by Ben Sanders
He’d buried it so deep: pain and his parallel life he couldn’t dare to conjure. She was pregnant, and he didn’t know it when she fell. Maybe if he had, he could have changed things, tried harder for a different end. It made him sick to think how big a swerve he took: one mistake—family gone. Brief moments had wild power, but why did that lesson come too late?
They were all secrets until now, but Nina just held him and told him that she understood. She read his mind again. Now they were together, they could fix everything.
* * *
He stayed in the bed, spread-eagled beneath the sheet, and listened to her in the shower. He felt so blank it was like being reborn. The white room and the white bed, and the water on the tile telling him shhhh.
He heard the door open, and Nina’s feet on the carpet. The mattress dipped as she kneeled, and she leaned into his view, a towel around her body and another in a turban.
She said, “That’s the sight of a happy man.”
He smiled, and that little motion got his thoughts in order. He said, “Who sent the money?”
She looked away briefly, and he knew she was toying with a lie. It was her default setting.
But things were different now. She looked back at him and said, “A Chinese crime boss called Lee Feng. He’s a gentleman. I think you’d get on well.”
Feng. He remembered the workups Charles had sent him.
Nina said, “It was an easy setup. The Chinese are very interested in movies, apparently. I told Lee I thought films were dying, maybe he was better buying in somewhere with a TV focus. And he leans in and goes: I have a feeling we’re going to be all right. Gave me a wink, as well. I think I was almost charmed.”
She was trying to make him jealous already.
He said, “So they’re not interested in cinema.”
She lay down next to him. Her elbow nudged his ear as she put her hands behind her head. “Maybe they’ll give it a try. All those shitty Bloodhunter movies that Charles did—they were just cleaning up mob profits. You put in seventy or eighty million bucks of drug money, you cast Dick McShithead in the lead role, it’s a box-office smash, all your heroin money gets paid back squeaky clean.”
Bobby said, “No wonder there were six sequels.”
She rolled over to face him, her breath on his cheek.
She said, “McGee’s Cheese, huh?”
“Yeah…” He closed his eyes, laughed through his nose. “It was like a Wild West bar or something. All these cowboys sitting around, the doors swing open—bang—and the villain cowboy comes in looking mean. Everyone glances around scared, like he’s going to shoot the place up. But the guy goes up to the bar, brings out this plate of nachos, whatever it was, and says, ‘Cheese,’ or something like that. You know, wanting cheese for his meal. And everyone looks terrified because they don’t have any…”
Nina smiled, seeing it already. “But then cut to Bobby Deen…”
“Yeah. Cut to me as this cowboy kid—still don’t know why they needed a kid for it, but anyway. I bring out this can of McGee’s, and sort the guy out. Then there was a shot of the guy stuffing his face, and this voice-over going, There’s no cheese like McGee’s.”
Her breath on his cheek again: “Mm. I bet you were perfect.”
He didn’t want to be distracted just yet. He said, “Tell me about Keller.”
He felt her lips on his ear. She said, “I checked into that hotel and there he was.”
As if that gave him the whole story.
Bobby rolled over and faced her. He smiled, trying to match her vibe, like none of this was too serious. He said, “I just poured my heart out. You can tell me the Keller story.”
He could see her thinking about it. Flecks and different colors in her eyes—twin galaxies of Nina he was finally being let in to.
She said, “It looked like film noir. I was in a cab at night, eleven o’clock on Canal Street. Shiny dark from the rain.”
Her lips on his. She said, “Are you picturing it? Can you see it?”
“I think I’m with you.”
She said, “We pulled up outside the hotel and the lights from inside caught the water on the glass and made it look like drops of gold. How’s that?”
She was amused, playing up to the fact she had his full attention, or maybe just enjoying the embellishment. He went along with it though, knowing he had her, that she couldn’t duck the truth forever. He said, “I like it so far.”
She glanced away, building the picture for herself, and then her eyes clicked back to him, narrowing as she said, “He came out of the lobby, and I could’ve missed him in the dark. He was just another guy on the street. But there was a crowd on the sidewalk that he had to go around, so he came right past the car window. I almost got out and stopped him.”
He brushed a rogue hair off her face. “Why do you sound like you’re just telling me a story?”
“I don’t know. Because I’m trying to paint the picture. So you feel the strange weight of the strange moment. If that doesn’t sound too weird.”
“So how do you know him?”
She cupped his jaw in her palms, seemed to study him. “I got accused of robbery up here, and he investigated it.” Saying it lightly, like a throwaway line—no biggie. “Which was why it was funny, showing up in New York again, and there he was.”
He wanted to stay with the robbery, but she had something else on her mind, looking off as she chewed on it. She said, “You know how when you leave a place, there’s this sense almost that you’ve left a life behind? Friends, places you go—everything sort of waiting in limbo? And you could just pick it up any time.”
He’d only ever lived in one place, but he knew what she meant.
She said, “Anyway, running into Keller, it was like someone had flipped the switch on my New York life: on pause for five years, and then suddenly it’s all go.”
