Heart of a Killer

by Yolanda Wallace

  “It’s not something I’ve ever considered, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t have nurturing instincts.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “Do you know something I don’t?”

  “I know you made Brooklyn feel safe when no one else could.”

  Santana felt a pang of guilt at the unintentional reminder that she might have been the one who had exposed Brooklyn to danger in the first place. She couldn’t take credit for helping Brooklyn deal with a situation she might have helped bring about. “I didn’t do anything special.”

  “No, you didn’t. You did something extraordinary. You did far more than you’re willing to admit. I appreciate your modesty, but I appreciate your actions even more. Charlie was Brooklyn’s best friend. I don’t know where she’d be right now if you hadn’t stepped in to help her deal with the loss.”

  “How are Charlie’s parents coping?”

  “It’s been understandably hard on both of them. Pete’s okay, but Gail’s still struggling. Charlie was their only child. In a way, she was their miracle baby. Gail had her later in life. When she was forty, she thought she was experiencing early menopause. Her doctor was even more surprised than she was when he saw the results of the ultrasound.”

  Santana examined the grain in the wood tabletop because she couldn’t bring herself to look Connie in the eye. “I wish I could have met Charlie.”

  “She was a firecracker, that’s for sure.”

  “So I’ve heard. No wonder Brooklyn misses her so much.”

  “Yes,” Connie said with a heavy sigh, “but, like it or not, life goes on. Are you ready for that walk?”

  “Ready when you are.”

  “Give me a few minutes to change and we can head out.” Connie placed her empty mug in the sink but didn’t leave the room. Instead, she returned to the table and cupped Santana’s face in her hands. “You have such kind eyes. That’s the first thing I noticed when I met you yesterday. And I don’t care what you say. You would make an excellent mother someday. You know why? Because you have a lot of love to give. Thank you for choosing to share it with my daughter.”

  Santana’s eyes filled with tears. The feelings she had always held at bay threatened to overwhelm her.

  Brooklyn shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes and barely awake. “I smelled coffee,” she said in a voice thick with sleep. “Did I miss something? Vilma, why are you crying? What’s wrong?”

  “Just a little girl talk. Nothing that concerns you.” Connie discreetly slipped Santana a napkin so she could dry her eyes and blow her nose. “Come be my guinea pig,” she said as she steered Brooklyn away from the table. “Vilma showed me how to use the coffeemaker, and I’m anxious to try it out. What kind of coffee would you like, the one I can’t pronounce or the one I can’t spell?”

  Santana excused herself before she broke down again. She felt like a fraud. With the right disguise, the proper paperwork, and a few plausible lies thrown in, she could be anyone she wanted. But no amount of prosthetics could turn her into the person she truly wanted to be: the woman who deserved Brooklyn’s heart.

  She wanted to be with Brooklyn. She wanted to give her the kind of life they both dreamed about. But she couldn’t. Not until she left her old life behind. Maybe then she could start fresh. Maybe then she could be the woman Connie had claimed to see when she had looked into her eyes.

  * * *

  Brooklyn was shaken by what she had witnessed in the kitchen. She had never seen Vilma cry. Not even when they had watched a tearjerker Brooklyn could never manage to get through without emptying half a box of Kleenex in the process.

  Neither Vilma nor her mother would tell her what had caused the scene. Now they were off wandering the woods together like they were besties. She didn’t know whether to feel happy that they seemed to be getting along so well or jealous because they were bonding without her.

  “You’ve never been a micromanager before. Don’t start now.”

  She pulled on jeans, sneakers, and a comfy sweatshirt, then grabbed a rod and headed to the lake. “Morning, Pop,” she said, briefly resting a hand on his shoulder. “Mind if I join you?”

  “That depends.”

  “On?”

  “Whether you’re here to talk or whether you’re here to fish. Fishing’s free. Talking will cost you.”

  “Free works for me.”

  “Good choice.”

  Brooklyn sat in the chair next to him and took a peek in the fishing basket. Three largemouth bass of varying sizes flopped inside. “Are you planning on taking those back to Gianni and Angie?”

  “If they want fish, they know where the store is. Those are heading to my freezer. The bait’s in the bucket. Grab a couple of worms and see if you remember how this works. Where’s my sidekick this morning?”

  She waited until she had completed her task to answer his question so she wouldn’t end up sticking the rusty hook through her finger. She didn’t want to spend the penultimate day of her weekend getting a tetanus shot in the local ER. “She and Mom went for a walk.”

  “I hope Vilma has a better sense of direction than Connie does. Otherwise, they’ll never find their way back.”

  Brooklyn flicked her wrist and tossed her line in the water. Then she reeled it in a few feet, hoping the subtle movement would capture a fish’s attention. She tightened her grip when she felt a gentle tug on the hook.

  “Careful,” her father said. “You don’t want to spook him.”

  She relaxed her fingers. “I thought you weren’t in the mood to talk.”

  “I’m not in the mood for you to talk. I never said anything about me.”

