by Ben Sanders
The handcuff rattled.
The paramedics looked at him. No, wait: the second guy was a state trooper. The gun was the giveaway.
Miles said, “Where’s Lucy?”
No one answered.
* * *
She was with him soon enough. He woke up and she was sitting by his bed, holding his hand.
He said, “That’s a nice sight to wake up to.”
His throat was dry, and he only heard the last three words. But she seemed to get the message. She smiled and handed him a cup of water, pressed a button on the bed frame that brought him upright. His sense of balance couldn’t keep up, and he lost half the water.
She said, “You want the good news, or the bad news?”
Miles said, “Good then bad.”
Lucy said, “They cleared you on the Jack Deen shooting. I heard them talking outside.”
He wanted to feel a weight come off him, but he didn’t. Too much had gone wrong. He opened his mouth for something cheery, but came up empty. He said, “Those reports are meant to take ninety days.”
Lucy said, “Maybe they wanted to do it the Keller way, break all the rules.”
He smiled faintly. “What’s the bad news?”
She said, “Well, now they’ve got you for something else.”
He was holding the cup, so that was one hand accounted for. He tried the other one. A cuff rattled. He closed his eyes. “Shit.”
Maybe she thought that summed everything up, because she didn’t answer for a while. Eventually she said, “Normally when it’s a flesh wound, the hero keeps going.”
He opened his eyes. “I am still going.”
“I mean, they don’t end up in the hospital. He nails a few more bad guys, and then he sits with his shirt off while the female lead bandages his cuts.”
Miles said, “Was mine a flesh wound?”
She shook her head. “There were ribs involved. They had to pick the splinters out of your side.”
He could see people in the hallway outside his room. White-coated medical folks, someone in a suit, someone in police uniform.
Lucy said, “They let me come in first, so you didn’t wake up to those guys.”
Miles didn’t answer.
She said, “Don’t worry. Whatever’s happening, we’ll figure it out.”
He had to keep his eyes closed. He said, “I didn’t do…” But found he couldn’t say it. There was a barrier in his mind he couldn’t cross. He couldn’t lie to her about this.
And maybe it was just the anesthetic—drugs trialing new pathways in his brain—but he felt for a moment that he could tell her everything, and with spotless clarity. But like those fleeting mental glides along the edge of sleep, where space and time reveal all their mysteries, the feeling was born and then gone. So for now, he’d manage to be grateful she was here. Then one day he’d tell her that all this was for her—everything he’d done. And maybe he’d tell her how hard it was to love her: the need to be with her, and the need to be apart as a kind of atonement. Penance for breaking up his marriage.
She let him have some time with his thoughts, and said, “I’ll let you talk to the fuzz. I’ll be outside. I’m not going anywhere.”
She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, and then she got up and walked out. Miles drained his cup and watched her go, and he still had a mouthful of water when the man in the suit walked in. It was O’Shea, the Force Investigation guy he’d talked with yesterday.
Miles swallowed with little sips, not wanting to gulp as an opener. He said, “I’ve been keeping you guys busy.”
O’Shea sat down in Lucy’s chair.
Miles said, “If you don’t mind, there’s a button down there that tilts the bed up.”
O’Shea looked like he might just sit there, but he couldn’t say no to an invalid. He leaned forward and found the button and gave Miles another ten degrees.
“Thanks.”
O’Shea sat back, laid an ankle across his knee. He said, “Is there anything you want to tell me about the last two days? Clear up some misconceptions? Clear a guilty conscience?”
Miles said, “Nothing I say will be admissible. I’m full of medicine.”
O’Shea said nothing. He’d got his man, but he didn’t look happy about it.
Miles rattled his cuff. He said, “What are the charges?”
O’Shea seemed to think about how to answer. He said, “Petrov’s dead. But he was awake long enough to tell us what happened.”
Miles waited.
O’Shea said, “He told me you robbed the Coveys at gunpoint two nights ago.”
Miles didn’t answer at first. Then he said, “If he’s dead now, it’s just hearsay.”
O’Shea shook his head. “We deposed him on his deathbed.”
“Wasn’t much of a deposition, if you only got one line.”
O’Shea didn’t answer.
Miles said, “What about this alleged abduction you said I carried out? Making him send text messages, under duress? Did he forget about all of that?”
O’Shea said, “I guess he wanted the big stuff cleared up early.”
Miles said, “How’d you even know it was a deathbed deposition? Did he not want to pull through?”
O’Shea took an envelope from his suit coat, wagged it gently in two fingers, gaze still with Miles. “I don’t care about semantics. The judge seemed to think we’d satisfied the evidence code.”
Miles didn’t answer.
O’Shea said, “Maybe they’ll let you share a cell with your brother.”
Miles shook his head. “We’re not there yet. This has to be dragged through court first.”
O’Shea’s eyebrows rose. “Oh yeah? And what are you going to tell them?”
Miles said, “Probably start out pretty standard, say it wasn’t me. Then get on to the part about Nina Stone and her friend who wears a hat. They were running a kidnap-for-ransom up at Kings Point last night, I don’t think it’s a stretch to say they did the Coveys the night before. Especially with the murder weapon and the money in the back of their car.”
