The 8th Circle

by Sarah Cain

  Andy waved his glass in the air. “I don’t give a damn what he writes as long as it sells papers. Fucking newspapers have gone to hell. We need to fight the twenty-four-hour news cycle. Right, Daniel?”

  Danny nodded.

  “It’ll be like old times.” Andy settled back in his seat. “You’re back on the hot seat, I’m afraid, Robert.” He chuckled. “Bad joke. You heard about the congressman, I presume? Damnedest thing.”

  The senator’s lips pulled back against his teeth in a feral smile. It made spiders of unease crawl down Danny’s back.

  They said it was an accident. A one-car accident. Right under the suicide bridge. Jesus, now he was getting paranoid.

  “Poor Teddy,” the senator said, and the warmth crept back into his voice. “Such a loss.”

  “Indeed.” Andy patted the chair. “Sit down, Robert. We’ll drink to Teddy. And Michael. And Daniel, of course. Where’re your fucking manners, anyway? You didn’t introduce the delicious Katie to my boy.” He blew a kiss to Kate. “Come here, my darling. You can sit on my lap.”

  When Kate laughed, Danny could almost hear the senator’s teeth grind, but he managed to sustain his genial tone. “Daniel Ryan, my assistant, Kate Reid.” He turned back to Andy and sat.

  “It’s a pleasure,” Danny said. No point in mentioning he’d already met Kate. It wouldn’t matter that the meeting had been innocent. The senator wouldn’t approve. Danny was the pariah who had stolen Beth and outlived her. Everything he touched turned rancid.

  Kate smiled, and when he caught the faint aroma of lavender, he felt an odd sort of connection. Maybe it was the shared secret of their previous meeting, maybe something more.

  Andy was already ordering more glasses and another bottle of champagne, and Danny knew it was going to be a long afternoon.

  *

  By four o’clock, half of the Palm had joined their table, and Danny decided to make an anonymous exit. He reached Broad Street when he heard the click of high heels behind him.

  “Danny, wait!” Kate came running up to him, and it was a wonder she didn’t trip in those shoes.

  He stood on the street and enjoyed the view. “Where the hell did you come from?”

  “The bathroom. Even servants have their limits. You’re leaving?”

  “All good things have to end sometime.”

  She took a step closer. “You didn’t call.”

  She was still breathing fast, and her perfume curled around her like lavender smoke. It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman, or since he even thought about it. The thought was vivid right now.

  Kate touched his shoulder. “If I get my coat, will you walk me home? I don’t live far.”

  The bourbon was already careening around his system, and Danny knew he’d pay for it soon. In his present state, it didn’t seem too smart to start hanging out with some protégée of Big Bob Harlan. He didn’t care. “Won’t the senator be annoyed that you left?”

  “Probably. He won’t know I left with you.”

  “In that case, I’d be happy to walk you home.”

  24

  The frigid air was a relief after the heat of the Palm. Still, pinpricks of light danced in front of him, and Danny could feel that ominous pressure in his right eye. He shouldn’t be here. Not with Big Bob’s lackey, no matter how good she looked. Yet her sorrow tugged at him. Someone had crushed this woman. He’d seen it in her eyes that day at Michael’s wake.

  “How did you come to work for Senator Family Values?” he said.

  “You don’t believe in family values?”

  “Not his.”

  “You married his daughter.”

  He watched Kate’s eyes grow distressed when she realized what she’d said, and he knew he had to stop her before she apologized.

  “You aren’t local,” he said.

  Kate folded her arms around her chest like she was trying to enclose her body. “How do you know?”

  “Just a guess. Where are you from?” He couldn’t place Kate’s flat, unaccented voice.

  “Maine.”

  Danny was curious now. That was no Maine accent. “What part of Maine? Beth and I—”

  Kate scowled. “Is this an interview?”

  “It’s a conversation.”

  “Look, I left home young, and I don’t like to think about it. All right?”

  “Fair enough.”

  The thought of home almost brought Kate to tears. He could hear it in her shaking voice.

