by Callie Hart
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. When was this event supposed to have taken place? I’m sure I’ll be able to tell you exactly where I was. Who I was with at the time.” I know for a fact the Monterellos never called the cops when Frankie died. No way. If there’s one thing I can count on, it’s that the Italians will have buried their boss and cleaned up the mess without making a report to the authorities. A family like that doesn’t want cops poking around their business. Better to say Frankie moved out of state or something, should anyone ever ask.
“We’re not interested in fake alibis, Mr. Mayfair.”
“Why would I give you a fake alibi? I’m merely trying to help.”
Lowell looks like she’s just swallowed a quart of bleach. “Well, I really hope that sentiment holds, Mr. Mayfair. Because you’re going to be helping us for a very long time.”
“The blaze started around three pm this afternoon. Known to be the home of one Charlie Holsan, a man suspected to be involved in a number of illegal operations, the eight-bedroom mansion was valued at two point three million dollars. Mr. Holsan has not yet come forward to speak with authorities or fire marshals about the fire. There is speculation that the sixty-two-year-old could actually be inside the building, though that won’t be confirmed until fire fighters have managed to get the blaze under control and officials can investigate. Even that might not be easy. The ferocity and fast-spreading nature of the fire has already significantly weakened the structure of the mansion. It is unlikely much of the interior will be intact by the time the inferno is put out. Stay tuned to Channel Six News Live for ongoing updates.”
I turn the television off, a sick feeling twisting in my gut. Zeth did that. I know he did. There are plenty of other people out there who had reason to set a fire in Charlie Holsan’s former home, but I know in my very bones it was Zeth. Pippa sits on the couch beside me, still staring at the now black TV screen.
“Is it wrong that I’m glad he’s dead?” she says softly.
I turn to look at her, surprised. “Really? You’re glad he’s dead?”
“Of course I am. He did countless unspeakable things to you. And…and to Zeth. He poisoned that woman at the gas station. And he scared the living shit out of me when he broke into that apartment to take Lacey. Not to mention he’s the whole reason Lacey is dead.”
When she puts it like that, I can see her point. She’s just so proper, though. Hearing her admit she’s glad someone like Charlie got what he deserved is a little out of character. “I thought you’d rather we trusted in the justice system. Send the bastard to jail, or something.”
Pippa shakes her head. “Hell, no. Prison is too good for the likes of him. Better he rots in hell than leeches off the state for the rest of his life. Plus,” she says, her voice taking on a hard edge, “he would still have been able to control things from inside. There are always people ready to carry out orders on prisoners’ behalves. You and Zeth would still have been in danger.”
I don’t know if she even realizes she’s included Zeth in her concern, but the fact that she has makes me feel like crying. I know we’re a long way off yet, but I can almost see a future where Pippa not only supports my relationship with the man she considers solely responsible for ruining my life, but perhaps…perhaps she will even like him. It’s a long shot, wishing for something like that, but I have to be an optimist about these things. If I’m not, I’ll go crazy.
Michael returns home mid-afternoon with a black eye and a split lip. Pippa rockets off the couch when he stumbles through the door, still in the running gear he was wearing earlier, though now soaked in blood. “Oh my god, is that your blood?” she gasps.
Michael lifts one eyebrow at the sight of Pippa at The Regency Rooms. “Not all of it,” he says. And then, to me, “Where’s the boss? He back yet?”
I shake my head. “I tried calling him earlier. He didn’t answer. I figured…I figured he needed some space.”
In truth, it hurt a little that Zeth let his cell phone ring out rather than talk to me, but I know how torn up inside he is right now. He’s off dealing with his problems the only way he knows how—by torching buildings and god knows what else. Better not to guess.
“He’ll be back before nightfall. He swore he would,” Michael says.
“And Julio? What happened with Julio and Rebel?”
Michael casts a cautious eye in Pippa’s direction. “Maybe it’s better I don’t go into details right now. Suffice it to say, Rebel’s problems are all solved now. And we don’t need to worry about Julio again, either.”
