More than that, she thought. I want more than that.
Steve sighed and rubbed his eyes. His stomach rumbled. “I never had dinner tonight,” he said. “Want to order some Chinese?”
She walked over and picked up his pants from where they lay on the floor, handing them to him. “The diner on Madison is open until eleven. You can still get something if you hurry.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Steve, you may be content to live your life in the kind of relationship you just described, with the kind of partner you seem to think I am. I’m not willing to settle for that.”
He sighed, looking down at the pants in his hand. “Fine, if you insist, we’ll go back to that marriage counselor. If that’s what you need to feel better.”
“Don’t say that just because you want to sleep over tonight. You need to be sincere. Look, I really think we need some time apart, to figure out how serious we are about fixing this marriage.”
He studied her for a moment, then stood up and pulled on his pants.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll indulge you for a little while longer, Mel. I guess you’re more upset about Samantha than I realized. But I’m warning you, there’s a limit. I’m getting tired of sleeping at my parents’. And if you see that guy again, I am not going to be happy.”
She followed him to the foyer to lock up behind him. As he left, she automatically kissed him good night. The kiss made her sad, but it wouldn’t have felt right to let him leave without one either. Old habits die hard.
AFTER STEVE LEFT, SHE GOT THE MUNCHIES something awful. It must be stress. Or all the sex. Lucky Steve was gone, because if he were still here, they’d probably wind up doing it again. Food was a safer option. She’d rather have her stomach full and her mind clear of her husband, so she could think.
She went hunting through the cabinets to find it. The small, square box with the blue-and-gold label that hadn’t changed since her childhood. Flan from a mix, her favorite dessert as a kid. And yes, she was an assimilated, mainland Puerto Rican whose mami didn’t know how to make the real thing from scratch. So what? That’s who she was, and she should stop being so down on herself.
That was what she ultimately decided, as she stirred the creamy yellow mixture, savoring the delicious caramel scent that rose from the pot. She needed to think better of herself. In her heart she’d never made it out of Bushwick. She was still the girl from the block, child of violence and divorce, whose father never came back home after that one awful night. Up until now she was grateful to take what Steve offered and not ask anything more.
She poured the sweet molten liquid out into small bowls and stuck them in the freezer to speed the cooling process. She ate two and a half of the bowls before she felt sick to her stomach and dumped the rest in the trash. ¡Qué estúpido! What was she thinking? She could feel those calories going straight to her hips. Now she’d have to fast tomorrow to make up for it.
She went to her bedroom and turned off the lights, lying on top of the covers and watching the blue shadows move across the room, thinking about what Steve had said. She didn’t want to be the person he described. She wanted to jettison all that old baggage from her childhood, so she could be better and braver and take her rightful place in the world.
Now all she had to do was figure out how.
37
BILL FLANAGAN SNAPPED HIS CELL PHONE SHUT, A satisfied smile spreading across his broad red face. He hadn’t expected this gig to amount to much. But whaddaya know, a phone call out of the blue, and here he was looking at twenty-five grand. Fifteen, that scumbag offered him first, but he negotiated it up. Think Wild Bill Flanagan didn’t know the street price for a hit? Think they were dealing with a fucking amateur? Think again, my friend. The timing was good, though. Frankie Bricks was coming after him for that wad he dropped in Atlantic City. He needed a payday if he didn’t want to wind up kneecapped.
He’d have to think it through real careful, though. It was such an easy setup, what with him in the room anyway, it was tempting to jump the gun. She’d been sleeping when he left. He could walk back in and take care of it right now with the old pillow-over-the-face routine, then string her up with some rope or, better yet, a torn bedsheet. Make it look like a suicide, the man said. Twenty-five grand for a couple minutes work—not bad. He’d enjoy it, too, big-time. That snotty little bitch waking up terrified when she couldn’t breathe, trying to fight him off, writhing under him while he pressed the pillow down harder, then going limp. Wow. Just thinking about it, he got a hard-on for the first time in as long as he could remember. But if he decided to go that route, he’d have to set up his alibi real careful, or he’d get caught.
