by DV Berkom
I sipped at my margarita, wondering how many drinks she’d be able to put into her slender, five-foot-six-inch frame before getting seriously trashed. By the looks of it, she was no lightweight.
The waiter brought her another gin and tonic. She drained the dregs of the first one and set it on his tray. When he asked if we wanted to order anything to eat, she waved him off with a fifty-dollar bill.
“Keep ’em comin’ though, okay, sweetheart?”
The waiter nodded and disappeared into the crowd gathered near the bar.
“You were saying?” Against my better judgment, my curiosity was piqued. What kind of confession would a cold-blooded assassin like Angie make?
And could I use it against her?
She glanced to each side, making sure no one was within earshot before sucking down her second drink. She set the glass on the table, squared her shoulders, and shook her hair back. As if on cue, the waiter appeared with another gin and tonic.
“I don’t have many friends.” Her gaze flickered out the huge window before settling on me.
“No. Seriously?” I doubted she caught the sarcasm.
She shook her head. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
Nope. Hadn’t caught it. I remained silent and let her continue. Clearly, she wasn’t looking for a response.
“I used to. Back when I was a deb—that’s debutante for you Yankees—I was one of the most popular girls in my class. Got invited to all the parties.” She smiled at the memory but then appeared to snap back to the present. “You’d think my fashion sense and ability to put together a sit-down dinner for eleven hundred at a moment’s notice would have stood me in good stead, but nooo.” An annoyed expression flitted across her face. “When I won the Miss Confederate Angel pageant you’d have thought Hitler himself had been nominated, judging by the town’s response.” She turned to me with a puzzled expression. “Just because I used a little creative genius to take care of the competition.”
“Are you telling me that you killed a contestant?”
She waved her hand as if swatting a fly and polished off her third gin and tonic. The waiter was right there with another as soon as her glass touched the table.
“Heavens, no.” She took a dainty sip of the fourth. “I went straight for the judges. Let me tell you, the whole town was in an uproar.” She sucked on her straw and then stabbed the ice with it. “Especially since one of ’em was actually a sitting federal judge.”
I had to ask. The idea of her confessing pulled at me, sucking me into her recollection. It was a lot like not being able to pass by a car wreck without looking. “You killed a federal judge to win a beauty pageant?”
Angie giggled, the booze finally beginning to show an effect. She leaned in close and stage-whispered, “I didn’t kill ’em, silly. I sent ’em a note promisin’ to kill ’em. Said that if they didn’t select li’l ol’ Angie McKenna as the winner, that they were all gonna die. And not in a good way.” A loud belch erupted from deep inside her. I turned my head to avoid the stench.
“I take it you did time for threatening a federal judge?”
She emphatically shook her head. “No. I was careful. I used gloves and cut the words out of a magazine and pasted ’em into the note. They never did figure out it was me.” She smirked and took another drink. Then her face turned dark. “I did time for something else.” She shrugged. “It was worth every year I spent behind bars. I learned a lot. When I got out I was ready for a lifestyle change.”
I tried to stop myself from asking the next logical question, but failed. It wasn’t every day that I was privy to the inner thoughts of an assassin.
“Can I ask why you did do time?”
She gazed across the room, a moody expression on her face. “My asshat of a husband, that’s why.”
Assassins got married? The idea of Angie hooking up with anyone other than Charles Manson or Hannibal Lecter was a hard sell. That particular train of thought must have shown on my face because Angie’s expression morphed from glowering anger to hurt in a nanosecond. The rest of her drink disappeared, and the waiter materialized with another. I signaled that I was ready for one more, as well. He nodded and hurried off.
“You think I can’t love anybody because of what I do for a livin’?”
“It’s not that, I just—”
“Believe you me, I most certainly can feel love. Probably a lot deeper than your skinny ass.” I expected her to add, “So there.”
“I stand corrected.” A small, persistent voice in my head told me I needed to finish my drink, thank her for the nice chat, and vacate the premises while I still could. Maybe it was the tequila, but my fascination had grown and I wanted to find out the rest of the story. I decided my best course of action was to stay quiet and let her talk if she wanted to.
The waiter brought my second drink and Angie’s sixth, and we sat in silence. I was about to suggest that we order an appetizer when she sighed and shifted in her seat, almost losing her balance. Her purse slipped off the back of the chair and fell to the floor with a clank. Part of a gun barrel peeked out from the opening. With a confused expression, Angie looked around her for the source of the noise. I bent down and grabbed her bag, shoving the nine millimeter back inside before anyone noticed. Then I pulled my car keys out and slid them into my pocket. Zipping her purse closed, I hung it on the back of my chair with my own bag.
“Where was I?” Angie muttered.
“Something about your asshat of a husband.”
“Oh, yeah. Tha’s right.” She sipped at her G&T, her gaze unfocused. Whether from the gin or reminiscing, I wasn’t sure.
“He was gorgeous. Really, really handsome.” A dreamy sigh escaped her. “Definitely my weakness.”
“Why was he an asshat?” I prompted.
“His gorgeousness worked against us. Women from ten counties came cattin’ around, wantin’ a piece of him.” She let out a low whistle. “My, my. He was somethin’.”
