“Good morning,” I greeted, coming through the doorway of the small office. “Don’t get up.”
Tom Thomas quit the struggle from the chair. “Eh, Toby.”
I loomed, looking down on him, almost leaning on his desk. “That deal with Falcon.”
“First, I wanted to thank you. You know, with the Indians.”
“You're welcome. For what?”
“Getting my brother out from under.”
I shrugged. “Sure. The deal with Falcon.”
“Yes. Yes. What about it?”
“I want you to gum up the works the best you can without looking like you’re gumming up the works.”
He pulled on his chin with his right hand, watching behind me. “Sure. I can do some things. Why?”
“He’s a good associate. I still don’t want him as a neighbor.”
“I can’t stop the sale.”
“Make the sale difficult; he’ll lose interest quick enough.”
“You really like this house, huh?”
“I’m just fucking with Falcon.”
Placing an index card on the desk, I kept his eyes. “Cameron Hightower. He’s going to be looking to liquidate some properties this week. I want you to do everything you can to block every sale.”
“Just fucking with him?”
“There is nothing just about how I’m going to be fucking with him.”
Thomas held the card close to his face. “Whatever did he do?”
“He tried to kill me, not unlike your pal, Gus Avery, though Hightower had a bit more flair.”
“Avery’s no pal of mine. Just the asshole who jammed my brother up.”
“Good choice.”
He narrowed his eyes at the card. “How’d you get all this personal information?”
“I have a file on everyone I deal with.”
He stared, his mouth open.
“Results, Thomas, you’ll be well compensated.”
He scrambled to his feet as I opened the door.
“We’re doing business again?”
“Sure. I thought Shawn made that clear.”
“He really tried to kill you? I mean Avery.”
“Yes, Mr. Thomas. Not a mistake anyone wishes to make.”
“Chief Meyer.” I nodded as I crossed the sidewalk.
He watched me carefully looking up from the driver's side of the police car. “Antoinette Blanc.”
“Toby’s fine.”
“I know who you really are.”
Doubtful. “I have a full day, Chief.”
“I mean—eh—Toby. I remember you. At the station. Asking about squatters. The property on Newton. I talked to Bat.”
“Mr. Peters and I are acquainted.” I looked up and then down the street, the sun glaring low from the east. “You shouldn’t park against traffic. That’s in the New Jersey State Driver Manual.”
He chuckled nervously. “Saw your truck. Tony’s Lawn Service. I can pretty much do what I want. I’m the chief of police.”
“I would not test that, Chief Meyer.”
“I was attempting a joke.”
He motioned for me to step closer, which I did.
“I went over things. You know—big picture. Those two lowlifes that became no-lives three blocks east.” He winked.
“Again, Chief. Full day.”
“I saw the two men coming up hard. I have no idea why I sat flatfooted in the chair. Unimaginable. Ballet. Flawless. That white satin flowing with you, your face hard, cold like ice. Ice. Then, the fire. You. Ice and fire bringing death as naturally as a child eating an ice cream cone. Like you did to those two thugs up the street.”
My tan eyes tethered his blue eyes.
“There’s that poker face that put the others at the table through the meatgrinder.”
I hinted at a shrug.
“Tillman isn’t going to be a problem. He knows about my extracurriculars.”
“Okay.”
"Caspian, on the other hand.”
“Two honest lawyers in the State of New Jersey, we get one of them in the Edgewood Municipal Building.”
“Who’s the other one?”
I chuckled.
Meyer pursed his lips. “That’s what that was all about? You seeing if he was, eh, honest? Reading him like your poker opponents?”
“Full day, Chief. If I had a watch, I’d look at it.”
“Oh, right. Sorry. I wanted to let you know, eh—”
“Toby’s fine.”
“Toby. I’ve got your back. I’m not actually on the take, like mobbed up like Bat. Sometimes people I know need a little something.”
“Like Gus Avery needing help with his nephew.”
“Well, sure. I thought that business was just about the unregistered vehicle. Martin didn’t say—”
“I’m not the kind of person who gives advice. If I were, I’d advise you to cut all ties with Gus Avery.”
“Loud and clear, Ice and Fire.”
“Toby’s fine, Chief.”
“One last thing.”
I resisted an eye roll.
“Thanks for saving my life.”
“One last thing. Where’d you go to college?”
“Here, State school. GI bill.”
“Good.”
“Mr. Bancroft,” I almost sang, closing the door behind me.
He hurried from his chair. “I made myself clear—”
I flipped an index card on the desk like dealing poker. “Cameron Hightower. He’s going to be trying to liquidate some assets this week. I want you to do everything you can to block him.”
“Just why would I want to do that?”
I shrugged. “Because you hit Lauren again specifically after I told you not to. I’m sure I made myself clear.”
“She’s a liar.”
“You are not ingratiating yourself to me.”
He sneered. “That’s the very absolute last thing I’d ever want to do.”
“I have a file just like that on you. With photos.” I nodded to his hand. “Be a good boy. Do as you’re told.”
He fell to his chair, not asking or what.
Lauren smiled, looking away, blushing behind the teller window as I walked by.
The bell announced my entrance. Stepping to the counter, I took Charlotte’s hands and eyes.
“Toby?”
“I want us to take an afternoon. Just you and me. We can wear fanciful sundresses, floppy hats, dark glasses, straw weave sandals, train up to Queen’s Highway, window shop, sit on a veranda, sip herbal tea, and laugh at nothing.”
“Oh, I love it. Today? I could take the afternoon.”
I pursed my lips.
“It’s okay. I know you’re busy.”
“Well, I—”
“Besides, you smell.”