That was the problem. The easiest thing about this hit was also the hardest. He had total access. That meant they would come looking to him for answers. If they didn’t buy the suicide angle, they’d know it was murder; nothing in her condition far as he knew would suggest natural causes. So they’d assume he had something to do with it. Somebody else bodyguarding her might be able to say he’d stepped out to take a piss and get away with it, but not him. They had it in for him, the lousy motherfuckers. He needed something good, something that could be corroborated. He needed to be seen somewhere. The cafeteria, maybe? He could kill her, string her up, then go down there and pick a fight with somebody. That would get him noticed, and it would also have the added benefit of explaining any marks on him if the little bitch resisted. Then he’d come upstairs and pretend to discover the body. It was a possibility.
He went back into the room and sat in the chair in the corner, watching her sleep, thinking about how to do it. It was around ten o’clock. Bright light spilled into the darkened room from the hallway. Still a lot of activity on the ward. Middle of the night would be better, so nobody would hear the struggle. It had to be done tonight—that was a condition of the deal. So he didn’t have time to get no heart-attack drug or any fancy shit like that. A knife, a gun, he already had, but they wouldn’t fly if he was gonna fake the suicide. Suffocation, then, or maybe strangulation. Strangulation, now there was an idea. The white flesh of her skinny neck under his thumbs as he crushed her windpipe. Jesus, he was turning himself on again.
She stirred in her sleep, sighing and flopping her bandaged arm around on the blanket. He walked over and stood there looking at her. When he was sure she was sound asleep, he carefully tugged the blanket down to her waist, looking at the outline of her body under the thin hospital gown. She was too goddamn skinny. Pointy little tits, she had, needed a boob job. He liked ’em bigger, like that prosecutor today—now, she was a ripe one. The idea of fucking a girl after she was dead had always appealed to him, but this one here was a bag of bones. There was the DNA evidence, too. Hairs he could explain from bodyguarding her, but semen would be a problem. He better watch what he drank, or he’d find himself doing it anyway. Controlling himself was never his thing.
He went back to the chair, sat down, and stretched his legs out. He pulled out his pint, tipped it back and drank till it was empty and he felt that glow. It would be hours before he could do anything. He oughta save his energy. Time for a little snooze.
FLANAGAN WOKE WITH A START FROM A DEAD sleep. He’d heard a weird popping noise. Or was it just a dream? It was getting light outside. He pushed the button to light up the display on his digital watch, his head pounding. He’d slept most of the night away. Jesus, better get moving if he was gonna get this job done. He couldn’t afford to miss his chance; he needed the paycheck too bad.
The door to the hallway was closed. Funny, he didn’t remember doing that. Must’ve been a nurse. He stood up stiffly and straightened out his clothes, hawking to clear the phlegm from his throat. Sleeping in a fucking chair. Everything hurt. Something smelled funny, almost like blood. He hated hospitals, so depressing. Man, he was groggy. He needed a drink to clear his head. His hands shook as he reached for his pint. Fucking empty! Shit! He didn’t remember finishing it off. How the fuck was he gonna do th
is job without another drink? He might have to go out for some, he was getting the DTs so bad.
He walked over to the bed, remembering that he hadn’t decided whether to strangle or suffocate her. Looking down at her, though, it took him a minute to process what he saw. Amanda’s eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling. A neat black hole sat square in the middle of her forehead, as a dark stain spread slowly across her pillow.
He was shaking all over now, trying to work out what had happened—could he have done it and blacked it out?—when he heard a noise behind him and turned. A Spanish guy with a pointy face and little bitty eyes stood there looking at him. Kid was fierce-looking, but small. Fucking prick, stealing his twenty-five Gs. Bill saw in his mind’s eye how he’d beat the kid to death with his bare fists.
“Hey, asshole,” he said, his voice hoarse, moving toward the kid, “what the fuck you doing? This is my gig.”