  They continued in silence toward the Academy of Music, where a group of parents and children spilled out of a Nutcracker Tea. Little girls in their best winter coats and patent leather shoes clutched cardboard teapots as if they were fragile china while the little boys took the same teapots and made pretend guns out of them.

  “I want to stay home with Dad.”

  Conor in his khakis, turtleneck, and pint-sized Brooks Brothers blazer.

  “Are you all right?” Kate said.

  Danny flinched when he realized he had stopped walking and stood as if he had taken root on the sidewalk. “Sorry, I—I’m more tired than I thought.”

  She turned away. “Look, you don’t have to walk me home.”

  He caught her arm before she could take off. “It’s not you. I . . .”

  What to say? I found a heart in my car. Someone killed my dog. I lost my wife and son last year. Maybe all three.

  “I’m sorry. My wife and son were going to a tea like this when they were killed.” Past tense. Danny hated the way his throat tightened.

  Kate slid her hand into his. “I’m so sorry.”

  He looked at her hand, grateful for its warmth as they started to walk again. “Don’t apologize.”

  “You must miss your wife very much. Was it love at first sight?”

  How did he explain that one when it was something he never quite understood? “I guess. I met Beth at a party. It was a strange time. I was having my fifteen minutes.”

  “You mean you won a Pulitzer, and you were a big deal.”

  “I was an asshole.” He shrugged at her skeptical look. She’d taken the trouble to look him up. He’d have to return the favor.

  “I was a working-class Irish Catholic kid from South Philly. A nobody. All of a sudden, my picture was on the sides of buses. I was in my twenties. I guess it all went to my head.”

  He told people that, and it was half-true. He was a big deal, and while he’d enjoyed the attention, he’d always had a weird sense that the clock was ticking away on the good times. Maybe he was just born with the Irish pessimism that nothing that good could possibly last, or maybe it was because his father told him he’d be sorry he made his living as a vulture.

  He really had met Beth at a party, though it was more like a weekend orgy at the Cohens’ home in Palm Beach. She’d come with one of those hard-drinking, fast-rising political types who deserted her once the bar was open and the lines of coke drawn up.

  He could still see her walking on the beach in that white dress, her dark hair blowing in the wind. The last rays of sun had caught her face and bathed it in luminous gold. When she’d asked him why he wasn’t inside getting drunk, he could only blurt he didn’t need to drink when the sight of her made him dizzy. She’d told him that was an awful line but a sweet one and then sat with him on the beach until the sun went down, the shadows grew purple and then black, the tide came in, and the air became heavy with the scent of salt, orange, and her. They had danced at the edge of the shore to the strains of Sinatra drifting down from the house with her hand pressed against his heart—the heart that was irrevocably hers.

  “Danny?” Kate’s voice brought him back.

  “It was a hell of a ride,” he said. Gone. He’d let it slip away from him. He was paid to notice things, people, and he’d been blind to his own life.

  “And you’re getting back on the roller coaster because?”

  “Because I owe Andy.”

  Her fingers tightened against his. “Andy?”
>
  “Andy opened the door for me.”

  “Michael said you were close.”

  How long had Kate known Michael? He’d never mentioned her, but they must have been friends for a while.

  “How did you meet Michael?”

  “He hung out with the political reporters, and to tell the truth, I felt sorry for him. He was kind of like a lost puppy.” Kate’s voice tightened, and Danny frowned. Michael had never hung with the political reporters, with the exception of Alex, who had tolerated him. Michael had latched onto other lost souls.

  “Most women didn’t like Michael.”

  “I’m not most women.”

  “He had trouble relating to people,” Danny said.

  She nodded. “He was very smart, but nobody knew it. No social skills. I used to be terrified of him until I realized he wanted to protect me.”

  “Protect you?”

  “Oh, yes. If you were the least bit kind to him, Michael was like a faithful guard dog. It could be unnerving. But I guess you know that.” They reached an old redbrick townhouse converted to apartments, and Kate inclined her head. “This is it.”

  “I know what, Kate?”

