by Marcus Sakey
“Yeah, well, not everybody has detectives calling to talk to them about a robbery, do they?”
“You saying that’s somebody’s fault?” Mitch asked.
“It’s the Jolly Green Fucking Giant’s fault. It’s whoever robbed this place and shot someone out in the alley’s fault.”
It was like the guy wanted them to get caught, the way he was pushing the envelope, hinting too broadly. If anyone heard this, told Johnny, they’d be in trouble. What was Alex doing? Didn’t he realize he was putting them all in danger? Did he just not care?
“Get back up on the sumbitch,” Ian said in a startlingly realistic Tennessee drawl.
“Huh?”
“Something my dad used to say. He was a big one for clichés, my pop. Cleanliness and godliness, early birds and worms. ‘Son, it ain’t about falling off the horse. It’s how fast you get back up on that sumbitch.’ ”
“That’s what I need. Platitudes.” Alex shook his head. “All due respect, but fuck your dad right now, OK?”
Ian gave a thin smile. “Sure, buddy. It’s your world. We’re just furniture.”
“Guys.” Her tone pleading.
Things were falling apart, but Mitch couldn’t find it in himself to care. A week ago these had been his closest friends, his urban tribe. Only it was all built on bullshit. One of them was a secret cokehead, another had been screwing the woman he loved; and her, she’d lied to him about it. Not to mention that he was the one in the most danger for a risk he hadn’t wanted to take in the first place.
Nothing was what it seemed, nothing was true. So fuck it.
He leaned forward. “We were talking about games. Here’s one. Answer this for me. What’s the worst you’ve ever screwed over someone you said you cared about?” He fixed Alex with a glare. “Ready, go.”
The toxic silence tasted of copper.
Ian stood. “I’m taking off.”
“No, look,” Jenn’s eyes wide, imploring. “This is stupid. We’re just—”
“We’re just done with each other,” Alex said. He straightened, picked up a rag and wiped his hands. “Right?”
There was a stab in Mitch’s chest, and a child’s urge to take it all back. But he said, “Yeah,” then jerked his jacket from the back of the chair, turned to Jenn. “I’m leaving. Are you coming?”
“I . . .” She looked back and forth. “No. I’m going home.”
“I can take you.”
“Not tonight.” She stood, picked up her purse. Pulled a couple of twenties from her wallet and dropped them on the bar. “It doesn’t have to be like this. But you guys with your egos. You’d rather all crash and burn than get over each other.”
“Yeah, well, you’re certainly the expert on guys, aren’t you, Tasty.” The look on Alex’s face was pure meanness. “All that experience.”
Her face paled and eyes widened. Then she just shook her head. “Well, it was good while it lasted.”
“What was?” Ian asked.
“The Thursday Night Drinking Club.” She gestured with a sad smile. “Us.”
CHAPTER 22
THE VIEW WAS SPECTACULAR, Bennett had to admit. Outside Ian Verdon’s floor-to-ceilings, the city was glowing geometries, the river tinged pink with that shadowless five o’clock light. Magic hour, photographers called it.
He stared for another moment, then turned away, spun in a slow circle. The condo was tastefully modern, with clean lines and low-slung furniture. He walked over to a set of bookshelves, more pictures and knickknacks than books: a shot of a dude against a split-rail fence, face lined as ten-year-old boots; a box of Monte cristos with a broken seal declaring them Cubans; a sleek hourglass with pale blue sand. Idly, he opened the cigar box. Inside was a mirror, a razor blade, and a glassine bag filled with white powder. Lookie lookie. He poured a small bump on the back of his hand and snorted.
Damn.
He packed it back away, careful to put everything in the exact same spot. Addicts were clueless about a lot of things, but never their supply.
There was a cheap phone on the bookcase and a cordless in the kitchen. He chose the cordless. Shit was so easy these days. You could order any damn thing from the Internet. It took two minutes to crack open the phone, do what he needed to, and close it back up. He glanced at his watch: 5:30. On a Friday night, that might be pushing it a little. Best to head out.
