by Ben Sanders
Miles didn’t answer. He stepped out into the corridor, and heard McKenzie in a low voice say that Kings Point PD couldn’t find the wife’s car. Miles paused, knowing it meant something but not quite feeling it click. He waited for O’Shea’s answer, but then the door closed and the young plainclothes guy was beckoning.
In the squad room, everyone seemed to be on a phone. He saw people turn and look away, as if all the talk was about him. The plainclothes guy pointed out a phone lying off the cradle, and Miles thanked him and headed over.
He heard his name, and turned to see Pam Blake coming for him, threading between desks. She had a ball cap on, and a raincoat over faded street clothes, walking with a hand on her hip to show the badge and gun on her belt.
“Miles, what happened? I heard you shot someone.”
“You didn’t have to come all the way down here.”
“Yeah, I know—should’ve just stayed home, watched it on TV, right? The hell happened?”
He said, “I basically walked into a shit storm.”
“Yeah, sounds like it. You shot up a hotel or something?” She had a hand on her head, pulling her hat back, like she was trying to get a better view of him. He could see the lines around her eyes and mouth, pinch marks from stress, and sitting in a car doing night surveillance, chaining smoke after smoke.
Miles said, “Give me five minutes. You got a car?”
“Yeah, I’m out front. Is FID done with you?”
“I’m done with them. I’ll meet you outside.”
He turned away, but she caught his arm.
“Are you okay?”
“I will be if you just walk out like nothing’s the matter.”
“Dude, what the hell—”
“Sorry. I’m just tired. I’ll see you downstairs in five minutes.”
He turned away, and this time she didn’t stop him. He picked up the phone and said, “Keller.”
Stanton said, “I was worried they wouldn’t let you out.”
Miles said, “Where are you?”
“Driving. I got a call for you—”
“Where’s Lucy?”
“With me. We’re heading down to your place. Said she needs meds or something—look, I got a call for you, she’s on hold.”
“Who is?”
“The Stone woman. The Nina lady. You want to talk to her?”
Nina. He saw her leaning on his hotel room door, making luck lean as well: life veering for the worse. So why was he still holding the phone?
Stanton said, “I don’t know what she wants—”
Miles said, “Put her through.”
There was a pause, and then a beep, and then Nina said, “Hello, Miles.”
As measured and knowing as a robot. Like some rogue AI talking to the last man on earth.
He said, “What’s going on?”
She said, “I’m sorry things didn’t work out quite like I said. We can still make some money, though.”
“What did I just walk into?”
“Business, essentially. We don’t have much time. My husband sent a man to take me back to L.A. He was with me in the lobby earlier. You might’ve seen him.”
“The hat man.”
“Yeah, you got him. I think I’ve … what’s the word? Forestalled his recovery efforts for now. He seems to be deeply in love with me.”
“And I presume he’s not eavesdropping.”
“No, I took him to bed, and now he’s taking a shower.”
Miles said, “What are you tied up in? I just killed two people.”
“And saved my life, most importantly. I’m not about to forget that in a hurry.”
He had to resist the urge to keep looking around. He’d seem paranoid if he did. But he kept expecting a shoulder tap, a summons back to the room with O’Shea.
He said, “So tell me what’s going on, and we’ll call it even.”
Nina tutted. “You shouldn’t write off your credit so easily. What’s going on is I’ve had a deal turn adversarial.”
“Yeah. It looked kind of tense.”
He knew he should get out of there: the longer he waited, the longer Petrov had to wake up and give him an abduction charge. But there was another Miles at work, one who wanted to hear out Nina Stone.
She said, “I was selling my husband’s business on his behalf and without his knowledge. The nature of the business made that a very dangerous undertaking. I hope that gives you the general picture, but really that’s not important. What I’m trying to tell you is that my offer still stands.”
Big, easy money—and morally spotless if you take it off a thug. But that was the other Miles talking, and things had changed since last night. He wouldn’t survive another crisis.
He said, “Sorry, I’m not interested.”
“You’re still talking to me though. These people in the blood trade seem to be very well looked after. So if you want to help me roll a man named Bobby who wears a little hat, you’d stand to make some money.”
Miles shut his eyes.
Nina said, “Let’s not take too long, he’s not going to shower forever.”
Miles said, “Last night you told me half a million.”
“I needed your attention, and five hundred grand’s a clean and compelling figure, isn’t it?”
Yes it was. Not now, though. He couldn’t take the risk.
She said, “It might not be half a million, but if you go up against Bobby and win, you stand to make a bit.”
She had a knack for dodging specifics: was this straight murder-robbery, or something with more finesse?
But who cares. Get out of there—
He said, “You want my advice: ditch Bobby while he’s still in the bathroom. Or even better, get the cops onto him. I’m sure they’d like his take on what happened at the hotel.”
Nina said, “Mmm. I’m all about subtlety and profit, though. I’m sure that there’s a better way of handling all of this. And the offer stands. If we see each other up the road, just keep in mind that I’m in your corner. You’re a nifty character, Miles, which means we’re two of a kind. I want to make something happen.”
“Bye, Nina.”