  Her father teased all his kids, but he had always seemed to save his best jibes for her. Probably because they shared the same sense of humor—dark, biting, and just this side of sarcastic.

  “Are you having fun?” he asked.

  “This weekend has been a blast.”

  “I wasn’t asking about this weekend. I was asking about Vilma. Are you serious about her or are you just having fun?”

  Her line jerked suddenly. She reeled it in to see what she had caught. “Not bad, huh?” she asked, holding up a five-pound bass.

  “She’s a keeper, that one. And I’m not talking about the fish.”

  She followed his line of sight. Across the lake, her mother and Vilma were tossing pieces of bread to a family of ducks. Vilma must have said something her mother found hilarious because her laughter carried clear across the water. Even from a distance, Brooklyn could see the broad smile on Vilma’s face. Seeing two women who meant so much to her getting along so well made her heart swell.

  “You did good, honey,” her father said.

  “I think so, too, Pop. I think so, too.”

  Chapter Thirty

  For Santana, the trip to the Catskills was the best and the worst thing that had ever happened to her. The idyllic weekend had given her a glimpse of everything she had to gain, but it had also showed her how much she had to lose.

  She imagined spending holidays and special occasions with Brooklyn and her raucous family. She imagined the two of them starting a family of their own. Not the kind of thoughts she should be having when she was preparing to carry out an assignment, but for the past few weeks, she hadn’t been able to think about anything else.

  She had been in Reykjavik for two days now. Just enough time for her to settle in and reacclimatize to her surroundings without overstaying her welcome. Jusuf Mladić’s party was scheduled for tonight. Tomorrow morning, she would be on a plane back to New York City. When she landed, she planned to take Brooklyn to Little Manila so they could have dinner in the restaurant they had visited the night they’d had sex for the first time. They would share a big platter of food, then they’d each have two—no, three—scoops of dirty ice cream for dessert. Afterward, they would go to her apartment, where she would present Brooklyn with a key and ask her to move in with her. The key would be symbolic since
she would probably be forced to vacate her current apartment when her relationship with Winslow officially ended. The request wouldn’t amount to a marriage proposal, but it would mark the first step on her and Brooklyn’s path to the future. A shared future.

  She had it all planned. The only mystery that remained was what the topic of conversation would be before and after they made love that night.

  She was dragging her feet on telling Brooklyn the complete truth about herself. If she was honest from this point forward, why should it matter what she had lied about in the past? Because in a few hours, that part of her life would be over. In a few hours, it wouldn’t matter who she used to be. What mattered was who she would be tomorrow and all the days that followed. Because in a few hours, she would be free.

  Two hours before the party was supposed to start, she headed to the Midnight Sun so she could pick up her uniform and sit through the mandatory training session. Aron Einarsson, the restaurant’s owner, looked more like a conductor than a chef as he put the kitchen and wait staffs through their paces. When he wasn’t waving his arms back and forth like Leonard Bernstein, he was up to his elbows in a big pot of something gelatinous that was probably a delicacy but she wasn’t very eager to try.

  “Who are you, and what are you doing in my kitchen?” he asked when he spotted her standing in the doorway.

  “I’m Delphine Durand. Sigrun recommended me.”

  “Oh, yes. I didn’t recognize you without the crazy hair.”

  After she had submitted her job application, he had set up a Skype call so he could conduct a face-to-face interview. The questions he had asked had been relatively routine so she hadn’t been forced to think too hard to come up with the answers. He had seemed more interested in her appearance than her ability to balance trays of watered-down drinks anyway. “I want people who can do the job without drawing attention to themselves,” he had said. She had promised to switch to a more conservative hairstyle and, just as Sigrun had promised, the job was hers.

  Today, she had ditched the spiky platinum blond wig she usually wore when she was Delphine in favor of a reddish-brown one that had been shaped into a stylish bob.

  “Better,” Aron said.

  “What would you like me to do?”

  “Look for a small woman carrying a big clipboard. That’s Margret. She’ll give you your job assignment and direct you where to get changed. Now get out of here. This sheep’s head jelly is refusing to set and I’m running out of time to get it right.”

  His description of Margret turned out to be an accurate one. She was decidedly small in stature—barely five feet tall, if that—and the checklist in her hands seemed a mile long. She was just as busy as Aron but seemed far less harried. Santana wouldn’t have been surprised to discover she had a military background because she was straight to the point and worked with uncanny efficiency.

  “Delphine?” Margret skimmed through a list of names and drew a line through one. “Nine down, one to go. If Alexander doesn’t show, you’ll be doing double-duty. Right now, I’ve got you on canapés. Can you handle cocktails, too?”

  “I can do whatever you need me to do.” Especially if it afforded her a chance to sneak into Mladić’s bathroom. She would need less than five minutes to make the switch, but five minutes was an eternity when there were a slew of armed guards around.

  “Your uniform’s right over there. It’s yours to keep whether this turns out to be your first job with us or your last. The price will be deducted from your pay.”