The kid smiled and raised his arm from where it hung at his side. He held a sleek nine-millimeter with a silencer a mile long coming off the muzzle, pointed straight at Bill’s face. Nice piece, Bill thought, listening to the loud pop it made when it went off.
HE WALK TO THE ELEVATOR AND GET ON, SIMPLE as that. It pretty quiet in the hospital this early in the morning. He like the early morning. When he get outside, the street feel real fresh. Garbage don’t stink the way it do later in the day, when the sun so hot. Nobody seen him. Even if they did, so what? He left the door closed. By the time they find the bodies, he be long gone and nobody gonna give him a second thought.
He been mad productive lately. It like he unstoppable. Kill people right in front of witnesses, and still ain’t no- body catch him. He on a mad winning streak. No reason to stop when you hot. He take care of that Chinese bitch today, that architect. Then maybe he finally get a payday off this fucked-up job.
38
FROM THE DEPTHS OF HER SLEEP, MELANIE HEARD a telephone ringing. She struggled to the surface through waves of fatigue. By the time she sat up and reached for the receiver on her bedside table, the answering machine had clicked on in the other room.
“Hello? Hello?” she repeated, eyes burning, wincing at the screech on the line as the machine cut off.
“Hello, Melanie, it’s Elsie.”
She looked at the clock sitting next to the telephone. It was nearly seven. The alarm was just about to go off, and the bed felt empty without Steve in it. She’d barely slept last night, with everything that was on her mind. Given the length of Elsie’s commute and the fact that she obviously hadn’t left home yet, Elsie was going to be late to work. Which meant Melanie was going to be late to work.
“Hey, Elsie, what’s up?” she asked, her stomach sinking. She had so much to do today.
“Did I mention today was my birthday?” Elsie asked.
“No. No, I didn’t know it was your birthday. But I’m glad you told me. I’ll pick up a cake on my way home from the office today, and we’ll celebrate.”
“Well, my children want to take me out. After how much I’ve been working, I need the day off. So I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it today,” Elsie said.
“I beg your pardon?” Melanie asked, hoping she’d misunderstood.
“I said I can’t come in today.”
“Elsie, if you want to take a personal day for your birthday, we can talk about that, but I need some notice. I’m in the middle of a major murder investigation.” She was panicking, breathing hard.
“I’m sorry, Melanie. I really can’t make it today. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Elsie hung up.
SHE CHECKED ON MAYA, STILL SOUND ASLEEP in her crib. Por favor, stay that way a little longer, nena! Melanie needed to concentrate on solving this problem. She made some coffee and sat down at the kitchen table, rubbing her eyes. Tired as she was, coping with this unexpected complication seemed beyond her abilities. Think, think. Who could she call? Well, Steve, of course. He was Maya’s father, wasn’t he?
She reached him at his parents’ and explained the situation.
“Can you believe that?” she said. “I feel so let down. No notice or anything.”
“Elsie’s probably trying to make a point about how you’ve been treating her,” Steve replied.
“I know. I get it. I’m not stupid. I do need to have a heart-to-heart with her about overtime. But this is her job. When I have to stay late, no matter how tired I am the next day, I still show up for work.”
“Give her a break. She’s been working pretty hard lately, and she’s no spring chicken.”
“Okay, I hear you. But will you cover for me? At least until this afternoon when my mom gets off work?”
“No, I won’t, Melanie. You know why? You need a lesson in what this separation stuff means in real life. Being a single mother is no picnic.”
“Steve, this is no time to be vindictive.”
“It’s not about that. You’re rushing into this separation without considering the consequences. Maybe this’ll make you think twice, appreciate me a little more. Because I want to be in your life. Yours and Maya’s.”
“Steve—”
“Think about it,” he said, and hung up.
Yeah, she’d think about what a jerk he was, that’s what she’d think about. As if his refusal to pitch in would make her more likely to reconcile with him. Fat chance. She put the phone down and banged her head several times on the table. Not that that helped anything, but it summed up how she felt.
