The Stakes

by Ben Sanders

  DeSean said, “Forgot to tell you Wynn Stanton’s trying to get in touch. He called before you got here.”

  “What’d he want?”

  “Just said call him.”

  “You got a clean phone?”

  “Yeah, I got a bunch in the truck. You can grab one. We got an online tournament going, can’t keep it on hold.”

  He found the keys in the kitchen. The truck was a Lincoln Navigator SUV that DeSean had parked across the street. Miles checked the glove compartment, found an operating manual, a Glock 17, a box of nine-mil shells, and a copy of Need for Speed: Most Wanted for PlayStation. He got out and looked in the trunk, found a box of prepaid cell phones, still in their packaging. He chose a T-Mobile flip-top and took it back inside, past more living-room gunfire and into the kitchen. The cat was still there, done with its food but interested in seconds now. It hopped up on the table and stood watching him with its tail raised as he cut the phone from its packaging with a pair of scissors. It tipped its head and stared as he dialed Stanton.

  Kenny picked up. Miles said, “It’s me.”

  Kenny said, “Ah. It’s you.” Then offline, quieter: “It’s him.”

  Stanton came on and said, “This phone clean, or are you calling from hotel reception on speaker?” He thought that was pretty funny.

  Miles said, “The phone’s clean.”

  “Your Covey job’s got messy. Just giving you a heads-up in case you want to get some distance on it.”

  “What happened?”

  Stanton said, “Sounds like they’re all dead.”

  TEN

  NEW YORK, NY

  Miles Keller

  Miles said, “Who told you?”

  “It’s public. I just turned on TV, local news has a story.”

  “What are they saying?”

  “Home invasion, apparently. But yeah, what I was getting at—I mean, you know how clean the job was, whether you left anything in the house, so if you want to keep low a few days—”

  Miles said, “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “They’re not saying how they died, just that there’s three bodies.”

  He felt a little dip, like when you wake up falling and the mattress catches you. Three bodies: the lawyer and his wife and someone else.

  Miles said, “Who’s the third?”

  “They haven’t mentioned names. You know what’s going on?”

  “It’s blowback from last night. Someone wants their money.”

  “Yeah I know, but—”

  Miles said, “I need to think about it.”

  He clicked off with Stanton and stood looking at the cat for a moment. The cat looked back, tail still raised, hooked tip flicking one way and the other. He could hear a dull, rhythmic thumping that must have been Lucy’s air tank on the stairs.

  The cat won the staring contest. Miles closed his eyes and said, “Shit.”

  The Coveys were dead because they lost the money that he stole. The timing was too close for the killings to be unrelated. He’d always known about the possibility of harm—their deaths as payback for incompetence—and he’d told himself it was something he could live with. He even gave Marilyn that line about having thought it through, that he was happy to shoot the crooked wife of a crooked lawyer if he had to. There was a certain ring to it, and he’d been genuine, as well. So maybe if it was just two bodies in the house up in Kings Point, he wouldn’t give the matter further thought. Who cared if someone else had pulled the trigger? They either deserved it or they didn’t. But collateral was a different moral issue. Three victims skewed the balance. Innocent dead were harder to reconcile.

  He picked up the burner phone again but didn’t dial. He heard an explosion along the hall, Lucy’s voice asking how many hours a week they clocked on their game. He didn’t hear the reply.

  At least there was another side to everything, the law-and-order aspect, and maybe that was the safer lens through which to view it: someone had killed three people, and he was in a position to stop a repeat. Yeah—that was the better way to look at it.

  He dialed the detective bureau at the Sixty-third Precinct, but then thought better of it and clicked off before he got an answer. No point going through NYPD—they’d just want to know why he was chasing cases when he shouldn’t be. He tried Stanton’s number again. Kenny answered.

  Miles said, “It’s me.”

  “Ah. It’s you.”

  “Can you get me the number for the local PD up in Kings Point.”

  “Where?”

  “Kings Point.” He spelled it.

  “Okay. Let me Google it.”

