“He was out of control, Jude.” Will’s tone was gentle, but he refused to mince words.
“How did he get the broken nose?”
“He got too rough. She responded in kind.”
Judith said nothing; he let her imagination fill in the blanks as she extracted a pack of smokes from her bag and lit up.
“This kind of work takes self-discipline,” he said. “Mick doesn’t have it.”
She turned away to exhale a stream of smoke. “No.” After a moment she added, “I shouldn’t have asked you to take him on. Thanks for trying.”
He shrugged. There was nothing more to say. “So how are things going with Roger?”
“It’s a little awkward. I always feel like Donald and Barbara are hovering over our shoulders.” It was her turn to shrug. “But we always have a nice time together.”
Will arched an eyebrow. “You sure you can handle all that excitement?”
“For your information, Roger and I are going to Bermuda tomorrow, for a week. It’s a last-minute thing. Very impulsive. Doesn’t that qualify as exciting?”
“You two going to share a room?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“How many beds?”
Judith’s gaze slid away. “I’m not ready. He’s okay with it.”
“The soul of chivalry, our Roger. Which brings us to Bachelor Number Two.” Will propped his crossed ankles on the railing. “When are you and Fergus going to stop dancing around and get down to it?”
She groaned. “Don’t you start.”
“You used to like the wild men.”
“That was another life. Some of us mature with age.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He cocked his head. “Some tastes, one never outgrows. Grandpa Will ate Jiffy Pop for breakfast every morning of his life.”
“Fergus isn’t Jiffy Pop. He’s . . .” She reached over the railing to tap the ash off her cigarette. “He’s Jell-O shots. Seems like a fun idea at the time, but then there you are, hugging the bowl, promising yourself, never again.”
“What’s Roger?” He answered his own question. “Oatmeal. Not too exciting, but you know what you’re getting.”
“I like oatmeal.”
“You tolerate oatmeal. But deep down, you’re a Jell-O shots kind of gal.”
“Just for the record,” she said, “I would never consider getting involved with a man who’s as secretive about his background as Fergus Dowd is. I half expect to see his mug shot every time I turn on America’s Most Wanted.”
“That’s called a mysterious past. It’s supposed to drive the girls wild.”
“He was either a mobster or a spy, I can never quite decide.” She shot him a look. “You can tell me. It won’t go any further.”
“What makes you think I know?”
“Okay, play it coy. I don’t care.”
“Let me ask you this,” he said. “If you were to find out all about him, and it turned out to be something not quite kosher, where would your priorities lie?”
“You mean would I turn him in?”
“Fergus being your good friend and all.” He smirked. “Like you told Tom.”
“That’s not a fair question. We could be talking, I don’t know, double agent or something.”
“What, like selling classified information? To who?”
“It was just an example.” But there was a speculative gleam in her eye.
“Well, you know . . .” He lowered his voice and leaned toward her. “I did meet him shortly after the collapse of the Soviet Union. That probably put a lot of spooks out of work.”
She narrowed her eyes, trying to decide how full of shit he was.
He shrugged. Spread his hands. “I’m just saying.”
“You have a vivid imagination,” she drawled, but her color was high, and unless his eyes deceived him, she was breathing a tad faster.
“Jell-O shots,” he said. “You never forget your first one.”
Chapter 6
LUCY SAT CROSS-LEGGED on the mattress, valiantly choking down her steamed tofu and carrot juice, when the lock turned and the door creaked open. Probably Frenchie again, demanding to know why Lucy hadn’t finished her meal yet. Or perhaps the big Irishman was putting in another appearance. Maybe this was the boss man himself, back for more of whatever that was he’d treated her to a few hours earlier. Seduction? Sexual intimidation? If simple ravishment were his aim, she’d be a ravished woman by now.
The music still blared, but at least Frenchie had turned on the lights and let her down from the wall. Most important, she’d removed Josephine from the premises. Lucy had hovered on the brink of gibbering, tongue-swallowing panic the entire time she’d stood there chained up in the dark. They’re going to forget I’m in here, her inner voice had sniveled. I’ve lost feeling in my arms. Whenever she’d managed to get a tentative grip on her composure, that disgusting beast licked a toe or scurried over her instep. Lucy’s throat was sore from screaming.