Bennett replaced the phone, took one last look around the apartment, then stepped out, locking the door behind him. He strolled down the hallway, the indirect-lighting-and-muted-carpet combo that yuppies couldn’t get enough of, then punched the button for the elevator. As he waited he whistled, badly, savoring that chill ease of quality cocaine.
The doors parted and a gaunt dude in a nice suit stepped out. His hair was gelled and mussed just so, but his eyes were sunken, and the greenish remains of a shiner marked one. “Excuse me.”
Bennett smiled, stepped aside, then climbed into the elevator and rode it to the garage. He stood in the shadows near the gate, and when a black Wrangler pulled up to it, he waited till the Jeep was through, then ducked out.
His Benz was at a pay lot two blocks away. He climbed in, reached in the back and pulled out his laptop. As it booted, he opened his cell phone, dialed *67 to block caller ID, and then Verdon’s phone number.
The man answered on the third ring. “M’ello?”
Bennett said nothing, drew the pause out. Theatre.
“Hello?”
“I know what you did. And I’m coming.” He closed the phone, then turned to the laptop.
The trace program was silent for thirty seconds. Then the transmitter he’d put in Ian’s phone sent the number the guy was dialing. There was a pause as it ran the number against a reverse directory, and a name appeared. McDonnell, Mitchell. Twenty seconds, then the line disconnected. No one home. Ten seconds later, another number appeared, and another name. Kern, Alex.
Bennett smiled.
God, he loved predictable people.
CHAPTER 23
JENN WAS PAINTING HER TOENAILS and trying not to think.
She wasn’t a high-maintenance girl, one of those shiny chicks perpetually ready for a fashion shoot, blushed and mascaraed and highlighted, tanned and toned and bubble-butted. She’d had a girlfriend once who, when a boy would stay over, would set the alarm so that she could get up, put on her makeup, and come back to bed dolled up. Even did it with steady boyfriends, guys she saw for months. Everything about that sounded exhausting to Jenn.
But she liked to paint her toes. It was a summer indulgence, a celebration of sundresses and strappy sandals. She did it with the TV on something low-calorie, Inside the Actors Studio today, Matt Damon up onstage being charming. And she needed indulgence, needed something pleasant and routine to distract her from the steady rhythm of fear and guilt that beat through her. Ever since the robbery, her dreams had been nightmares, bright flashes and dark red liquid, shadows looming and reaching. Then the scene in the bar. And finally last night’s conversation with Ian, the man panicking about a crank call. He’d been breathless and sputtering as he told her, and all she could think of was his coke habit. She’d reassured him it was nothing, but as always, the fear hit in the middle of the night, telling her that it could be more.
Which was why it felt important, justified, to sit calmly on her couch and paint her toes. A way of holding back panic. When the phone rang, she finished the nail she was on before setting the brush in the bottle and reaching for the cordless.
“Ms. Lacie?”
“Yes,” she said, fanning her toes with a magazine and readying herself to hang up on the salesman.
“You’re a friend of Mitch McDonnell?”
Something in the tone made her wary. She uncurled herself, put her feet on the floor. “Yes. Who is—”
“He’s been hurt.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry, my name is Paul, I work at the Continental with Mitch. He’s been hurt and he’s asking for you.”
“My manager just gave me your number and asked me to call.”
“But . . . hurt how? Like he fell or something?”
“I really don’t know. I just know that he’s asking you to come down here right away.”
“OK.” She stood, looked at the clock on the cable box. A few minutes after one. Saturday traffic wouldn’t help any. “I’m leaving now. I should be there by about one thirty.”
“I’ll tell him. He’s in a conference room on the second floor. The Atlantic.”
“Is there a doctor—”
“I really don’t know, ma’am.”
“All right. Thanks.” She hung up the phone and threw it on the couch. In her bedroom she shucked off cotton pajama bottoms and hopped into jeans, jammed her feet into flip-flops, grabbed her purse off the dresser, and bolted for the door.
