They’d been dreaming for days of all the things they could do with the money. Fantasizing like they did on the rare occasion they bought a lottery ticket—when the prize was big enough and it was “worth it.” They imagined buying quality things instead of settling for less because it fit their budget, and paying off their student loans, and having a well-stocked wine cellar, and going on wonderful vacations to distant places that made good memories.
He wanted to buy Nelle a book he’d seen once. The special edition of her favorite novel, with the Smyth-sewn bindings, embossed endpapers, and gilded edges. It came in a tray case that folded out with the book in a box on one side and an art print on the other that looked like a piece of the ancient manuscript the characters in the story used to defeat the ancient evil that was after them. There were only twenty-six copies of that edition of the book in the world. Hand-signed and lettered, A through Z. The one he’d seen in person—that one was even the letter N in the series, making it almost like the author had personalized it just for Nelle. It was long sold out, but he imagined there were copies on eBay or at Powell’s Books maybe. But they resolved to play it safe. No muscle cars or $2,500 books. Let the money trickle out so they were comfortable, but not so obviously it was clear they’d come into unearned wealth. They wouldn’t buy anything right away that they couldn’t afford to make the payment on with their own income. And eventually, when Evan had done sufficient “creative accounting” for his home business, they could branch out and buy a little more. Buy something a little nicer. Move up one step at a time. And if it ever felt like there was too much attention on them for what they did, they’d stop and wait on that step for a while. Careful and slow.
Someday he’d surprise her with the book. But not today.
They’d both asked themselves, what good was money they couldn’t spend? The answer they each came to on their own was that it was better than money they couldn’t spend because they were in prison. With this plan, they were set. Loan payments and rent could come from their own income. Everything else they needed would “grow in the garden.” They also decided on eventually making a large anonymous donation to a children’s charity or two. Evan found a couple that looked like they did real work protecting kids. One was called the Legislative Drafting Institute for Child Protection that wrote model legislation to toughen laws for people who hurt kids. Twenty percent was the fee for living the rest of their lives afloat on a sea of blood money. They figured that would buy off guilt.
They could live with that.
Evan closed the laptop, smiled, and brushed Nelle with his shoulder. She stared into the distance. If they were in a British romantic comedy, she’d snap out of it and say, “Sorry. I was miles away.” But they were in on a heist, and it felt like the moment right before everything went wrong. That breath before the opening credits where Mr. Blue or Green, or whichever, gets shot by the cops as they try to get away with the jewels.
This wasn’t a heist movie either. It wasn’t a movie at all. It was real life.
And they’d just gotten away with it.
Everyone who doesn’t get away thinks they’re going to get away.
Evan took a sip of coffee from his travel mug and nudged Nelle again. She snapped back and said, “Sorry. I was miles away.” He laughed a little too loudly. The sound echoed in the private study room, and he imagined a librarian around the corner shooting him a nasty look. “What?” she asked. “Whaaat?”
“Nothing. Everything is fine.”
27
ELEVEN WEEKS AFTER CLOSING
Tony thought the man standing in the foyer of his funeral home didn’t belong. Something about him suggested he wasn’t there out of bereavement or even business. Tony knew everyone processed loss differently and he shouldn’t make snap judgments about a potential client, but no one had ever walked into the Tremblay Funeral Home and made him feel so unsettled. Stepping into the foyer, Tony swallowed, then held out his hand to shake. “Good afternoon. What can I do for you?”
The man looked at him. His eyes were more gray than blue, and he’s blind flashed in Tony’s head, until he realized that the man had walked through the door unassisted by a guide dog or even a white cane, and picked up a business card and a brochure from the table in the entryway. Now he stared at Tony with a gaze more penetrating than amaurotic. He reached out and shook Tony’s offered hand. His fingers were cold. Firm grip, but not painfully so. He was assured, had nothing to prove. At least not in the shake.
“I hope you can help me, please. Are you the proprietor of this establishment?”
“I am. I’m Anthony Tremblay. How can I help you?” Anyone else, Tony would’ve immediately brought them into the reception room and invited them to take a seat either at the big table or on the sofa. Instead, he stood his ground, hoping he could tell the man that he couldn’t provide whatever was needed and show him the door.
“Very good. I understand a dear friend of mine was . . . I don’t know how to say it. Processed here.” An unpleasant sensation grew in Tony’s stomach at the vulgarity of the word. The man continued. “After his funeral, his family was so bereaved, I believe they may have neglected to retrieve all of his personal belongings. I am here to see if there is anything left behind.”
“And you are?”
The man’s eyes narrowed briefly before he smiled. “I am Lev Yevseyenko. I was friends with the deceased, Bryant Shearman.”
Tony was ready to say, I’m sorry, we didn’t perform services for anyone by that name, when he recalled Shearman. They’d cremated him over a year earlier. Tony felt his anxiety spike at the mention of Shearman’s name; he always remembered the controversial ones. While Tony made it a practice never to turn away someone truly grieving, he didn’t want to deal with anyone who’d claim to be that dead man’s friend. And seeing this visitor—his name had already fled Tony’s memory—something shenko—he especially didn’t want to.