  It took him a minute to find the number. Miles thanked him and then hung up and dialed again, asked the desk sergeant who answered for a transfer to Tom Miciak. The guy told him the detective chief was working a scene, but he put him through anyway. Miles hung on for a marathon twenty or thirty rings, and Miciak finally picked up sounding pissed off: “Yeah?”

  “Tom, it’s Miles Keller, NYPD. I talked to you a few weeks ago about Lane Covey.”

  “Yeah sure, I remember. You seen the news this morning?”

  “I heard what happened.”

  “You calling to say who did it?”

  He could have made a guess at least, turned him in the right direction. Miles said, “I was hoping to take a look.”

  Miciak sighed, the kind Miles heard when he told guys they’re looking at twenty-five to life. Miciak said, “What’s your angle on this, sorry?”

  “We got a dead guy in Brooklyn who looks like a Russian mob hit. I think Covey set it up.”

  He waited through a drawn-out “okay” as Miciak got things straight.

  Miciak said, “And now he’s dead, it’s looking real fucking messy.”

  “Yeah.”

  There was a pause, Miciak seeming to stop and then start, edging around something.

  Miles said, “Who are the victims?”

  “Covey and the wife, and another guy—Edward Rhys.”

  Rhys: the Coveys’ security man from last night. Maybe not innocent, but he hadn’t earned this.

  Miciak said, “You know him?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “You sure you can’t wait for our prelim?”

  “I’d prefer to see it myself. I just need a walk-through.”

  Miciak did his sigh again, asked a question offline that Miles didn’t catch. He came back on and said, “Shit, what a morning. State police does our weekend call-outs, trooper on first response phones in, tells me it’s a B-and-E. I go, What’s it look like? He says, Three DBs, GSW, but the house seems okay. I go, Pal, I bet you my dick and balls this is not B-and-E.”

  Miles let that image have its due pause and said, “If you let me take a look, I can probably back you up on that.”

  Miciak said, “All right, shit, what are we now … eight thirty. You get here in an hour, I’ll take you through.”

  “Thanks. Appreciate it.”

  “Sure. I’ll run a tally, see how many times I gotta play tour guide today.”

  He clicked off, but found himself still looking at the phone. He could try Caitlyn’s number, tell her he’d seen the Covey deaths on the news, use it as a pretext to check she was okay.

  He dialed her number, but it rang to voice mail: the gun lobbyist telling him to leave a message. Miles clicked off and put the phone on the counter with his iPod, and when he turned around, Lucy was leaning in the doorway watching him.

  She said, “You leaving already?”

  “I’ve got to go up to Kings Point. Triple homicide.”

  “I thought you’re robbery police.”

  Miles said, “I dabble.”

  He moved to the door, but she was still in his way, smelling bath-fresh and looking good in jeans and a sweater with the sleeves rolled—the same outfit she wore three weeks ago, when he’d first knocked on her door.

  She said, “You mind if I come along?” Offhand and innocent, like he couldn’t possibly say no. “I
haven’t been out of the house for three days.”

  “It’s better if you stay here.”

  She had a look in her eye like there wasn’t going to be a compromise. She said, “I really appreciate the whole amateur witness-protection thing. But if I have to go another week with these guys”—she gestured down the hallway with a head tilt—“I might need a padded cell by the end of it.”

  Miles said, “I don’t think visiting a crime scene is going to help.”

  “Yeah, but spending time with a normal human being might.”

  He didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure if he counted as normal. And he wasn’t certain she was as stir-crazy as she claimed. He broke off their affair as penance for a broken marriage, and most of the time—most of the time—he managed not to think about her. But he wasn’t sure if the reverse was true. Maybe he was on her mind. Maybe she thought that time together now could repair what they’d had …

  She said, “Look. All I want to do is drive up there and drive back. And then I’ll have enough energy to go another week with them.”

  He almost made excuses, but she could see a brush-off coming and cut in first: “I’ll wait in the car so I don’t cramp your style. And anyway, I’m sick. You have to give me what I want.”

  ELEVEN

  Bobby Deen

  Charles called two hours into the flight.