  “Speaking of pay, do I get that now or later?” Santana didn’t care about the pittance she would make for working the event—an amount that would be even smaller after the price of her uniform was deducted from it—but Delphine lived from paycheck to paycheck and she had to be true to the character she was playing.

  Margret must have been used to fielding such questions. Her cool, professional demeanor never wavered, even though she probably found the question annoying as well as ridiculous. Santana admired her ability to remain calm under pressure.

  “We can’t have you walking out halfway through the party,” Margret said. “The promise of a paycheck should provide you the proper incentive to stay. Now, I selected the sizes you provided, but make sure the clothes fit. Before you do that, though, help the rest of the team get the prepped food packed and loaded in the van. We’ll be leaving in thirty minutes to transfer everything from our kitchen to the client’s. While Aron completes his final preparations, I will accompany you and the rest of the wait staff on a walkthrough of the property. It’s a private home so certain areas are understandably off-limits. The head of our client’s security team will let us know what those are.”

  “Are there any other rules I need to be aware of?”

  “Just two. The food and drinks are for the guests, not the staff, so don’t even think of helping yourself to any free samples. And no cameras, telephones, or recording devices of any kind will be allowed inside the house. You will be searched when you arrive to make sure you comply with the request so if you have any of those things on you, leave them here. There’s a locker in the changing room. You can store your belongings there for the time being and collect them after your shift ends.”

  “Can I leave them in one of the vans? You have two, don’t you? One for the food and one for the staff?”

  If she had to make a hasty retreat, she didn’t want to be forced to make any pit stops along the way. She also didn’t want to leave any belongings behind. When the job was over, she planned to burn all her identities one by one.

  She had been pretending to be other people for so long she had almost forgotten how to be herself. She knew there would be some missteps along the way, but she was looking forward to embarking on the journey.

  “The vehicles are less secure than the restaurant,” Margret said. “Many people will have access to them, and the management team, myself included, will be far too busy to keep an eye on what’s inside. Mr. Magnusson is a stern taskmaster. The staff’s primary duty will be making sure the event goes well, not guarding the parking lot.”

  “As you said, there’ll be a security team onsite.”

  “And they will be focused on the goings-on inside the house, not out.”

  “Even so, I’ll take my chances.”

  “As you wish. I hope I’ve answered all your questions. If not, I’m sure another member of the wait staff will be able to. Right now, I have another matter that demands my attention. Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” she said after Margret left to take care of the next item on her list. “I think I’ll need it.”

  She had anticipated being searched so she had made contingency plans for that. The pills she planned to use to poison Mladić were hidden in a secret compartment in her travel mug rather than on her. She had hoped that, after the security team cleared them, the wait staff would have free rein of the house as they wandered around serving guests. If you couldn’t trust someone carrying a tray of toast points smeared with sheep’s head jelly, who could you trust?

  As she helped load the delivery van, she tried to figure out how she was supposed to switch out Mladić’s erectile dysfunction medication if, as she expected, his living quarters had a virtual Keep Out sign posted on them. Nothing like a last-minute wrinkle to keep her on her toes. She would find a way somehow. She always did.

  One of the other cater-waiters introduced himself. “I’m Matthias.” He had bright red hair and a beard to match. His long hair was pulled back into a man bun and his luxurious beard nearly touched his chest. So much for blending in rather than standing out.

  “Delphine. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “You, too,” he said before he went back to loading boxes. “Is this your first time doing one of these parties?”

  “For this guy, yes. What about you?”

  “This is my third. Magnusson’s a bit of a dick and his friends are, too, so don’t expect any tips. A pinch on the ass, maybe, but no tips.”

  “
Then why do you do it? The pay’s not that great, is it?”

  “No, but every little bit helps. Just between you and me, I exact a bit of revenge when I can.” He looked around to make sure no one was listening in on their conversation. “For the guests that go too far, I serve them a side order of DNA with their fancy food and drinks. They’re so caught up in themselves they don’t even notice, but I do, and it’s freaking awesome. Try it if you get a chance. You won’t believe how good it feels.”

  She told him she’d give it a shot if someone crossed the line, but she had no intention of doing so. In her profession, leaving DNA at a crime scene was something to be avoided at all costs.

  If everything went according to plan, Mladić’s death would look like natural causes. Only she and whoever had ordered the hit would know any different. If her plan went awry or someone grew suspicious and requested an autopsy, she didn’t want to be a suspect in the subsequent investigation when poison was found in Mladić’s system. If she didn’t leave any trace evidence behind, his cronies would most likely point fingers at each other, leaving no one to take the reins of Mladić’s empire. Not the kind of regime change she normally helped bring about, but the principle was the same.

  Aron had insisted each of the servers wear white gloves tonight because he liked the look. His eccentricity played in Santana’s favor. If her hands were covered at all times, all the glasses and serving trays she touched would contain only the guests’ fingerprints, not hers. And she wouldn’t have to don latex gloves before she entered Mladić’s room. Provided she found an opportunity to slip inside in the first place.