That was nice: a perfect conjugate to her “Hello, Miles,” even the same volume and tone.
He put the phone down and got out of there.
* * *
He went out the same blue door through which he’d entered, and saw Pam Blake sitting on the hood of an unmarked Chevy, smoking a cigarette. He opened the passenger door and climbed in, the eavesdropped line from McKenzie still caught in his head.
Kings Point PD can’t find the wife’s car.
Pam took her sweet time.
He couldn’t hurry her though, lest it look like a getaway. She made him wait a full minute and then dropped the butt down a drain and got in next to him, making a good show of being pissed off.
She started up and turned east on Walker, and Miles said, “Sorry. What I should’ve said is, Thanks for coming down to check I’m okay.”
Funny how it was so much easier saying that now they were both looking out the windshield. She didn’t answer, though. The car radio was keyed in to local dispatch, and he kept expecting to hear his name on a BOLO. How would he even play it? Try and explain it to her, or just run for the nearest subway? He dropped his window, and that helped things a little, city noise covering the operator.
Pam said, “Even when I was in Baltimore, working CID, detectives hardly ever shot people. Patrol, yeah, they notched a few, but CID, sometimes you’d get down to the car, realize you left the gun behind—where you want to go, anyway?”
Miles thought about that, half his mind still up in Kings Point at the Covey crime scene. He looked out his window at the street, this man-made chasm with the old buildings hemming in the one-way traffic, CHINATOWN BUILDING SUPPLIES going past in bright-red letters, a thicket of scaffolding and then the Chinese Baptist Church with its signage at a lower volume. He said, “Brooklyn, please.”
“Which bridge you want? B,
M, or W?”
A dispatcher read a BOLO notice: white male, early forties—
Miles shut it off. He said, “I should just take the subway.”
“Yeah, and then I won’t find out what your deal is.”
Miles didn’t answer.
She let him sit there for a block before she looked over. “Dude? Are you going to say something?”
“Take the Williamsburg.”
She kept looking at him.
He said, “I thought you were going to come back to your Baltimore CID story, work it into a question.”
That got a smile out of her. She said, “Yeah, how come some people go a whole career without killing anyone, and you managed three in a month?”
He said, “It’s been a strange few weeks.”
“Yeah, I gathered that. So why not just start by running through today?”
She made the turn onto Kenmare—brick apartment buildings with a sooty tint, a wall of graffiti in pink balloon letters. It was like a less polished SoHo. Miles rubbed his eyes and saw it all in acid-trip colors. He said, “There was a girl at the hotel—”
“Yeah, see, that’s a bad start already.”
“I looked at her for robbery five years back. Some banking guy said she stole some money from him at a dinner party. I let her go.”
“Because she didn’t do it, or because she seemed nice?”
Miles shrugged. “She was okay. She was a character, though. Man. I hadn’t seen her in years. Then last night she just showed up at my hotel—came back and there she was waiting outside the door.” He could see her too, and that was the thing about Nina: she always showed up vivid when you said her name.
“How’d she even know you were there?”
“Saw me on the street I think, figured I was a guest.”
Pam said, “Must be a common thing, though, right? Strike up a bond with a cop who’s gone after you, only natural that you try and catch up every so often. Should roll that policy out to homicide—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Hilarious.”
He went back to his window watching. They were on Delancey Street now, queued taillights jeweling the way to the bridge in the middle distance.
She said, “So what? Did you think that was pretty fucking weird, or did you just say come in, and then give her a cup of tea?”
“I just gave her water.”
“Oh yup.”
Miles said, “She had some deal going. Offered me half a million dollars if I wanted in on it.”
“Oh man.” The traffic stopped, and she shut her eyes. She let out a long breath and said, “That all sounds pretty legal, doesn’t it?”
He didn’t know whether to keep talking, but he said, “I was up at Kings Point this morning, got back to the hotel this afternoon, and that’s when it all happened. Didn’t know what it was at first—I mean, why people were shooting—and then I saw Nina standing there, and it started making sense.”
He noticed she was gripping the wheel a lot harder than usual.
She said, “You pass this all along to FID?”
He said, “Bits and pieces.”
“Right. Sure.” She had her elbow up on the sill, fingers on the bridge of her nose, eyes closed again.
He said, “Watch the road.”
She opened her eyes but didn’t move her hand. “So how come she knew it was safe to talk to you at all?” She looked across at him. “Obviously wasn’t worried she’d end up under investigation again, making you a six-figure offer.”
Miles was quiet a long time. Then he said, “She robbed a very bad guy. So I let her get away with it, basically.”
The car seemed to be quiet for a long time. Then she said, “Goddammit.” Letting it out on a sigh.
He hated the quiet, but he needed to hear her take on it.
She said, “Maybe you better keep this to yourself.”
“Or I can keep talking, and you can record it if you want.”
“Oh, Jesus.” She shook her head some more. “I don’t know what to say. I honestly don’t.”
He waited and watched the traffic.
She said, “What are you going to tell me?”
“Look. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if you think ignorance is bliss, or whether coming clean is the thing to do.”