Outside, it was a perfect summer day, the kind where nothing could go wrong. She tagged a passing cab, gave him the address, and asked him to step on it. To her surprise, he did, running yellows and weaving through traffic.
What could that mean, Mitch was hurt? It couldn’t be too bad, or they would have taken him to a hospital. It was kind of odd, him asking for her. They’d only just started, and it seemed like already she was getting the girlfriend treatment.
Unless . . . Did it have something to do with the robbery? Or with the call from last night?
The thought hit cold, and she bit her lip. If Johnny had found out, he might have come after Mitch. God, he might have—
It was a long ride.
Finally, the cab pulled up in front of the hotel. A man wearing the uniform she’d come to associate with Mitch hurried over to get her door. She paid the cabbie, tipping him an extra ten bucks, and hurried out of the car. “The Atlantic conference room?”
“On the second floor, ma’am. The elevator is—”
She didn’t hear the rest. The hotel was gorgeous, the kind of place people had honeymoons and affairs in. She saw a staircase and hurried up it. There was a sign with room names etched in it and arrows in either direction. Atlantic was to the left. Something about the place made the idea of running seem impossible, so she settled for a sort of awkward power-walk. Two heavy wooden doors led into the conference room, and she threw one open and shouldered through—
To see Mitch and Ian beside a long mahogany table, Ian with his hands up like he was describing the size of a fish he’d once caught. They both turned. Ian’s mouth fell open, and Mitch’s eyebrows scrunched in.
“Jenn?”
“Are you OK?”
“What are you doing here?”
They had all spoken at the same time, and froze, then started again in unison, and stopped again. She jumped into the silence.
“Are you OK?”
Mitch looked at her, then at Ian. “What? Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I.” She stopped. “I got a call from your friend. He said you’d been hurt.”
“Hurt? What? Who said?”
“Someone named . . . Paul?”
Mitch shook his head. “I don’t know any Pauls.”
“So—what . . .” The adrenaline was fading, leaving Jenn’s shoulders tense. She looked at Ian. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m meeting someone.”
“Who?”
“A guy I know.” Ian looked at them, saw that they weren’t going to let it go. Sighed. “Katz. The man I got the you-know-whats from. He called and told me to get over here right away.”
There was a knock on the door, and then it pushed open enough for Alex to stick his head in. “Detective Bradley—” He froze when he saw them. His eyes darted from one to the other, and his face underwent a weird series of emotions, finally settling on a stony mask. “What are you all doing here?”
“We’re trying to figure that out,” she said. “I got a call saying Mitch was hurt. Ian was supposed to meet some guy named Katz. What about you, Mitch?”
“One of the bellmen told me a manager wanted to see me.” He looked at Alex, jerked his chin. The tension crackled between them like electric current. “You?”
Alex stepped into the room, let the door whisper closed behind him. “What the fuck is going on?”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“What does it matter? The point is that someone brought us all here.”
“It matters, Alex, because we need to figure out who.”
“Guys.” Jenn put all her exhaustion into it.
Alex said, “A cop called and asked me to meet that detective here.”
“The one from the other night.”
“No, the one who was gonna mow my lawn. What do you think?”
“I think you’re an asshole.” Mitch paused. “No, I’m pretty sure of it.”
She shook her head. “Enough. We did this the other night.”
“Gentlemen.” The voice came from behind, and she spun to look. A stranger stood in the doorway. He wore a charcoal suit and an open-collared shirt of subtly textured white cotton, and had the breezy good looks of a cologne model. He nodded to Jenn. “And of course Ms. Lacie.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Alex said in his best bouncer voice.
The man smiled, strolled into the room. Behind him, face hard and red, walked Johnny Love. Two men in suits followed, taking up positions on either side of the door.
Spiders crawled through her chest. Nobody spoke, and she could hear the faint honking of a car horn outside, the hum of the air conditioner. The smiling man strode to the head of the table. Johnny hit Alex with a baleful look.