To her surprise, a kid slipped into the room, a skinny boy in his early to mid teens, by the looks of him, but since that crumpled Powerpuff mask covered his face, it was impossible to tell for sure. He wore baggy jeans and a baggier Boy Scout shirt, and his black hair stuck up in artfully unruly clumps. He shut the door quickly and stood with his ear pressed to it for several seconds before slipping the key ring into his jeans pocket and pulling out the now familiar SIG-Sauer.
What was an underage kid doing here? Was this someone’s idea of a swell after-school job? Gee, should I go with McDonald’s or the kidnapping ring?
“I’m not finished,” Lucy said. The kid seemed confused, so she indicated the magnificent repast before her. “Frenchie— uh, the lady said I have to eat it all, but she just brought it a little while ago, so . . .” She forked another chunk of gelatinous bean curd into her mouth and washed it down with carrot squeezings.
The boy started to nod at the reasonableness of this statement, then seemed to catch himself. His body language got all movie-villain tough. He gesticulated with the gun. “You better eat all that health-food shit or I’ll put one right between your eyes.”
Lucy gaped. “You’re a g—” She bit her lip.
The kid stood frozen for a second, then whipped off the mask. “Of course I’m a girl. What did you think?”
“I . . . um . . . It was hard to tell, you know . . .” Please don’t shoot me.
The girl glanced down at her own droopy gansta pants and shapeless Scout shirt, liberally sprinkled with what appeared to be cat hair. Her fingers drifted to her short hair, the roots several shades lighter than the inky tips. She had a cute little face, now that Lucy could see it.
“I like the hair,” Lucy said.
“Yeah?” She looked heartbreakingly insecure in that instant. “Fergus cut it.”
“Fergus?”
“Big guy?” The girl reached up to indicate height. “Way long hair? Irish?”
“Oh. Yes, of course. Fergus. A man of surprising talents.” Lucy kept her tone casual. “So what’s your name?”
“Cuba,” she said without hesitation, and speared the audio speakers with a malignant glare. Britney was oopsing again, at maximum volume. “Do we have to listen to this shit?”
“Um . . . not if you want it off.” Cuba didn’t seem to know how to accomplish that, so Lucy pointed to the electrical panel. “The switches are in there. One of those keys you have opens it.”
“Cool.” Cuba chattered as she located the right key and flipped switches until the music stopped. “So Will asks me to make a Britney-Christina mix album, and I’m, like, what the fuck? Can’t be for him—he’s all about jazz, classic rock. Some bluegrass. Some Motown. So these tunes are for you, huh? Did you, like, special-order ’em? No offense, but you’re kinda old for Britney.”
Did I special-order this music? Lucy wondered if she’d heard right. Clearly this girl had missed a few company memos.
Lucy scooped the last wad of tofu into her mouth and bullied it down h
er gullet. She tilted the empty bowl to show Cuba, who shuddered in revulsion. “That other woman,” Lucy said, “with the French accent. What’s her name again?”
“Gabby.”
The Frenchwoman’s words came back to Lucy. Will is always telling me I say too much. He says that is why my name suits me.
She had all their names now, first names anyway, and she’d seen a couple of faces. It was a start.
“Those are cool.” Cuba indicated Lucy’s pj bottoms, white with little pastel telephones printed on them. They didn’t match her top, anthropomorphized vegetables on a field of yellow. “Where’d you get ’em?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?” Cuba was scratching behind her ear with the barrel of the gun, her finger firmly on the trigger. Lucy almost threw up. “Oh.” The girl shrugged and pointed the pistol at Lucy. Big improvement.
“Okay, so . . .” Cuba glanced around, considering. She gestured with the gun. “Stand over there.”
Lucy rose and moved to the middle of the room.
“Now, uh . . . sit on the chair.”
Lucy did.
Cuba thought some more. “I know—I’ll tie you up. Where’s the rope?”