Okay. I got it. The guy was good in the sack. Moving on.
“So he cheated on you?” I said, hoping to yank her out of her reverie.
“He didn’t just cheat, darlin’. Oh, no.” She shook her head, getting into the telling of it. “He was an artiste, a maestro. Played every last one of us like a damned orchestra.”
I figured I knew where the story was headed.
I was wrong.
“One day I came home from work and there he was, face down on the bed, a kitchen knife stickin’ out between his shoulder blades.” She gave a little shudder before continuing. “I must have been in shock, because I went right over and pulled the damned thing out. Now, I knew I shouldn’t have touched anything, and I knew in my brain that he was dead, but for some stupid reason I couldn’t stand to see him that way. I even explained it to the detective who showed up after I called the police, but do you think he believed me? Or even gave me half a chance?” Angie shook her head, resentment plain on her face. “Of course not. The actual killer used gloves and didn’t leave any prints, and the detective in charge was gunnin’ for mayor, so makin’ sure I was sent away for a long time became his priority.
“All I can say is, those five years in prison surely made me what I am today. I learned more about killin’ in there than anyone had a right to.”
“Five years? For murder?” That didn’t sound right. My bullshit detector went on alert.
Angie gave me a wry smile. “The actual perpetrator confessed five years later. It was like magic. One day I’m doin’ hard time for a murder I didn’t commit, and the next day I’m a free woman with no home, no friends, no money, but a whole lotta newly acquired knowledge.” She finished her drink, waving the waiter away when he reappeared with another. “Turned out to be one of his little girlfriends from the roadhouse. Couldn’t take sharin’ him, I guess. Ironically, she got assigned to my cell block just before I was released, and I slit the little bitch’s throat. No witnesses came forward and I went my merry way. The rest is history.”
My phone pinged in my purse, and I took it out to see who it was. It was a text from Sam that dinner was almost ready. I gave Angie a look and she rolled her eyes.
“Fine. We’ll go. Jus’ one more toast.” She raised her glass and I picked up mine. “I’m pleased to say that you are the first graduate of Angie McKenna’s School for Assassins.” We touched glasses and both drained our drinks.
“Really? You mean we’re done?” I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice. I didn’t want to press my luck.
“Yep. Fini. I have one last parting gift to give you.”
I waited in anticipation, relieved that our association was finally over. When she didn’t specify what she meant, I asked, “And that is?”
Angie gave me an enigmatic look. “You’ll see.”
Twenty-Five
I REPLIED TO Sam’s text, letting him know I’d be home soon and to hold dinner. After much arguing, I drove Angie’s car back to the Jeep, and then called her a cab. Giddy with relief at finally ending things with her, I found myself humming a happy tune in anticipation of spending some quality time with Sam. Twenty minutes later, I parked the Jeep in the garage next to Sam’s new rig and climbed the stairs to the kitchen.
The mouthwatering scent of Sam’s signature vegetable lasagna greeted me as I walked in the door, the air redolent with fresh garlic, basil, and marinara. I tossed my purse on the counter and glanced inside the oven. Ricotta and mozzarella cheese bubbled in the deep pan, promising a tasty dinner. The counter had been set for two, including a lit taper, a bottle of red and two wine glasses, and a basket of crusty French bread. Sam wasn’t in the kitchen, so after washing my hands at the sink, I moseyed into the living room. He sat on the sofa with his back to me. The muted television was broadcasting a local news station.
“Hey there,” I said, skirting the end of the couch. His stony facial expression was the first clue that he wasn’t happy. He held his phone loosely in his right hand, as though forgotten.
“What’s wrong?” I sat down beside him and put my hand on his arm. He turned his head and gave me a look I’d never seen him use before. I tried to guess at his mood—anger? Sadness? Shock? “Talk to me.”
Sam returned his attention to the television and unmuted the channel. The news anchor was in the middle of reporting a breaking story. A still shot of a familiar Craftsman home could be seen behind her. The scrolling marquee on the bottom of the screen read Rival Gang Brings Down Crime Boss.
“Edward Chacon had moved to the quiet Seattle neighborhood just one week before his brutal murder…”
My heart skipped a beat. They’d found the body. Even though I knew it would happen, it was still shocking to see it play out on TV. I glanced at Sam. This time his expression was easy to read.
Sadness.
“What are you looking at me like that for? You think I had anything to do with this?” My mind scrambled for the right thing to say to ease the pain I saw in his eyes.
“I know you did.”
“No, I didn’t. What are you even talking about?”
“Don’t lie to me, Kate.” He muted the TV and set the remote on the side table. “I just got off the phone with a mutual acquaintance.”
Something shifted inside of me and my heart sank. She couldn’t have.
“Who?”
“Angie.” He watched me closely. When I didn’t respond, he continued. “She told me everything, right down to the knife in his throat. And she emailed me this.” He turned his phone toward me and pressed play.
It was the video Angie had taken of Chacon’s confession. At first the framing was tight to Chacon, but a few seconds into the replay the scene widened to include the back of me holding the gun. My voice was unmistakable.