  Bobby took it on the phone at his seat, picked up and caught Charles in a coughing fit. Bobby waited him out, heard a throat-dousing slosh of drink and then a big sigh to finish.

  Bobby said, “You done?”

  “Yeah, I think so. You got your attitude sorted? Not going to have a breakdown if you have to cooperate with someone?”

  Bobby said, “We’ll see.”

  “Yeah, sure. We’ll see how bad you want to get paid. I’ve just emailed you some stuff—address and access codes and shit. The apartment’s down in Chelsea, but the cameras are still offline, and she’s not picking up, obviously.”

  The other two—Marko and Luka, whatever they were called—were both dozing, or at least making a good show of it: both of them blank as mannequins with their eyes shut. He’d prefer constant scrutiny, rather than wondering if they had ears on him. He looked out his porthole and saw a ragged quilt of white way below. They were up at forty thousand feet. Even the clouds looked distant.

  Charles said, “I got two theories: Garcia could’ve come after her as payback for his fucking boat, or it could be something because of the buyout—you know, someone getting ballsy, trying to muscle in now Berkhov’s dropping his share.”

  Berkhov was Peter Berkhov: Stone Studios’ principal backer, and a guy whose wealth comprised mainly Russian mob profit.

  Bobby said, “You mean someone could try and force you out now there’s no mob to worry about.”

  Charles almost spat it down the phone: “Exactly! Fucking exactly. Buy up Berkhov’s share, and then extort me into backing out for free.”

  Plausible, but Occam’s razor said there was a simpler theory: Nina was running.

  Charles said, “It’s probably some ethnic thing—Chinese and Russians going at each other.” Bobby heard another slosh-and-sigh. He was probably hitting whiskey to try and scorch himself out of bed. Charles said, “Asians are okay because they’re so straightforward, always clear what they want: money, money, money. Slavs are a different ballgame, honestly—can’t be trusted.”

  Bobby said, “So why did you give me two of them?”

  Charles laughed. “They have their uses, put it that way.”

  The steward came through again, checking drinks. Bobby smiled and waved her off. He got a Nina flash as she turned, the headshot photo merging with that nice body in uniform. They had the same hair. It was undistilled Nina as she walked away.

  Charles broke the spell: “Check out the apartment first—there might be something that says what’s going on.”

  Bobby’s ears popped. He said, “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Sure. But let’s try subtlety this time: don’t go drilling anyone on a boat. All you have to do is bring her back.”

  Subtlety. The approach had changed in less than eight hours. Last night he’d advocated bloodshed, now he wanted restraint. So what had changed? Maybe he slept on it and realized something didn’t fit. Or maybe Frank Garcia called and said the wife was playing angles of her own. She’d tried it in L.A., now she was aiming for second time lucky.

  The plane hit bad air. Bobby’s guts went free-fall. He squeezed his armrest and rode it out. He said, “I need to be clear about what you want.”

  “Well, ask a clear question, then.”

  The steward popped the cockpit door and leaned down with a question. Bobby glimpsed dials, and remembered a childhood brush with fame: some dumb commercial he’d auditioned for, kids dressed up as pilots. Bobby Senior thought the kid would be a star …

  Bobby said, “If something’s happened, am I seeking compensation?”

  He waited through internet crackle as Charles decoded: compensation meant violent payback. If she was hurt, he could seek fatal reparation.

  Charles said, “No. I want low-key mitigation. Dead bodies mean lost commerce. All you have to do is find her.”

  Low-key mitigation. That hadn’t been the case a few weeks back. When Nina went missing, he wanted L.A. leveled. Now reprisal was a no-go.

  All you have to do is find her.

  He didn’t think payback was needed. Which meant he thought that Nina was playing him. So—

  “Is this a rescue mission or a kidnap mission?”

  Charles sloshed and sighed. Bobby waited through the crackle. Charles said, “Just bring her back.”

  Bobby didn’t answer. He hung up the phone, and his brain reengaged with plane noise: muted engine drone, and the chime of ice rocking somewhere in its glass.

  He looked across the aisle and saw Luka watching him, just a half-second before he closed his eyes again.