“Well, I’m not sure where they keep—”
“Shh.” The girl pressed a finger to her lips. She stood still, listening, and Lucy heard it, too. Footfalls. Someone passing in the hallway. The sound receded, and Cuba released a sigh.
Lucy said, “You’re not supposed to be in here, are you?”
The big blue eyes got bigger. “Don’t narc me out.”
I do not believe this.
“It’s not fair,” Cuba whined. “Will thinks I’m, like, this little kid. He won’t let me do anything. I just wanted to show him I can.”
“You showed him. You did good.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure. A real pro.”
“Thanks.” Cuba’s smile faded. “But don’t say anything, okay?”
Lucy mimed zipping her lip. Lord knew she had plenty of practice not saying what needed to be said.
Cuba crept to the door and listened. She wagged farewell with the gun, slipped it into her pocket, cracked open the door and peeked into the hallway. Then she was gone.
Lucy listened to the girl’s sneakered feet sprint down the hall. She sat on the chair, staring at the closed door.
The door Cuba had forgotten to lock.
______
HAL DROVE SLOWLY along Argyle Court, peering at house numbers. Ritzy neighborhood. Judith had done pretty well for herself, but that was no surprise. She’d been merely playing at being the rebel, way back when. He’d known it even then, known it was only a matter of time before she realized being the play toy of a raunchy band like the Puny Earthlings might not be the swiftest career track for a girl whose black-tie sweet-sixteen party at the Waldorf Astoria had been attended by three Kennedy cousins and a Partridge.
So Hal wasn’t exactly shocked at the breathtaking speed with which the band’s trashiest skank had morphed into Martha Stewart. Not that he’d been at liberty to observe the miraculous transformation firsthand, but buddies on the outside had done a little checking up for him. He’d learned that during the past twenty-five years, Judith had married a solid citizen, squirted out a brat, and lent her good name to the boards of several charitable foundations. Big-bellied babies. Save Bambi. Stuff like that.
Hal didn’t hold any of that against her. Hell, it would’ve been stupid to keep on like she was doing back then, considering her options. Judith might have been mixed up, but she was never stupid. So she’d done a one-eighty, reverted to type. But as for the rest of it . . .
Well, she was going to have to answer for the rest of it. Then they’d talk about her brother.
He rolled to a stop in front of 1530 Argyle. A dark green Acura sat next to a big redbrick colonial on a half acre of knife-edged, mower-striped broadloom. It was dusk. He wished he’d waited for full dark, when his eleven-year-old Hyundai, dented and duct-taped, wouldn’t have stood out in this slick neighborhood like the proverbial turd in the punch bowl. Not that it was his car, exactly. It belonged to Karen Schultz.
There were groupies and then there were groupies. Judith had been the conventional type, excited by the proximity to fame and the allure of the forbidden. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll: bringing horny musicians and slutty fans together for half a century. Karen was an altogether different breed, the kind who got her ya-yas by cuddling up to very bad men. She’d started by writing to Hal at Attica—soulful morale boosters that soon gave way to cheesecake photos and dirty letters. Then she was making the seven-hour drive every month. Then twice a month. Then every weekend.
Karen was by no means the first. Hal had spent two and a half decades behind bars. Precisely half his life. He’d learned early on there was no shortage of murder groupies, particularly if the murderer in question possessed all his teeth and was yoked up. But Karen was different for two reasons. She’d latched on to him less than a year before his first parole hearing, and she lived on Long Island—only twenty minutes, as it turned out, from Judith Drinkwater’s place in Port Adams. If he believed in God, he would have called it a sign from above.
Hal checked himself out in the rearview. It had been a long time, but he had no doubt Judith would recognize him. His eyes were the same piercing silver-gray, fringed by thick black lashes. Those eyes had served him well. By his fifteenth birthday he’d perfected a sexy, hooded stare that netted him more pussy than he knew what to do with. The angles of his face were sharper now, and a few fine lines had settled around the eyes and mouth, but there were worse things for a guy’s looks than a hint of cragginess.