O’Shea leaned in, elbows-to-knees. “Who says it’s the murder weapon? Who says it’s their money?”
Miles said, “Well, maybe they pulled off a murder-robbery somewhere else. But it seems most likely they did the one just down the road the night before, don’t you think?”
O’Shea shook his head. “Petrov says it was you.”
“And I say he was mistaken. I say it was Nina’s friend. Or both of them, and Petrov was talking nonsense, because he’d just been shot, and didn’t know which way was up.”
O’Shea sat quietly for a moment. Then he said, “That man you killed last night—Bobby Deen—he’s Jack’s cousin. Your shooting from three weeks ago. So there’ll be some other FID people coming to chat about coincidences.”
Miles said, “And what are you here for, exactly? Just to rub my nose in it?”
O’Shea actually managed to come forward a little more, craning his face out off his neck. Miles saw veins standing out, the strain from the cantilevered head, smelled his aftershave.
O’Shea said, “You sacrificed the Covey money to try and set up Stone and Deen. It’s not going to fucking work. I’ll have twenty guys checking their backstory. Something’ll come unstuck for you, Keller.”
Maybe he was right, but Miles figured he had an outside chance. And O’Shea’s choice of words had been odd. Something’ll come unstuck for you, Keller.
Hadn’t it come unstuck already?
O’Shea said, “Well, much as it pains me, I’m done. Unless there’s anything you want to share.” He smiled. “You know, just the two of us, make you rest a little easier.”
Miles didn’t answer.
O’Shea stood up. He dropped the envelope on the bed. He said, “I’m going to get you. And whoever else you rope in to lie on your behalf.”
Miles didn’t answer. He looked at the envelope as O’Shea came around the bed and unlocked his cuff. He didn’t ev
en take it with him. He left it dangling as he walked out.
Miles was shaking so much he tore the corner of the paper inside. There was one sheet only.
It was titled “General Affidavit.”
He saw Pam Blake’s name and signature at the bottom, along with a notary’s details. He didn’t need to read the full text. He glimpsed the first line of the statement of facts and saw Detective Miles Keller accompanied me on surveillance the night of—
It was all lies.
She’d given him an alibi for the Covey job. It negated Petrov’s deposition.
A monitor somewhere was beeping.
O’Shea’s visit had been a Hail Mary—a last try for confession before he unlocked the cuff.
He lay back as a nurse rushed in, trying to soothe the electronics.
FORTY-THREE
MANHASSET, NY
Miles Keller
He checked himself out three days later. Thursday morning in the rain. All his life, he’d felt this strange elation, walking out of hospitals, like his DNA was telling him to make the most of it. There’ll come a time when you can’t leave on your own steam. Then again, that’s the case for everything: all things in life have a number on them, and every day you’re running down the count.
The ground floor had public phones. Ten minutes to nine in the morning, he called Attica and asked for his brother.
“This is an internal line, Keller.”
“You told me that last time. It’s an emergency.”
“What’s the emergency?”
Miles said, “I’m calling from a hospital. Use your imagination.”
He got put on hold for fifteen minutes. His weight went foot to foot, and the phone went ear to ear. Then Nate came on the line.
Miles said, “It’s me.”
“Oh, hey. How you doing?”
Faint surprise, but nothing extra. He hadn’t heard what happened.
Miles said, “I’m okay. I just got out of the hospital. Got shot the other day.”
“What—”
“I’m okay though. Just a scrape, with a bit of rib.”
“Oh shit. What happened?”
Miles said, “I was up at Kings Point, shot a guy, he shot me back. He’s dead and I’m all right.”
“Okay…”
“It’s still with FID, so I won’t run it down on the phone.”
“Sure, yeah.”
Miles said, “See if you can catch some news. I was on TV a couple of days.”
“You only just had that thing a few weeks back.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Everything all good?”
“Yeah. I think I’m going to be okay.”
“You sound wrecked.”
“I … yeah. Shit.” He was wrecked, and hearing his brother say it almost made it too much. He ran a hand through his hair, closed his eyes. “You know the Tribeca Gardens Hotel? Down on Canal Street?”
“Yeah, vaguely.”
“I had a gunfight in the lobby.”
His brother didn’t answer.
Miles took a breath, said, “FID brought me in, wanted to know how I shot so well. Told them about Dad and his targets … You remember he had us doing those drills, draw and fire?”
“God, that was years ago.”
“Yeah. Made for a good story though. Listen, I…”
His brother waited.
“Ah. Forget it.”
“You all right?”
“Yeah, I just. It’s been a shitty few days. Wanted to talk to you. Sorry I haven’t called sooner. I’ll come visit.”
Nate laughed. “Yeah. I’ll take you out for breakfast. They really love cops in the cafeteria.”
They hung up, and he took a breath, and tried Caitlyn’s number.
The phone just rang and rang.
* * *
Lucy was waiting for him by Stanton’s car, and she got in the driver’s seat when she saw him coming over. He got in beside her. She had the air tank in the rear footwell, the mask hanging over the seat.
She said, “New wardrobe?”