  “How much he wanted to protect you. He loved you.”

  “I didn’t deserve it. I—”

  Kate reached up to touch his mouth, her fingers lingering, and Danny’s breath hitched before he drew her against him. Her mouth tasted of champagne and raspberry, and something stung inside his chest, almost like a pinprick, but at the same time felt unbearably tender.

  Light exploded like a flashbulb, and he pulled back as gracefully as he could. In the streetlight, he could see that her cheeks were flushed. “I have to go.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No, I just—I would like to see you again.” He sounded jerky, unnatural. He needed to leave before something embarrassing happened—like he vomited or his head exploded.

  “I’d like to see you.”

  “I’ll call.”

  “Danny, there is one thing.” Kate caught his arm. “It’s about Michael. You can’t tell anyone. You have to promise.”

  “I promise.” Danny’s right eye throbbed, and the pain tightened around his shoulder.

  “I saw Michael the night he died. He was coming to see you. He wanted to give you something.”

  25

  The migraine had kicked into high gear by the time Andy’s driver let Danny off at home. He peeled off bills for a tip and stumbled into the kitchen. Tomorrow, he’d go back to Black Velvet and try to find out what happened to Zach. He’d talk to Kate, but he couldn’t think straight with hammers beating inside his skull. He pulled an ice pack from the freezer.

  Michael had a package. Kate confirmed that. Did the police now have it? No. He thought not. What the hell could be so important that Michael would drive out to Valley Forge rather than go to a hospital?

  Michael had left something for him, and he didn’t want it to be found right away. Why?

  The phone wouldn’t stop ringing. He finally picked it up.

  “Danny Boy, how are you?”

  Danny recognized the low-pitched tone. “What do you want?”

  “You know what I want. I want my package, and I want you to go away.”

  “I don’t have your package.”

  “I don’t believe you, Danny Boy.”

  Danny squeezed the ice pack until his fingers went numb. “Fuck you.”

  “Oh, no. Fuck you. Maybe you better listen or you’ll end up like your wife and kid.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Not everything in life is an accident.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “You had a real nice dog. You figure it out.”

  Danny dropped the phone on the floor and fell to his knees, doubling over to clutch his stomach as wave after wave of agony rolled over him. Pulling himself to his feet, he slammed the phone back in its cradle and staggered to the back steps. This was a hallucination. It had to be. Everything was askew, and the floor listed so badly he fell against one of Beth’s antique drum tables. Something smashed. An accident. Accidents were accidents except when they weren’t.

  Streams of moonlight blurred in front of him, and Danny tripped on the uneven floorboards. Damn steps. He should sell this house. It seemed to expand around him, yet every inch was crowded with memories.

  Memories. Wasn’t that a song?

  He reached the bathroom and groped for the medicine cabinet door. Moonlight lit the room in silver, and he thought of Kate. She was like moonlight. He rested his head against the cold wall. A moonlit maiden. What the hell is wrong with me? His hands shook as he gobbled down painkillers, took a swallow of water, and then jabbed the Imitrex syringe into his thigh. For good measure, he grabbed a Xanax.

  If I’m not careful, I’ll overdose.

  Oh, Jesus. It was cold. The windows in the bedroom stood open, and the sheer white curtains billowed in the breeze, filmy ghosts dancing. Danny stood transfixed, the drugs seeping into his system, the gooseflesh rising on his arms.

  He hadn’t left the windows open. Had he? He wasn’t sure of anything right now.

  Something’s wrong. Someone was here. Not everything’s an accident. Everything happens for a reason. Pain is good. Shut the fuck up.

  Danny slammed the windows shut and pressed the ice pack against his forehead. He never should have drunk with Andy. He needed sleep. Work tomorrow.

  Danny went to the bed and kicked off his shoes. He didn’t bother to undress, just jerked up the comforter and slid underneath, careful not to disturb Beth. The pain began to ebb, like the tide moving out. Danny closed his eyes and took a deep breath, but his heart still skittered too fast.

  “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.”