He’s probably right. Pippa doesn’t even know half of the crap Rebel’s involved in, and neither do I. Frankly, I don’t want to know. So long as Michael’s okay, then I’m happy to leave the conversation for another time. From the tone of his voice and the finality of his words, Julio Perez is just as dead as Charlie Holsan and that’s all I need to hear.
“There is just one thing, though,” Michael tells me, wincing as he sits down on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “It’s your sister.” Despite everything that’s happened, despite nearly all of this mess being her fault, my heart leaps into my throat.
“What? What is it? Is she okay?”
Michael nods. “She’s fine. However, she’s here in Seattle. And…she wants to see you.”
Lacey instantly comes to mind. I’ve considered her a sister for so long now; it’s been less than twenty-four hours since we buried her, and right now it seems as though the pain of her loss is never going to fade. I’ve lost a sister, but I still have another one who is very much alive. Should I still be angry with Alexis? Yes. Will I ever be able to forgive her for what she put me through? I don’t know. But does that mean I should cut her out of my life forever? My father knew she was alive for a long time, while Mom and I tore ourselves apart worrying about her, and then fearing her dead. But he said I don’t know Alexis’ side of the story—that she had a reason for what she did. Maybe it’s time for me to give her a chance to tell me her side. The very thought makes me angry—like there could ever be a reason good enough—but I guess, from the outside looking in, my own situation might be just as hard for my family and friends to comprehend. I’m sure Pip would attest to that.
“Okay, fine. I’ll see her. But...but not yet. I need a little more time.” I need my heart to stop hurting. I need my world to stop feeling like it’s falling apart. Michael nods silently—the guy looks completely exhausted, like he just ran a marathon while fighting for his life. “Does anything need stitching up?” I ask him. Something always needs stitching up. But Michael just stretches and climbs off his stool, heading for the fridge. He removes three beers, twists the caps off them, and then hands one to me and one to Pippa. I’ve never seen Pippa drink beer, let alone beer from the bottle, but she accepts it with a small, “Thanks.”
“I don’t need stitches. I need to get drunk,” Michael says. “I need to get absolutely fucked up. And now that we’re free of Holsan and Perez, I think we’ve earned a night off. And…and I want to drink to our girl.”
I was going to object to getting completely trashed—the very idea seemed reckless—but as soon as Michael points out we no longer have to worry about mob bosses, as soon as he brings up drinking to Lacey, all doubt flies out the window. I lift my beer bottle, holding it out for him to cheers me.
“To Lacey,” I say.
“Lace,” Michael adds.
Pip raises her bottle and joins us, and I can’t help it—the tears begin to flow again. It’ll be a long time until I can think about the girl without falling apart. My sorrow is made even worse when I think of Zeth out there somewhere by himself, feeling ten times worse than I can possibly imagine.
Michael reads my mind. He gently touches his fingertips to my cheek, smiling sadly at me. “He’ll be okay. I promise. He’ll be okay, because he has you.”
Seven hours. Lowell and her silent giant keep me locked up for a further seven hours. She questions me endlessly about Monterello,
and then asks the same questions over again three different ways. She tries and fails to make me slip up, to say something that contradicts my previous answers, and I just keep on giving her the same answers.
She questions me about my past with Charlie. She questions me about the death of her colleague back at the hospital—the one Charlie shot, not me. She questions me about an explosion outside St. Finnegan’s Church yesterday morning. She questions me about the death of one Andreas Medina, whose body was found face down on the floor of a suite in the downtown Marriott. She questions me about anything and everything that might be used to bring charges against me.
And the delightful truth is that she has nothing she can pin on me. Absolutely fucking nothing. It’s fairly obvious what she’s trying to do. Lowell knows she’s got shit, but she’s hoping I’m a complete moron. She’s hoping to put the fear of god into me with talk of these heinous crimes, so that when she gets around to asking me what she really wants to know I’ll be ready and willing to comply with her in order to save my own ass. She’s just started in on her fourth round of questions about Medina—when did you see him last? What was said between you and the victim?—when I finally lose patience with the bullshit.
