
The marshal’s business card was still on the arm of the chair, and she left it there, not wanting to take it with her and tempt fate. Even reading it would be like half-opening a door. She took the phone with her to the kitchen and found Dexter Vine at the table, pouring himself a whisky in her water glass.
She’d been tense before, riding the shock of Cohen’s news, but now things seemed to go still and quiet. Dexter sat to the side of the table, gun on his knee, his other hand on his drink. He’d used the kitchen door, unlocked from when Perry came in last night.
He had a small sip and set down the glass and turned it back and forth with his fingertips. He was dressed like a trash can, a grey overcoat with a little grey cheese-cutter hat. He said, ‘Who was he and what did you tell him?’
Marie was standing in the door to the hallway. The gun was still in her belt at her back, but she didn’t trust herself to use it fast enough. Grab it, aim, squeeze. A sequence she’d never performed, and she’d have to do it quicker than a man could lift a hand from a knee.
She tugged the hem of her sweater down and said, ‘I told him everything.’
‘Everything.’
He finished the whisky and held a piece of ice between his teeth as he stood, gestured at her with the gun. ‘Living room. Walk slow.’ The ice gave him a brogue. ‘Slow’ was ‘schlow’.
She led the way as directed and he trailed her by six feet or so, the gun at his side. She stood at the window looking out at the street as he picked up Cohen’s card and inspected it. She could see a black Dodge SUV pulling away up the road, and then a black Lexus easing out behind it.
Still looking at the card, Dexter said, ‘I think you can come with me.’
She didn’t answer. This was a new kind of Dexter, frostier and more controlled, different from the one on the phone. But she still had Perry’s gun, and maybe it still had its uses.
TWENTY-THREE
Marshall
He saw his first dead body when he was fourteen. One of their buyers was a Vietnam vet named Danny Glades, lived just up the highway from where they were in Gary, only a ten-minute trip if Marshall ran the Suzuki flat out at a scream. He remembered Danny as a strange guy, living alone in a trailer at the back of a dump piled up with rusted truck cabs. He didn’t have much in his life other than heroin, and he used to purchase it in bulk, two grand at a time, enough to keep himself going and satisfy the posse he on-sold to outside AA meetings.
The trailer he lived in was a wreck, chocked unevenly so it sat on a lean amid a mound of long grass. He had a little patch of lawn out front fenced off with chicken wire, and he used to sit there on a pink metal deck chair, throwing bread crusts to the pigeons, muttering to them as they pecked and squabbled. They were there at the end for him as well, came in an open window and pecked Danny’s face off after he shot up a big load and OD’d on the floor of his trailer. When Marshall got therethey’d probably been at him only a day, but it was long enough for a full face-lift, just a red hole where his features should’ve been.
He remembered looking in over the sill, jumping back with fright and sprinting for the bike, holding the throttle at the redline all the way home. Throwing up and then admitting what he’d found, and all he got was a finger jabbing at him, his mother shouting to get back there and take Danny’s cash, the two grand he would’ve had there for the buy. More than twenty years ago now, but he still thought about it. The birds all jostling for position and the sudden flapping as they rose and landed in the tight space, beak tips bright red.
He drove Henry’s Cadillac downtown on Second Avenue, the big car smooth and alert, happy to glide, the high-rises thinning out as he worked south of the Twenties. By Tenth Street the tall buildings fell away, everything down to five or six storeys. It was still cluttered despite the loss of height: the mess of fire escapes and signage hanging off the frontages, street vendors with their smoking carts, pedestrians of every age and fashion and origin. He went left on Tenth and turned south again on First Avenue, came back west on Ninth and stopped a hundred feet from his building. There was a guy outside the bookstore thumbing through a paperback from the sidewalk display, but he looked like a genuine browser rather than a killer killing time.