  His grandmother liked to quote Shakespeare. She used to make him say his rosary.

  His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He should have gotten more water. He could still taste the bitter pills. Deep breaths.

  Michael was a guard dog. The Inferno. Not everything’s an accident. Happiness is a holiday heart. Why is it so goddamn cold? Someone was in my house tonight. Let go. I can’t. Beth. Something about Beth.

  Why did we spend so much time fighting?

  “Something wicked this way comes.”

  I need to shut down. So tired. Too many thoughts. Like maggots. That was it. Maggots. That slightly fetid odor. Decay. Death. So very close. Beth.

  Christ. Beth can’t be here. Beth is dead.

  Danny jerked up. He groped for the light on the nightstand and winced when it exploded against his eyeballs. When he saw the lump under the covers, he sprang out of bed, ripping the comforter and top sheet with him. He slammed against the wall and tried to focus.

  “Holy God!”

  The naked woman lay rigid on the bed, mouth agape, eyes bulging and coated with a milky glaze. Her chest gaped open, the skin hacked apart and her protruding ribs a shock of white against her mottled flesh. The chain that connected her pierced nipples was intact, though it stretched taut. In the middle of it hung a red crystal heart.

  26

  “John, wake up!”

  Novell stared at Sean McFarland. He rubbed the heels of his hands against his gritty eyeballs. Dammit, he’d fallen asleep in his desk chair again. The bones of his spine ground together when he moved. “What time is it?”

  “Time to go home. Shift ended two hours ago.”

  “Why’re you still here?”

  Sean’s clothes still looked fresh, though his face was chalky with fatigue. “I’ve been trying to get a line on Michael Cohen’s last day.”

  “You find anything out?”

  “Nada. He never came home that night according to his mama, and she’d know because the Cohens have a high-tech security system. You punch in an access code to gain entry to the estate. It seems Michael never punched in.”

  “So we have no clue where Michael spent the last day of his lif
e.”

  Sean sat on the edge of Novell’s desk and pushed aside some files. “He wasn’t home. He never showed up for work. Never made a phone call. Didn’t go online or send an e-mail. Nothing until he crashed into Danny Ryan’s duck pond.”

  In the beginning, Novell had thought Sean was too much of a Boy Scout with his suburban upbringing and his laid-back disposition. Too polite, too naive, and in way over his head, but he now understood this kid was thorough, the kind of cop who was obsessive about getting the details right. He just wanted to get the bad guys.

  Novell shuddered. “Ryan claims Michael Cohen didn’t say anything to him, and he didn’t tell him what he was working on.”

  “Ryan’s lived like a hermit since that accident last year. We know that kid was his life. That’s what everyone—friends, neighbors, nanny—said. He hasn’t done anything since the funeral. Until now.” Sean’s voice trailed off.

  Novell thought of the picture of Conor Ryan, the one from the soccer game. He couldn’t get it out of his head. What would it be like to lose a kid that young? It would shatter you. Given his background, Danny Ryan should have been a raving alcoholic. Novell gave him grudging points for remaining sober.

  “So where does that leave our victim?” Novell rubbed his eyes as Sean shrugged. His phone went off. He fished it out of his pocket and squinted at the name and numbers, then looked up. “Guess who?”

  “Michael Cohen’s murderer calling to confess.”

  “Close. It’s Danny Ryan.”

  27

  Kevin Ryan watched his brother slump over the table in the interrogation room, his head in his arms. Detective McFarland, who had been trying to coax a statement out of him, looked up and shook his head. Kevin turned to Novell. “No phone calls.”

  “He’s got rights.”

  Detective Novell spoke without inflection, and Kevin assessed him. He had that look, the FBI, uptight, in-your-face righteousness that Kevin always associated with feds. But something about the cynical droop in Novell’s mouth, the faint glimmer in his gray eyes betrayed a deep-burning anger underneath. Yeah, he was the kind of guy who’d get nasty after a half-dozen scotches. Kevin was surprised Novell had been dumb enough to get caught drinking on the job.