I lean across the table, bridging my fingers together and glaring at the evil bitch. “You want Rebel. Why don’t we cut the shit here, Denise? Why don’t you ask me what you really want to know so you can go home to your microwave meal dinner and I can get the fuck out of here?”
Lowell goes rigid, as though I’ve ruined her game and she’s pissed about it. “All right, Zeth. You’re seriously fucking optimistic if you think you’re getting out of here after we’re done talking, but okay. For argument’s sake, let’s talk about Rebel. Do you know where he is?”
“No. I already told you I don’t.”
Fire lights up in Lowell’s eyes. I can imagine her telling the giant to turn off the camera so she can go find herself a phone book—the bent police officer’s best friend—but she doesn’t. She manages to rein in her fury long enough to ask me another question. “What can you tell me about him, then?”
“Why do you want him so bad?”
“I think you’re confusing the dynamics of our relationship, Mr. Mayfair. You don’t get to ask me questions.”
“I do if you want specific information.”
She huffs, tapping her index finger nail against the scratched surface of the table between us. “Fine. Rebel buys girls. He buys them and then they disappear. No trace. We know he’s heavily involved in human trafficking. We know he’s murdering those women. We just don’t know where, and we don’t know how. Given your recent involvement in trying to find Dr. Romera’s sister, I’d have thought perhaps you might just give a shit about these women.”
So she’s heard the same rumors I heard about Rebel. Believes the same things I believed before I met the guy. I know the truth now, though; Rebel aided and funded the relocation of broken women who were being sold as sex workers. He didn’t murder them; he helped them.
“Tell me again, what does DEA stand for, Agent Lowell?”
“Are you being fucking smart?” Lowell spits.
“No, not at all. I’m just wondering why the Drug Enforcement Agency…that is what it stands for, right? Why the Drug Enforcement Agency are involved so heavily in a case that doesn’t involve drugs, as far as I can see.”
“You don’t need to worry about the paperwork, Zeth. All you need to worry about is assisting me in my inquiries, and that way maybe, maybe, I’ll cut you a deal so you won’t have to spend quite as long back in fucking Chino, getting served on a nightly—”
“Do not threaten me.” Lowell instantly falls silent. Maybe it’s the look of cold rage on my face, or maybe it’s the clear warning in my voice, but either way the bitch shuts her mouth. It’s the smartest thing she’s ever fucking done. “I tell you what’s going to happen. You’re going to organize the clean slate you were supposed to have arranged for my girl when she went to meet you in that mall. And then you’re gonna get it signed. You’re going to bring it back here, and you’re going to put it in my hand, and then I will tell you everything you need to know about Rebel.”
“You really think you’re in a position to be making demands—”
“And if you don’t do this,” I say, lowering my voice, “you will have to release me in forty-eight hours due to the fact you have no evidence to bring charges against me. And when I get out, Agent Lowell, I will be a very irritated man.”
“Oh, are you threatening me now?” Lowell asks. Her face has gone white, but there are two small red splotches burning angrily in the center of her cheeks.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Just talking about my feelings. My counselor back in Chino said it was a good idea to share them every once in a while.” She should never have brought up sending me back to that fucking prison. The very mention of that place is enough to darken my mood to fucking pitch-black degrees.
Lowell knows, despite my denial, I most definitely was fucking threatening her. She must be able to see the threat clear as day in my eyes. “Tell me what you’ll give me and I’ll consider your offer,” she says.
“I’ll tell you where the girls have gone. I’ll tell you who kidnapped them in the first place. I’ll tell you where the Widow Makers’ clubhouse is.”
“You must think we’re idiots. We already know where their clubhouse is, Zeth.”