His hair was very short, in contrast to his Puny Earthling days when he’d worn it long. In prison he’d shaved his head, even before it was fashionable, letting the other cons speculate on how he got that wicked scar behind his right ear. He’d let it grow out a bit before his parole hearing, just long enough to conceal the jagged pink ridge. He wasn’t as blond as he used to be, and it was coming in gray around the temples, but summer was around the corner. A few days on the beach would restore that golden-boy glimmer. He’d be able to walk into any dimly lit bar and be mistaken for Sting.
He let himself out of the car, strode up the flagstone path to the front door, and stabbed the doorbell. No answer. He rang it twice more, straining his ears for sounds from inside.
Hal glanced around: no one out and about in the immediate vicinity. Casually he strolled around the house. Nothing to see in the windows, most of which were covered with drapes or blinds. But the lights were on. The big backyard was as meticulously landscaped as the front, bordered by flowering shrubs and studded with shade trees, just now coming into bud. He spotted a little garden sitting area in the far corner, and what appeared to be a koi pond, of all things.
Hal thought of the Judith Baines he used to know. He thought about her on the floor of that seedy motel room in Atlanta, bent over a mirror streaked with lines of coke, and him behind her pulling her panties down. A koi pond. He had to smile.
He crossed the fancy multilevel deck to the sliding glass doors. Wouldn’t hurt to try, though no one who could afford a spread like this would forget to lock—
The door slid open on a whisper of sound. He found himself in some kind of family room leading into a kitchen that looked like it belonged to one of those TV chefs. The decor was cool, pale elegance, except for the Chinese takeout containers littering the coffee table in front of the giant flat-screen TV. The place smelled like potpourri and lo mein. Somewhere upstairs, “Sympathy for the Devil” was playing. Hal’s smile broadened. She always did have a thing for Jagger.
He took the carpeted stairs two at a time.
______
LUCY HAD BEEN staring at the doorknob so long, her eyes burned. She knew what would happen if she walked over to the door and turned that knob. It would open.
Then what?
It had been a couple of hours s
ince Cuba had slipped out. During that time Lucy had listened, waiting for a lull in activity outside the room. Every time she’d wiped her sweaty palms on her pj’s and crept toward the door, she heard someone pass by. Then for a long while they’d all seemed to congregate somewhere down the corridor to the left. The sounds of lively conversation had drifted to her, as well as the mouthwatering aroma of lasagna. Maybe baked ziti. No bulgur slop for her captors, no siree. Their dinner had ended about twenty minutes ago. The place had settled down. All was quiet.
This was it. She’d prayed all day for a chance to escape, and her prayers had been answered, thanks to a careless, preoccupied teenager with a big goddamn gun. Someone was bound to come for Lucy soon, to dispense yet another round of bizarre torment. She couldn’t wimp out now. She forced her feet to move, one in front of the other. She stood by the closed door, shaking, hugging herself.
Lucy reached out and wrapped her icy fingers around the brass doorknob. She turned it, held her breath, pulled the door open a fraction of an inch.
And shut it.
I can’t do this. They’ll kill me. How could she hope to escape this place with all these people coming and going and kissing her ear and—
Lucy grabbed the sides of her head to rein in her swirling thoughts. She told herself not to be rash. Will and his crew hadn’t hurt her, not really. If they intended to kill her, she’d probably be dead by now. She should just sit tight, continue to cooperate, and sooner or later this thing would blow over and she’d be back home, with her gourmet coffee beans and her hot, hot shower and the brand-new locks and security system she’d have installed first thing. Who knew? Maybe she’d even meet her deadline for Johnny Sherlock and the Painted Poodle.
She nodded. She was comfortable with this decision; it felt natural. It was what she always did, after all, let events unfold on their own, take the path of least resistance.
Well, almost always. She hadn’t taken the path of least resistance back at the house. When those three masked maniacs had come at her, she’d fought like a rabid wolverine. She’d acted on raw instinct and thrown everything she had into it. It hadn’t been enough, but at least she’d tried. The difference between then and now was that now she had time to think, time to talk herself out of it, as she’d talked herself out of almost every self-assertive action she might have taken during her entire adult life.
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