“I’m sorry, Mr. . . . sir. But I’m not able to release any personal belongings, or even information, for that matter, to anyone but family or perhaps a family attorney. And even then, we wouldn’t have kept anything this long. If I recall, Mr. Shearman’s memorial was over a year ago. Any personal possessions that might’ve been left behind would’ve been returned to his next of kin long ago. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
The man’s smile disappeared. He clearly wasn’t accustomed to being told no. Tony didn’t know what else to say. They wouldn’t have anything belonging to Shearman, even if it had been forgotten. They didn’t store personal effects.
“Are you absolutely certain? Because his family is very distraught over the loss of a personal item they cannot find. They think it may have been on his person, perhaps in a pocket.”
“I’m sorry, but anything personal we might’ve found while preparing Mr. Shearman we handed over to his wife. I don’t know what to tell you.”
The man’s tone changed from lightly appeasing to harder edged. “Did you process Mr. Shearman’s body?”
“We don’t process anyone, sir. We’re not a meatpacking plant.” As soon as the words came out of Tony’s mouth, he regretted them, but it was too late to take anything back. He was getting upset and wanted this man gone. “Whatever you’re after, even if we had it, we couldn’t release to you. But like I said, we have nothing belonging to Mr. Shearman or his family; we don’t store belongings here. So, I’ll ask you to leave.”
“Did you?”
Tony felt another surge of panic. What if he had worked on Shearman? What then? How was who prepared the body in any way related to whether or not they’d held on to a personal item after his funeral? After a second’s reflection, he recalled it had been Nelle who’d worked on the body once he’d finished the reconstruction of the man’s skull. They’d been busy with multiple services that week, and she’d taken on almost every aspect of dealing with Shearman except for the one he was better at—there weren’t many tasks in that category.
“It’s none of your busi
ness who worked on whom.”
The man took a step forward. While Tony wanted to stand his ground, he was unable to help stepping back. He bumped into the welcome table. The plastic stand holding the Tremblay Funeral Home brochures toppled over, spilling flyers onto the floor. The flowers rocked, but didn’t fall. The man looked deeper into Tony’s eyes, staring hard. Tony forced himself not to look away, not to be cowed by this thug.
The man seemed to look through Tony’s eyes into his mind, deeper, down into his consciousness, probing those secrets Tony hadn’t ever told and intended to die keeping. But telepathy isn’t real, Tony reminded himself. At best, this visitor could read body language and expressions, but he wasn’t learning anything that wasn’t freely given to him. He wasn’t a supernatural creature, just a man. Tony could stand up to a difficult man.
“I understand. My apologies if I upset you. If you say it is not here, then I’ll take your word for it.” The man let his face relax and took a step back. He said, “I appreciate your time,” and turned to leave.
Tony held his breath, waiting for a last word or a final flash of intimidation. Neither came. The visitor opened the door and hesitated in the threshold. Tony expected him to say something that’d bring all of the wordless threatening back into clear focus. Instead, he raised a hand in a farewell gesture and stepped outside.
The door fell shut behind him, and Tony felt a heavy weight in his bladder and an ache in his lungs. He let go of the breath he’d been holding and quickly closed the distance to the door. He threw the deadbolt before hurrying to the bathroom to piss before he ruined his pants. He was glad Nelle was off work. After what she went through with the Evacuation Day Killer, she didn’t need the stress.
* * *
Lev climbed into the car. “Starik govorit, chto u nego yego net.” The old man says he doesn’t have it.
Stas hadn’t had much confidence in the information that led them to the funeral home. They didn’t know if the Shearman woman knew about the computer her husband had stashed away in the attic that the police had missed. If she did, she had unimaginable will. She still wouldn’t have lived if she’d given it up to them, but she wouldn’t have lived as long—and as badly. Her husband had hidden the thing well enough that the police hadn’t found it, but Lev had an insight into the nature of hidden things. Where other people saw wasted space or poor construction, he saw places he knew existed solely for concealment. And when he’d found the small crawlspace opening that only a child could fit through in the attic of Shearman’s house, he knew there would be treasure on the other side. Her son had been happy to oblige them if Lev would make Stas leave his mother alone. It worked. With the computer and everything else, they didn’t need either one of them anymore. The boy fit so well in that space, they’d only needed to cut up one body.
The computer hadn’t yielded any information about the missing money, though. Not at first. Eventually, Lev found the information the Trojan program was sending. They’d both been in police custody when that program had first started sending updates. Bryant Shearman had been good at stealing, but not at all good at hiding. That was how he got caught, and how the rest of them got swept up as well. Whoever had stolen from him was the opposite. The tracks they’d left taking the money were easy enough to find. But not who’d made them.
The first report they’d found led them to an apartment in Cambridge. Worthless. The people there knew nothing. But then they went back farther, and that led them here. “Should I go in and ask again?” Stas asked.
“Nyet.” Lev handed Stas the business card he’d taken from the table in the foyer. “She’s the one.”
ELEONORA A. PEREIRA
Advanced Planning Consultant / Licensed Funeral Director
TREMBLAY FUNERAL HOME
& CREMATION SERVICES
617-555-8974 eapereira@TremblayFuneral.com
“Where is she?”