  TWELVE

  NEW YORK, NY

  Miles Keller

  He borrowed DeSean’s SUV and drove east on the Belt Parkway, heading out around the lip of Jamaica Bay toward Kennedy Airport. It seemed more like Louisiana in these parts—the terrain flat and rural-looking, estuary systems breaking up the shoreline, as if the land had been dropped in place and broke on impact. There were hints of gray industry out in the hazy distance, a few houses on stilts along the water’s edge.

  Lucy spent the first fifteen minutes window gazing, and Miles worried she was brewing something dark and philosophical, get them back onto suicide while he couldn’t escape. She took a long hit off the air tank, no doubt fueling up to talk.

  She waited another minute and said, “Called my dad a few weeks ago, haven’t seen him in fourteen, fifteen years. He moved out to Idaho in ’08 I think. Anyway, I called his number, this lady answers, right? Turns out she’s his wife—a new wife I hadn’t met—and she tells me Dad died eighteen months ago.”

  She glanced over but caught him looking blank, homicide and Coveys on his mind, the slim chance that Edward Rhys was both dead and deserving. He mustered a grimace and said, “Shit. That sucks.”

  She nodded slowly, as if coming around to the idea. “Yeah, I guess. Can’t say I was devastated, just disappointed really. Wanted to tell him I was sick, see his reaction.” She contemplated the traffic for a moment, had some oxygen. “My whole life, I never really knew where I stood with him, thought if I said I was ill, I’d get a read on what he actually thought. But he was gone already.”

  Miles knew he needed insight that leaned toward upbeat, but he couldn’t think of anything that counted as a silver lining. He figured a parent story would be safe enough, on-theme and quid pro quo, more or less. And the upside of talking was it freed him from his own head.

  He said, “My mom died twenty years ago. My dad’s still around. He’s had Alzheimer’s about twelve years, so he’s getting pretty loopy.”

  “He robbed banks, right?”

  “Yeah. They both d
id. My mom was pretty good at it. I don’t think my dad really had the spine to try it himself until she got him into it. Imagine she pitched it to him like the movies—you know how bank robbers, it can seem like there’s something noble or principled about them?”

  “Like they have the moral high ground, taking on institutions?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Or that it’s kind of glamorous, maybe. I think he thought he was going to be like one of those gangster films—lots of slick tailoring and fast getaways—but it was just stress and poverty, looking over your shoulder all the time. People on drugs showing up at your house at ten o’clock at night to plot stuff.”

  “Is that why you’re a cop? Because of them?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. Wasn’t until I was older that I had an opinion on it. When I was a kid it was just what my parents did. I don’t think I passed judgment.”

  “But you did eventually.”

  He didn’t answer.

  She studied him for a quarter-mile, like letting him know this was a question to get ready for. She said, “Would you really want to come away with me? Like, if I got rich and found a place in Oregon?”

  Miles followed the curve of the road for a long moment, the broken dashes of the lane markers spitting past them. He said, “I can help you. But that’s all I can promise.”

  “You mean pay me off, and then not have to think about it?”

  He said, “It’s complicated.”

  “All right.” Light and abrupt, as if she’d dropped the topic, but she was still looking at him. She said, “Are you going to tell me where this money’s coming from?”

  He looked across at her and said, “You just have to worry about whether you’re getting any.”

  “Sure. And where are you going to run to? If you’re not running with me?”

  He smiled. “I’ll be all right.”

  They hit a lull. She turned the radio on and channel-hopped for a while, just killing time, not giving anything a chance. She settled on an FM station, opened the glove compartment and closed it again. He knew she’d seen the gun though, and he knew it was going to get them back onto suicide in a minute.

  Sure enough, she said, “People with terminal illness, there’s all these support groups you can go to. Cancer, MS, they’ve all got their own group. I’ve never gone, but you can look them up on YouTube. Play it in HD.” She took a long hit off the tank. “People always talk about how it’s a shock, that they never expected it, all that kind of thing. But it just seems like, I don’t know. Death is guaranteed, and it’s always looming there—how come people don’t think about it more? You know.”