The phone rang loudly, right in her ear, making her jump. She snatched it up and answered it.
“Hello?” she said hopefully. Elsie, perhaps, calling to say she’d changed her mind?
“Hey,” Dan said. “You get some sleep?”
“Oh, hi.” She was momentarily disappointed it wasn’t Elsie. Things were so screwed up in her life that Dan felt like one more complication. Maybe she should have a talk with him, straighten things out, although that seemed awkward, even presumptuous. After all, nothing had really happened last night. Just one tiny kiss. Mmm, it was pretty great, though. She couldn’t help smiling. He was pretty great.
“How are you this morning?” she asked, brightening.
“Not so good,” he said. “Listen, I got some real bad news.”
“Oh.” She reviewed all the possibilities in her mind. Could it have something to do with Bernadette? “What? Tell me.”
“Slice got to Amanda. She was murdered last night. Shot in the head. Flanagan, too.”
A wave of nausea swept through her. She rushed to the sink just in time to throw up. Her eyes were tearing, and she couldn’t see. She ran the water, splashed some on her face.
“Melanie? Melanie?”
She heard the phone squawking and looked down in surprise to see that it was still in her hand. In her head she heard Delvis Diaz’s voice, telling her the people she’d brought to the interview were dirty. Not just Randall. Dan, too. Dan, who insisted on taking her out for a drink last night when they should have been at the hospital guarding Amanda. Dan, the man she told her husband she had feelings for, the man she was letting further undermine her already devastated marriage. God, what a fool she was!
“Where the fuck was Randall? Why wasn’t he watching her door?” Tears were streaming down her cheeks, but she managed to sound tough, collected.
He paused a moment before responding. “I don’t know. I can’t find him, and he’s not answering his pager.”
“Where are you?” she asked.
“At the hospital, but I’m about to leave. It happened overnight. Crime Scene went through the room already and took the bodies to the morgue. I can come pick you up if you want. With Slice out there—”
She hung up, cutting him off in the middle of a sentence.
“Jesus Christ, Melanie Vargas,” she said aloud, “you are a fucking idiot.”
HER MOTHER COULDN’T GET THERE UNTIL AFTER lunch. Melanie said yes to that, then sprang up and paced, racking her brain for other solutions. She grabbed the Yellow Pages and thumbed through fr
antically until she found baby-sitting services. But no. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t leave Maya with a complete stranger. Her sister was out of town. Sophie. Sophie Cho. She realized Sophie had never returned her message from the other night.
She dialed rapidly and tapped her foot, listening to the rings. But all she got was a prerecorded mechanical mes sage: “We’re sorry. The number you called has been disconnected. No further information is available.”
What? She dialed again carefully and got the same thing. Damn! That was strange. With everything going on, she suddenly felt nervous about Sophie. Why would her telephone be disconnected? Melanie rummaged in the drawer for her address book and found Sophie’s cell-phone number. She dialed. Please answer, please answer.
“Hello?”
“Oh, Soph, it’s Melanie. I’m so glad I got you.”
“Melanie?”
“Yes.”
“Look, I called you—”
“Yes, I know. I returned your call, and then I never heard back. Is everything okay? Did you disconnect your telephone for some reason?”
“Yes. Yes, I did.”
“Why? Are you moving?”
“I’m taking a vacation.”
“Vacation?”
“Yes. I’m going up to Vancouver to stay with my cousin.”
“Oh, for how long?”
“I’m not sure, but a while. I’m thinking about moving there, actually.”
“Oh, my.” Melanie’s heart sank. It wasn’t just because she needed a baby-sitter either. She hadn’t realized until just that moment how important Sophie’s friendship was to her. Sophie was really her only close friend, other than her sister. “Soph, I’m shocked. I mean, when did this happen? You never mentioned it before. Wow, I’m gonna miss you so much.”
“I’ll miss you, too. In fact, I was hoping I could come over this morning and say good-bye to you and the baby. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
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