A wave of weariness swept through me. It was too much effort to hold myself upright, and I slumped back against the sofa.
“I didn’t kill him, Sam.”
“But you hired her to teach you how.” He shook his head. “What were you thinking?”
I didn’t know what to say. I’d never be able to make him understand how powerless I felt when I first saw Lisa in that hospital bed. Or when the Whitmores demanded more information about the people responsible for their son’s death and I couldn’t give it to them. The pain in their eyes would stay with me for a lifetime. Sam never let things affect him that way.
“I wanted to know how to do things that would get results. Chacon’s the kind of criminal who only understands violence, Sam. You know that. I thought if I could learn what to do and expect, then I’d have better luck finding the person responsible for so many lives cut short and make them pay.”
“And have you?”
Remembering the thumb drive with the information from Chacon’s laptop, I nodded. “Another clue, at least.”
“The man died, Kate. And Angie has evidence that you were there.” He leaned forward, his body taut with tension.
“I never intended for it to happen, at least not that way. Angie just showed up.” I spread my hands wide, as though that should have been enough of an explanation.
Sam watched me for a moment before responding. “You do get that you’re responsible for his death, right? You hired an assassin. If you hadn’t done that, he’d probably still be alive today.”
A tiny spark of rebellion ignited in my chest. “I didn’t ‘hire an assassin’ to kill the guy. Besides, he was a dirt bag with no regard for human life. The world won’t miss him one bit. Will you?” Just where did Sam get off judging me for trying to do what was right?
“Kate—” Sam’s surprised expression added fuel to my fire.
“What did you expect? I’ve lived for years looking over my shoulder, being afraid for my life and the lives of those I loved. That’s no way to live, Sam. You should try it some time.” I was on a roll, now. “Chacon was responsible for my sister’s coma, not to mention all those other deaths linked to those painkillers. How could I do nothing?”
Sam closed his eyes and shook his head. “Who have you become?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The anger inside of me was burning out of control. A part of me watched the scene play out, knowing where this was headed but unable or unwilling to stop the emotional runaway train.
“I think we need a break. I’ve been operating under the assumption that you and I were of like minds.” He stared into space. “What happened with Angie and Chacon tells me a different story.”
“So we’re breaking up?” The words came out defiant but my heart was in shreds. I don’t want to lose you, Sam, I thought. But I didn’t say it. I couldn’t form the words.
Wouldn’t.
“I hear a lot of I’s in your explanation. No we’s. I’ve been thinking of us as ‘we.’ Obviously you haven’t.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Sam shut me down with a look.
“You can tell yourself that Chacon deserved to die, deserved to be tortured. That you haven’t really done anything wrong. You can see it any way you want. Let me tell you how the criminal justice system will see it if they figure out you were a part of this. They could charge you with Murder One, or barring that, accessory to murder, which means a prison term. I guarantee you won’t like prison, Kate. People tell you what to do there. All. The. Time.
“If prison doesn’t bother you, how about the position you’ve put me in? Thanks to your new BFF sending the video to me, now there’s a record that I know who committed the murder. What do you think the police will do if they catch up with Angie or find her phone? My number’s on her call list.” Sam leaned back and crossed his arms. “How the hell did she even get my number?”
“I—I don’t know. She must have gotten a hold of my phone.” She’d had plenty of opportunity. My heart stuttered in my chest. I waited for him to continue, but he didn’t.
We sat in frozen silence, both of us unsure what to say, knowing the next words would make or break us. My phone pinged in the kitchen, telling me I had a text. Grateful for the distraction,
I rose from the couch and blindly made my way to see who had sent it. I wiped at the tears forming in my eyes before fishing my cell out of my purse and glancing at the screen. It was a message from my father.
Lisa’s had a turn for the worse. Call me asap.
Palms sweating, I punched in his number, willing the call to connect faster. Finally, on the fifth ring, he answered.
“Maureen and I are at the hospital.” He sounded like he hadn’t slept. “Lisa went downhill overnight. They’ve been working to revive her.” He drew a ragged breath. “They don’t know how long she’s got.”
My stomach twisted and I closed my eyes. Please don’t leave, Lisa. You have to hang on. The words formed in my mind like a mantra. “I’ll be on the next plane to Minneapolis.”
“No, Kate.” He paused. “It would be better if you didn’t come, love bug.”
“Why not?” Shock replaced worry and my hands clenched. “I can take the redeye and be there by morning.”
There was a hesitation before he said, “Maureen and your sisters don’t want you here. They don’t even know I’m calling you.” His voice softened. “I’m sorry, honey.”
Shock gave way to hurt, which quickly turned to anger. I tried to slow my breathing as my face heated.
“Lisa’s my sister, too.” I bit through the words.
“I know, love bug, I know. It’s just that right now it would be best if you weren’t around. They’re angrier than a nest of hornets and blame you for everything.”
“But you don’t, do you?”
“Of course not. I know you mean well. It’s just that—” Another sigh. “It would just make life a whole lot easier if you stayed in Seattle. I promise to keep you posted, okay?” Muted voices floated through the other end of the line. “I’ve got to go, love bug. Take care, okay?”
“Okay,” I replied, but he’d already ended the call.