“I’ll tell you when they’re going to be there. And I will also tell you where you can find the body of Charlie Holsan.”
That has her attention. “Holsan’s dead?”
“So I hear. Can’t confirm that, of course. Just what I’ve heard on the grapevine.” I can see she’s interested; I know I’ve got her. Now for one last little thing to sweeten the deal. “While we’re at it, I’ll give you the locations of every single one of Holsan’s cutting shops. You could actually seize some drugs while you’re there. Might make that paperwork you told me not to worry about a little easier to file, right?” I know as well as she does those missing girls aren’t within her jurisdiction. The Feds should be all over that case. I imagine they would be if they knew about it, which means Lowell’s kept it from them. This is personal for her.
She smiles that sour smile of hers, nodding, eyes fixed on the table. “You give me that and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Paperwork first, Denise, and then we’ll talk. And in the meantime, how about you get me some food and a nice cup of tea? I’m a little hungry, y’know?”
Five long seconds pass while Lowell glares at me with the intensity of a burning sun. She can’t say no. She wants to—nothing would bring her more pleasure than to toss my ass in prison and throw away the key—but with the shitty hand she’s been holding since the moment we walked into this room, she knows she has no other option but to comply. She rises to her feet, mumbling under her breath. The video camera gets switched off.
“I’ll get you your paperwork, Mayfair, but I swear, if you don’t give us everything we need, I’ll make sure you never see the light of day again.”
“Fair.”
“And Ernie…Ernie had better be okay, you motherfucker.”
“Oh, I forgot about Ernie.” I smile, feeling a perverse sense of pleasure in what I’m about to say. “We’ll be keeping Ernie, Denise.”
******
I have three folded pieces of paper in my back pocket, burning through my jeans, when I walk up the steps to The Regency Rooms. I feel light. Really fucking light, like I could float away if I’m not careful. The only thing anchoring me to the sidewalk is the persistent memory of Lacey. I see it every single time I close my fucking eyes. The briefest of moments when she spoke to me before she died. “You gave me your best. You’re the only one who ever did.”
It kills me that my best wasn’t anywhere near enough to keep her safe. To keep her alive. I find the idea physically sickening. I got so caught up in my own shit with Charlie, Sloane and her sister, that taking care of Lacey took a backse
at. Of all the people in the world to drop the ball with, Lace should have been the last. She was unstable. She was a complete fucking mess, really. I should have had a weather eye fixed on her every goddamn second of the day. I feel like I failed her.
Surprisingly, that’s not the part that makes me the saddest, though. I’m the most raw, simply because I miss her. I miss her already. My sister has only been gone from this earth for a short space of time, but the length of time doesn’t seem relevant right now. Perhaps it’s the knowledge she won’t be coming back, not ever, that makes the ache in my chest so unbearable.
I sat there all night staring out the window while Sloane slept, and I fought my very nature. I wanted to smash everything. I wanted to burn everything to the ground, not just Charlie’s place. I wanted to go on a rampage and beat people, kill people with my bare hands. But then I came to a number of realizations. The first was that there was no one left to beat. No one left to kill. Nothing left to burn. The second was that my complete and utter fucking failure as a brother meant I was never going to fail the important people in my life again. That especially went for Sloane. The third realization that hit me, as the sun was rising over Seattle and Ernie was snoring gently in a soft gray heap at my feet, was that I’d fucked up Sloane’s life. I’m not crazy. I was already well aware that I’d fucked up her life, but I realized it was on me to fix it. So that’s what today has been about—fixing things, for me and for Sloane. Because though I definitely don’t fucking deserve it, my sister always wanted me to be happy, too.
Three pieces of paper burning a hole in my back pocket. One burned-down mansion. Hopefully a tentative bridge built between Sloane and her ever-so-fucking-annoying friend. I only have two more things to cross off my list. Two items that are currently in the works. I made a brief stop off on the way back to the hotel to resolve one of them, so really it’s only one.