The hospital had a data center with public computers, and he’d ordered himself new clothes on Amazon. He had on jeans, and a gray sweater that almost fit him. It needed another inch in the cuff.
She said, “I could’ve just brought you something.”
“Figured you had enough on your plate.”
“Who were you talking to?”
He looked at her.
She nodded across the lot. “Saw you on the phone.”
Miles said, “You remember my brother’s in prison?”
“Yeah. You did tell me that.”
He looked out the window, over at the hospital foyer, as if reliving the call. He said, “We went on a road trip once. I was seventeen, he was nineteen, I think. We robbed this bank down in Kansas. Only time I ever did it.” He looked over at her, but she was just waiting for him to finish the story. He said, “After that I went straight. Kind of. But being in that hotel lobby the other day, it put me right back there. I wanted to tell him about it, but I couldn’t. They monitor the calls.” He shrugged, smiled. “So I gotta tell you instead. I don’t know why I have to tell anyone, really. But it just felt like I had to.”
Lucy put a hand on the key but didn’t start the engine. She said, “Well, I’m not going to tell you it’s all right. And I’m not going to tell you don’t worry about it, either. So shall we just carry on?”
Miles didn’t answer. He opened the glove compartment. His honeymoon photo was still there. Lucy gave him a few seconds with it and then said, “I don’t think this is going to work, if you’re going to spend lots of time looking at photos of your ex-wife.”
Miles closed the door again. He said, “Maybe I could keep the photo, but not look at it too often.”
She had a hit of oxygen and said, “I’m sorry I wrecked your marriage. But I never knew there was a marriage to wreck. And looking back and wishing you’d done things different isn’t exactly the path to happiness. Yours or mine.”
Miles didn’t answer.
She said, “Hey.” He felt her hand on his leg. “You all right?”
He smiled. “Yeah, I’m all right.”
She said, “You probably don’t even know where you are.”
“The sign says North Shore University Hospital. So I imagine I’m in Manhasset, New York.”
“And where do you want to go now?”
Miles said, “We’ll go see Pam first.”
* * *
She had a place in Pomonok, Queens, on Seventieth Road. It was only thirty minutes away, even in morning traffic. Her block was tree-lined, and her house was a single-level brick place with a porch, the railing loaded up with potted herbs, and flowers that drooped down past the balusters.
There was a car in the driveway, and a car out front at the curb.
Miles said, “She skipped work,” and his heart skipped a beat as he said it, knowing she’d be there.
Lucy said, “You want me to come in?”
“No, it’s okay. Just give me a minute.”
She coasted to a stop at the bottom of the driveway, and he got out and stood alone at the mailbox, watching her drive away.
The bell by the front door didn’t seem to work. He knocked and waited. The house was silent, and he thought maybe she’d just wait for him to leave. But then the door opened, and Pam’s husband Richard was standing there on crutches.
“Hey—”
“She doesn’t want to see you, man.”
“I just…” He faltered and turned, gestured at the cars. “I know she’s home. Can I maybe—”
“No, you can’t maybe anything. She doesn’t want to see you.”
Miles took a step forward, and the guy jerked taller slightly, arching his back, jutting his chin. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
“All right.” He raised his hands. “We’re good.” He wasn’t going to shove past a cripple.
“No, we’re not. I told you don’t come in. I s
ay it again, I’m calling the police. Get out of here, Miles. You’re done.”
When Lucy came past with the car again, he was standing at the curb where she’d dropped him. She stopped and he got in.
“Not home?”
He sighed out his nose, looking for life in his side mirror. “Yeah. No one home.”
“You could slip a note under the door or something…”
He hadn’t told her about the affidavit. He wasn’t sure he’d ever tell anyone.
She said, “You want to try Caitlyn?”
Yeah, he really did. Even just to say that he was sorry. And he wanted to see the wife of the Coveys’ security man, tell her the same thing, but he couldn’t even remember his name. And there was Petrov’s family as well …
He said, “No, not today.” He looked at her. “I don’t like my chances.”
She said, “You look like the world’s ending. But you got us out of a crazy situation. And you saved my life.”
Maybe she thought it was that straightforward, that he’d got them out of a squeeze, and the true facts of it had no gray area. He wondered if that would be the cost of coexistence, that he’d never tell her the full story.
He said, “Let’s just get out of here.”
EPILOGUE
Miles Keller
KEY LARGO, FL
He found a guest room to rent for seventy-five dollars a night. The owner was an eighty-year-old woman, currently in Dallas receiving treatment for melanoma. Her son had put the place on Airbnb—at Ma’s request, or so he claimed.
They flew to Miami and took a rental car south through the Glades, U.S. 1 curving thin and gray in this vast expanse of green, like Texas desert swapped for mangroves.
The house was a block back from the beach, on the Gulf of Mexico side. They arrived midday on Sunday, and he spent the afternoon sitting on the sand, looking at the water. He got double takes from people walking past, and they must’ve wondered what his story was. Lucy said he looked fresh out of prison: short haircut, IV marks on both arms, a bandage down one side, ten pounds lighter after his hospital stay. He undertook to fix appearances, figured a few days of sunshine and overeating would be sound rejuvenation.