Her head was still shaking, as if working off the disbelief, and then finally it stopped. She said, “Depends how clean you gotta come.”
He risked a glance and saw she’d tightened up even more: tendons standing out in her wrists, hands white on the wheel.
He said, “If I lay it out, don’t have a hernia.”
She didn’t move.
Miles said, “I’ve been ripping people off.”
Silence.
He said, “Dealers, and organized-crime guys.”
He checked her hands again, and thought she’d actually relaxed slightly. Like she’d been bracing for the impact and now it was over. Traffic came to a stop, and everyone gave a horn blast to try and get it moving again. Pam’s head tipped back on the rest. “Fuck. Man, I thought you were straight up.”
Miles said, “You could’ve just said don’t say it.”
She still wasn’t looking at him. She said, “I thought you were good. Now I don’t know what to do.”
“I am good.”
“Yeah? How do you figure that?”
She went to run a hand through her hair, but seemed to forget she had the hat on, pushed it off the back of her head.
He said, “Look. I’m not trying to justify anything—”
“But?”
“But the divorce screwed me up. I didn’t think I’d ever lose her, but I did. And then I met Nina six months later—this woman who took a million bucks off a guy who fucking deserved it.” He looked across at her. “And I thought: yeah, I could do that.”
“You been doing this for five years?”
He didn’t answer straightaway. Then he said, “I’m not proud of anything. But ethics come in shades, you know?”
“Oh, don’t give me that shit.”
Miles stayed with his point, though: “Which means that me ripping off a dealer is a slightly better outcome than said dealer keeping all the money to himself.”
“Not as good as everyone being arrested, though, is it?”
“Well, if you want to go down that road, I guess now’s your chance.”
She said, “Why can’t you just be a normal, low-maintenance asshole? Instead of dropping me in this. Jesus Christ, fucking dilemma.”
He said, “Look. I’m telling you because I’m worried maybe I’ll never see you again. And I figure that’s a pretty shitty way to take off, me leaving with things I should’ve told you.”
“Why, where you going?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet.”
“Or you haven’t quite figured out whether you should tell me?”
He let his breath out through his teeth, mimicking her by accident. “There was an old CI I used to run. She’s got emphysema—”
“Oh shit, here we go.”
He didn’t answer.
She said, “What—you going to take off to Florida or something, hope no one recognizes you with a tan?”
Miles said, “I always knew I had to get out eventually. Every time you rip someone off, it’s just another chance that something’ll come back at you. And then eventually the stakes get pretty high.”
“Which is what you’re looking at now.”
“Yeah. I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Oh, God.” She pulled the hat back down, the brim low over her eyes. “Part of me wants to just turn around and take you back to the fucking precinct.” Her voice was going wobbly. She gave herself a minute and then said, “You know, sometimes, you go out on calls, roll up at some piece-of-shit crack house, or a shooting or something, where everyone’s seen it but no one’s talking. And it’s like: you know on kind of a formal level that there’s laws, but then when you’re actually on the street and see it throug
h their eyes, you realize it’s just dog-eat-dog, same as everything else. So that part of me doesn’t really blame you.”
Miles said, “Is it a big part or a little part?”
She shook her head, like she didn’t actually know the answer. She said, “Is it just FID after you, or does Internal Affairs have a hard-on, too?”
“I don’t know.” He chose his words carefully and then said, “They think I visited a bent lawyer last night, walked away with some money. The Covey guy we looked at, up in Kings Point.”
He was too delicate with his words, and she didn’t even ask him if he’d done it. She just sat there shaking her head, as if gripped by some kind of vision, the whole city falling down beyond the windshield.
She said, “What’s in Brooklyn?”
He toyed with telling her the truth—how the Coveys were dead, and he knew who killed them. But he didn’t know how to thread the needle finely enough, how to convince her that he had nothing to do with it. So he just said, “Maybe you better let me out across the bridge.”
TWENTY-NINE
NEW YORK, NY
Bobby Deen
She was in the bathroom again, doing some kind of beautification, he figured. He heard water running, the click of scissors now and again. Bobby figured she’d spend thirty minutes in there and come out looking no different—still ten out of ten. That was how it worked with women.
He wrapped one of her discarded towels around his waist and went through to the kitchen. The case of cash was still open on the table, and her bag was open on the counter by the laptop. He lifted its screen. The cursor blinked slowly, wanting a password. Her profile photo had been shot on Charles’s balcony, L.A. hills in the background. He typed “Bobby” and hit Enter. No luck. The text field shook in disapproval. He listened for a moment, and when he heard water running, he checked her bag. A sweater, a cell phone, a charger for the computer, a slim leather wallet. All standard stuff, but it was a view of the real Nina. They were part of her in a way, except she couldn’t influence impressions. He popped the button on the wallet. Plastic galore: credit cards, and fake ID. She had a New York driver’s license in the name Joan Ryder, a California DL as Sally Lake, both with the same photo. He checked the pockets in turn, and found more licenses: Wisconsin, another California, Washington, Maryland. The credit cards were all Joan Ryder and Sally Lake. She had nothing as Nina. Maybe her life was just Pick a Card.