Lev shrugged. “She won’t be hard to find. She will come to work tomorrow or the next day. And then we’ll follow her home, where we can have a long talk.”
VI
◆
Security
28
ELEVEN WEEKS AFTER CLOSING
Nelle sat on the sofa in the Prince Room. It was her first day off in a week and she felt restless, as if sitting down and doing nothing but reading all day was somehow irresponsible. Naturally, there were things to do—laundry, dishes, the lawn, grocery shopping, the car needed to be washed. All of it could wait, though. She was almost done with her book and wanted to start a new one. She envied people who could tear through a novel in a week or a day. But then, she liked to think of herself more as a thoughtful reader than a slow one. Either way, it didn’t stop her from buying more books. Her library made moving tedious and expensive, but in her heart, she knew a home was filled with books.
She turned a page and reached for the cup of tea on the table next to the sofa. Her drink had grown cold, but that was okay; it was getting hot outside, and a tepid cup of tea was just fine. She took a sip and tried to set the cup down without taking her eyes off the words that were speeding toward a calamitous end. The cup rocked half off the coaster, and she jerked to catch it. A bit of her drink sloshed out onto the table. “Shit.” A few drops would clean up in a minute just as easily as they would at that moment. And the words didn’t want to wait. She was almost through with the chapter.
The doorbell startled her, making her jerk a little on the sofa, doing a little dance to keep from dropping her book. Through the faceted glass window in the door, she could see a man in a bright blue shirt. The kind of color only people who were selling something wore. She sighed, took note of the page number in her head, and set the book down on the cushion beside her.
In the short time they’d lived there, salesmen had come to the door trying to give them free quotes on a new roof, lawn care, and cable television. They were never sales women, not unless it was Jesus they were selling. Commercial door-to-door salespeople were always men. Always pushy. The joys of homeownership, she thought as she got up. She decided, whoever this guy was, she’d politely tell him no, and then immediately get online to order a NO SOLICITING sign to stick on the siding outside next to the doorbell. And if a book happened to fall in her virtual shopping basket when she did that, well . . . things like that happened from time to time.
She opened the door. The man standing on the porch didn’t look like the salesmen who’d come knocking before. They were almost always young. In their twenties or early thirties. This man was approaching forty, if he wasn’t already. She’d have thought he was there for some other reason if his shirt hadn’t had a company logo over the breast, the words VIGILANCE SECURITY SYSTEMS embroidered beneath it. Beneath that it read AUTHORIZED DEALER. The man held up a laminate card hanging from a lanyard around his neck and introduced himself.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pereira.” He pronounced it with a long I sound that sounded almost like “pariah.” “I was hoping to talk to you about switching from American Total Security to Vigilance Security Systems. VSS offers the most comprehensive home security system in New England, and—”
“I’m sorry. Did my husband call about a consultation?”
The man smiled. His teeth were a dusky yellow. “No, ma’am. I’m here today in the neighborhood doing some work for one of your neighbors, and I thought I’d drop by to see—”
“How do you know my name?” Nelle clutched the door tightly, ready to slam it if he gave off a bad vibe—a worse vibe than he already did.
“I’m sorry.” He laughed a little. It was an ugly sound that didn’t relax her, if that was his intent. He smiled broader and said, “The company pays attention to new filings at the Registry of Deeds. My supervisor gave me a list with your and your husband’s names on it.” While he held a clipboard, he didn’t turn it to show her the list. “Evan and Eleonora Pereira, right?”
Nelle’s stomach did a little flip at the sound of her full name. At least he didn’t have her middl
e name. Or her maiden name. Did he? She considered him another moment. He was solid-looking. Again, like a guy who worked harder for a living than ringing doorbells. She supposed he could be a gym rat. She let her grip on the door ease up a little as she convinced herself there was no reason to go lunging for the molded plastic bat Evan kept leaning against the wall behind the door. She was being silly. It was the end of the book she was reading that had her hackles up. Jack Ketchum did that to her.
“Your name is?” she said.
He held up his laminate. “My name’s Paul Michaels.” She leaned forward to get a look at his credential. He continued. “Anyway, Mrs. Pereira—”
“Puh-rare-uh. It rhymes with barbera,” she corrected him. A nascent panic grew in her chest the minute she uttered the words. She hated when people mispronounced their last name, but men, in her experience, hated being corrected even more. She waited for his tone to turn hostile. Instead, he kept smiling and apologized again. But there was a twitch in his cheek that let her know his smile took work to maintain.
“My apologies,” he said. His back straightened as he said it.
She waved her free hand. “No. I’m sorry. Go on.” She hadn’t wanted to hear his spiel, but felt obliged, as if correcting him had somehow indebted her to listen to the pitch.
“Thank you. As I was saying, I was hoping to discuss the possibility of switching you from ATS to Vigilance. We offer a comprehensive program that can be controlled and monitored from your computer or smartphone. We have very competitive rates and a twenty-four-hour customer service line staffed by real people right here in Massachusetts.” His eyes kept shifting over her shoulder. She didn’t dare look back. Looking away from him seemed like a bad idea.
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