“My name is Victor. And I believe you all know Mr. Loverin?”
“Motherfucking right they do.” The fat man glared from one to the other. “Kern, you ungrateful prick. After all I’ve done for you, you pull this on me? And you,” his eyes narrowing at Ian. “Still got the shiner, huh? Wait till I get done with you. That’s going to seem like a day at Wrigley.”
“Be quiet, Johnny.” Victor’s voice was calm, but Loverin immediately shut up. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, the tough-guy demeanor not gone, but certainly throttled back.
Which made her throat go dry. Who was this guy?
“Alex, Ian, Mitch, Jenn,” Victor said, looking at each of them in turn. “Let’s not waste time, OK? I know what you did.” He paused, raised an eyebrow. “Can you guess who I am?”
Mitch said, “You’re the guy Johnny was buying for the night we robbed him.”
Victor practically beamed. “Got it in one. Good. I’m glad that you aren’t going to play around. That will make this easier.”
Ian said, “How did you—”
“How did I find you?” Victor stood behind a leather conference chair, his hands resting lightly on the back. “A piece of advice. When you rob someone, you should be careful who you tell about it in advance.”
Ian’s jaw fell, and his face went pale.
“Wait.” Alex turned to him. “What is he—who did you tell?”
Mitch said, “He told his bookie. The man who got him the guns in the first place.”
“Oh, you stupid—”
“Also, showing up to pay your thirty-thousand-dollar debt the day after you steal a quarter-million is something of a dead giveaway.”
“Katz.” Ian had a hand to his forehead. He turned to look at them. “I had to, you understand? I didn’t have a choice.”
“So,” Victor continued. “Mitch, you seem to be on a roll. Why don’t you guess what I want?”
“The money back?”
“As a matter of fact,” Victor said, “no. The money you stole from Johnny. Not from me. Part of it was mine, it’s true. But it was money that was already earmarked for a purchase. Do you understand? I spent my money. But I didn’t get what I paid for.”
“What”—Alex paused, looked around—“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What do you want us to do about that?”
“I want you to get it for me.”
“How? I don’t even know what we’re talking about.”
“How old is your daughter, Alex?”
Alex’s shoulders clenched into iron ripples under his T-shirt. “My daughter is none of your business.”
“Cassandra? Sure she is.” He jerked his head toward Mitch. “As is Mitch’s brother, Michael, and Ian’s dad in Tennessee. I haven’t had the chance to check in on Ms. Lacie’s parents yet. But I will.”
This couldn’t be happening. None of it. Her parents? This total stranger, a guy she’d never seen before, was threatening her parents?
She looked at the others, saw them thinking the same thing. Her leg started to shake, and she leaned on it.
Alex stepped forward. “I don’t know who you think you are—”
Moving with uncanny speed, both the men by the door brushed back suit jackets and drew pistols. One lined up on Alex. The other moved from target to target.
Jenn felt the floor shift beneath her, reached for the chair, barely got it.
“Be careful, Mr. Kern.” Victor’s voice was level. “You should all be very careful. Last week you may have been normal people, but now you’re in my day planner. Believe me when I say that’s worth your attention. Right, Mr. Loverin?”
Leaning against the wall, Johnny had the pinched expression of a child facing a bully he knew would make good. He cleared his throat, then nodded.
Alex took a deep breath. Paused. “Listen, I’m sorry about my language,” he said. “I didn’t mean any disrespect. It’s just that this is none of my affair.”
Something in his tone caught Jenn’s attention. His shoulders were down, his hands up and open in a placating gesture. She knew what he was about to say before he opened his lips. It hit her with a sick shame and disappointment.
“I was in on robbing Johnny,” Alex said. “But I was tied up inside the office when your friend came. I didn’t shoot him. I didn’t have anything to do with that part.”
“Are you kidding me?” Mitch looked back and forth. “You’re seriously putting this on us?”
“It is on you. I wasn’t there.”