He said, “What did you steal?”
She smiled. “I always maintained my innocence. Apparently I robbed a banker. Went to a dinner party, took some money out of a safe behind a Monet. Well, a print, actually.”
“That sounds like your type of job.”
She gave him nothing, though—not a twitch.
She said, “And do you know who else was there? At the dinner?”
Bobby shook his head, waited for it.
She said, “Lee Feng, the guy buying into Stone Studios. So it felt almost perfect, really—I mean in the cab the other night, showing up for this Feng-related deal, and then Keller happens to be there, too, walking past. You know: five years later, the three of us in the same sphere, like the unholy trinity. And then it turned out he’d shot your Jack, and I just thought, Well, maybe it’s like a cosmic sign or something.”
He didn’t answer, but she was still running with that same thought.
She said, “You know how sometimes you just get that feeling, like everything’s been set up in your favor?”
It had been on his mind since he saved her, and now he had no doubt.
She said, “It felt right already, but then I knew Charles would send you after me, and I thought that would be a nice reward to have waiting: Miles Keller just hanging around, none the wiser.”
Nina was a pretty good reward in herself. But maybe she’d thought he’d need more convincing—she might have had Keller there as payment for letting her go free.
Bobby said, “And what if Charles hadn’t sent me? What would have happened then?”
She had an answer ready, but she took her time with it, propped herself up on an elbow and looked down at him. She said, “I’d get Keller to save me. Seems like he knows how to handle himself.”
Just like that.
Bobby said, “You don’t think he’d take much convincing.”
“Well. I’d say please.” She pulled the towel off her head and shook her hair out, looking like someone in a shampoo commercial, face upturned and eyes shut. Bobby felt moisture hit his face.
Nina said, “I offered him half
a million dollars if he wanted to work for me. I didn’t tell him what I needed, but I figured if Bobby Deen didn’t come to my rescue, it’d be nice to have Keller rip off Feng, or maybe rip off Keller myself.”
Like she could put this all together without too much bother. She said, “Soon as I saw him in the hotel, I knew there were a few different ways I could push things. Obviously this is best.”
She laid her head on his chest, and with the contact he could feel his heartbeat.
Thud, thud—
Bobby said, “What makes you think he’d be up for anything at all?”
Nina said, “Call it female intuition.”
No, it was more than that—she knew something, but her head was turned, and he couldn’t see her face.
Thud, thud—
Bobby said, “Did you rob that banker, or was Keller going down a dead end?”
Thud, thud, thud, thud—
Nina said, “That’d be telling, wouldn’t it?”
TWENTY-EIGHT
NEW YORK, NY
Miles Keller
“Are you going to read me my rights?”
O’Shea said, “We can if you want.” Acting surprised, like he hadn’t been serious with his accusation.
Miles looked under the table as he crossed his ankles. He said, “Well, if you think I’m going around ripping off crooked lawyers, maybe we’d better make this official.”
A glance went around the four of them, and then O’Shea got back to looking at Miles. He seemed to prefer eye contact whenever possible. Miles just sat there and played the game, trying to seem calm while his head churned.
O’Shea took a card from his wallet and started running through the right-to-silence routine, and Miles tuned him out and thought about next moves.
If they had hard evidence, he’d be locked up already. And if they thought they could build a case, they wouldn’t be making accusations now, tipping him off early while they were still putting things together. Unless they thought they could shake him with tough questions, get him scared and then follow him to the money. Maybe put a tail on him, catch him with the Covey loot.
God, he wouldn’t be that stupid. And modesty aside, he thought they probably knew that. Which meant their surest bet was to use Petrov’s testimony: that Miles had committed abduction and armed robbery. But clearly they didn’t have that yet. And if they were taking the risk of talking to him now, maybe Petrov’s prognosis was less than cheerful. They figured this might be the one chance—apply some pressure and see what shakes loose.
So what to do?
It was pretty dark luck he was dealing with. All would be fine, as long as Petrov didn’t make it. What a thing to wish for. But he couldn’t think about that now, freedom being contingent on fatality.
He zoned back in, and the room’s volume seemed to rise, and O’Shea was asking him if he understood everything.
Miles said, “Yes, I do,” and saw the card go back in the wallet and the wallet go back in the coat, O’Shea watching him the whole time, like the pressure of sheer attention would break him eventually.
“Are you happy for us to continue with the questioning?”
That was a big question in itself. He could just exercise his right to silence, sit there until they arrested him or let him go. But arrest wasn’t on the cards, or it would’ve happened already. And when he walked out of here, it’d be nice to know what they had on him.
Miles said, “Yeah, go on then.”
O’Shea said, “All right. I haven’t heard you deny it yet.”
Meaning the robbery.
Miles said, “I haven’t robbed anyone.”
Being conscious of his tone, trying to give a smooth delivery, made his voice sound very different. He sounded like he was lying.
“So where were you yesterday night? Say nine P.M. to two A.M.”
Miles said, “Home alone, listening to an audiobook. About midnight, I got a cab to Union Square, met a friend for coffee.”
“Thought were you living in hotels.”
“I like to go home and get my mail. Embarrassing for a robbery detective, getting cleaned out because someone sees a stuffed mailbox.”
O’Shea nodded, like taking it seriously. He glanced around and said, “This is probably a bit embarrassing, too.”
Miles shrugged. “Only if you make it stick. Otherwise you get the red face.”
There was a pause, but O’Shea didn’t have another one in him, had to bring it back to serious business. He said, “Who’d you meet for coffee?”
Miles said, “The staff will remember us.”
“You didn’t see anyone on your mail run?”
“Not unless a neighbor saw me.”
“That’s unfortunate then, isn’t it?”
Miles shrugged. “It’s normal life for millions of people on any given night.”
O’Shea let that have a moment’s quiet, and then changed direction. He said, “Petrov was on a call to me when you ran into him.”
Miles didn’t answer.
O’Shea said, “And he didn’t mention anything about needing a meeting. Fifteen minutes later, he sends a text message, asking to see me at Rockefeller Center.”
Miles said, “So I guess he changed his mind.”
O’Shea said, “There’s a protocol for meetings, and he didn’t follow it.”
“You’d have to ask him about that.”
Miles managed to hold on to the guy’s stare.
O’Shea said, “I want to know what happened in that car to make Petrov suddenly want a meeting. Up at Rockefeller Center of all places.”
Miles said, “You’re asking the wrong person.”
“Ditching protocol, wanting meetings in strange places, I got the impression he was under duress.”
“If so, then it was self-imposed. He seemed kind of agitated.”
“So can you tell me why his phone was found in your coat?”
That’s right: he’d taken the coat off to sponge the blood. With the confiscated phone still in the pocket.
Miles said, “He’d been texting on and off while he drove, so the phone was right there in his lap. I opened his door and I think it fell on the road. I was going to call for backup, but everyone on the street seemed to be way ahead of me, figured there was no point loading up the switchboard.”
“But you kept the phone?”
“You going to charge me with theft?”
“I’m just very interested in how you ended up with it.”
“He seemed to be bleeding to death, and that took up a lot of my attention. I must have pocketed the phone without thinking. I don’t intend to keep it.”
There was a knock at the door.
The sound took his focus off O’Shea, and he saw the whole room again: Medina still there across the table, Dodd and McKenzie leaning against the wall, as if waiting to step in with even tougher questions.
McKenzie opened the door, and a plainclothes guy in his twenties leaned in past the frame. He said, “Phone for Keller.”
Miles said, “I think we’re done anyway.”
O’Shea didn’t turn around. “Give us a minute. They can hold.”
The door closed.
O’Shea took a moment looking at his pad, wanting a hard question to close things out with. Maybe he realized he wasn’t gaining any traction. He looked up and said, “Well, you know the script.” He started rocking his head, like he was tired of saying it: “Do it the easy way now, or the hard way later.”
McKenzie’s phone started ringing, and he stepped out into the corridor to take the call, walking stooped like he was ducking out of a funeral.
Miles waited for the door to close and said, “What’s going to happen later that’s going to make things so hard for me?”
“Where’s Covey’s money?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“When they run forensics on his house, are they going to find your prints, or your clothing fibers, or your DNA?”
“They won’t find m
y prints. But fibers, DNA—maybe. Kings Point PD was nice enough to show me around the crime scene, so you never know, there might be trace evidence.”
O’Shea didn’t answer.
Miles said, “Whatever’s there, it’ll be easy enough to explain.”
O’Shea said, “Yeah, fuck you.”
Miles stood up. “Unless there’s something else…”
He came out from behind the table and moved past the camera as Medina was saying, “Interview paused at five thirty-eight P.M.”
O’Shea said, “Keller.”
Miles stopped but didn’t turn around. He could see McKenzie on the other side of the wire-mesh window, back to the door and his phone to his ear.
O’Shea said, “When Petrov wakes up, you’re fucking cooked.”
He knew that already. He didn’t answer.
O’Shea said, “Bit of luck we’ll be two-for-two as well. I heard you rigged the Jack Deen shooting, tried to make it look clean. So we can talk about that, if you’ve got anything to say.”
“No, I think I’m good.”
O’Shea said, “Oh, I was hoping you’d tell us about the paper you took out of his coat. Figured he was blackmailing the girl, right? Just have to make sure next time, don’t shoot through the guy’s pocket. Bit of a giveaway when you have paper all through the wound.”
He knew it was an oversight, but he’d had so little time. That sprint in the dark to his car, hunting in the trunk for his throw-down piece. He’d never felt so frantic. The PD had sonic gear that triangulated gunshot noise. They could hit a shooting scene in less than three minutes …
He wanted to turn and give O’Shea a parting sentiment, but his head was full of Jack Deen worries, and he couldn’t think of a line. He saw McKenzie wrapping up his call, and stayed back to let him through the door. McKenzie did his best to occupy maximum space, taking care to brush shoulders as he came past.
Medina said, “I need you back here in five.”