I laughed. “I just got back from camping. I need a shower.”
“Yes, you do.”
She indicated I should lean closer, which I did.
“You were thinking about me on this camping trip? Anyway, I’ve been thinking about three bourbon Manhattans.”
“Charlotte. You know that’s not a good idea.”
“I do. Know that’s a terrible idea.”
“Still.”
“Please don’t say no even if it’s no. Grant me that simple gift.”
“Lunch. On Queen’s Highway. After the weekend.”
“And after a shower.”
“Michelle,” I greeted, my chin on Maria’s shoulder as she squeezed all the air out of me three paces inside the apartment door.
“You smell,” Maria said
“I get that a lot. I need a long, hot shower. I have a meeting at eleven.”
She released me. “That’s too bad. About the meeting. Besides the obvious, I wanted to talk about—eh—things.”
“What’s the obvious?” Michelle asked.
“Everything okay at Harvest?” I asked back.
“We’re all terrified for Pam. Bob isn’t himself. Distracted, though he did take time out to have a long talk with me.”
“Bob can help you much better than I can.”
“Huh? Toby, I never asked for your help.”
My eyes may have crossed. “Often and repeatedly. Don’t you have to catch a bus?”
“I’m taking him—I mean her. Sorry.”
I took Maria’s hand, twisting her arm. “That’ll work. Swing back around to the Nook. After my meeting there, we can talk about these things.”
The hem of the white silk spaghetti strap sundress danced on my thighs, hair loose, finally touching my shoulders, as I stilted on delicate three-inch white sandals. The occasional horn and the less-occasional wolf whistle barely distracted me from watching myself across the mindscape walking into a wonderful morning and late spring day.
I’d wish to wolf-whistle me, too, but I wouldn’t because I’m not an asshole.
Eight blocks and change, I entered the Nook to a small pre-lunch crowd, Karen Blanc setting her to-go coffee on a table, wrapping me up, going on her toes to my ear.
“Thank you.”
I held her. “You’re welcome.”
We broke. She retrieved the coffee.
“Working with Jane is wonderful. Just want I needed.”
“Everything’s good, then?”
Karen looked past me, watching out the door. “She’s—you know.”
“I actually do.”
“Promise you won’t say anything to my brother.”
“How’s he like the job?”
“Well, he actually loves the job. Business slows down at night, you know. He loves to read. School books, if you can believe that.”
“A hobby of mine.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
She came back to my eyes, looking up. “Promise?”
“Promise what?”
“You won’t say anything to my brother.”
“I’m not a gossip, Karen.”
“You do look a lot like her. It’s spooky. Not in a creepy way.”
“Your sister.”
“Jack sees her everywhere, which is why I always say, She looks nothing like her.”
“Loss is never easy.”
“I imagine sometimes what she’d look like now, you know, fifteen years old. Since I met you, it’s you I imagine she’d look like when she’s grown up.”
She leaned toward me. “I ride my bike out to the cemetery, sit, and talk to her. Don’t tell my brother that, too.”
“Not a word.”
“Dad’s kind of weird.” She narrowed her eyes. “Was that you, in the street, around Christmas, years ago? He thinks it was.”
“No. That wasn’t me.”
“I didn’t think so. She’s dead, too, that girl. My father—” She rolled her eyes. “He goes on and on sometimes about how Antoinette isn’t dead. Just ran away. Closed casket, something about the tumor and her face, so we never saw her dead.
“Too morbid?”
“Reality so no, not too morbid. To me, anyway.”
“That other girl. She lived on the other side of town. Closed casket, too, I heard. Everyone talked about it.”
“People like to talk about people.”
“Anyway, Dad demanded we not touch her room. Has birthday and Christmas presents for her. He makes Mom set a place at the dinner table.”
“Sadness can do that.”
“Yeah. Off to work! Thanks again!”
I did not have to ask Jessica why she was still sitting down. I held her like a mother sending her son off to war, knowing he’d never return. Her makeup uncharacteristically heavy, I thought to start our conversation about her eye, a conversation that would be cliché.
Ellen Viceroy cleared her throat behind me. “The usual?”
“It’s been too long,” I said, pulling away.
“It’s always too long.”
I kept Jessca’s hand, turning. “Yes, Ellen. The usual. Jessica? Eggs.”
“Sure.”
“Two, the usuals.”
Ellen giggled, writing.
“I’m glad to see you’re still here. Mr. Weber can be a chore.”
“To put that politely.” She rolled her eyes, bouncing on her right foot. “Allen is a huggable teddy bear next to my last boss, Manny. Did she tell you the story? The private dinner?”
“I’m not a gossip.”
Jessica narrowed her eyes. “Ellen, eh?”
“Viceroy,” I said.
“Right. You’re not with us any longer?”
Ellen looked to the floor and hinted at a curtsy. “I am not, Miss Flores.”
“What happened?”
I stepped between them, facing Jessica. “Two the usuals, Ellen. Thank you. You don’t have to explain yourself.” I watched Jessica’s eyes. “Sit.”
“She’s a great worker,” Jessica said, almost absently.
“For a scullery wench, I guess.”
“Toby!”
“When she realized who you were, she groveled. Do forgive me, Jessica, if that demeanor pisses me off. Taking a knee and pledging service out of respect is one thing; groveling as if to avoid a beating, verbal or otherwise, is a whole different flavor of ugly uncle.”
“I don’t know the story—”
“At this point in the history of the world you don’t want to. Trust me on this. Butch Falcon, real estate tycoon.”
Shawn kissed my cheek, dropping down next to me, nodding to Jessica.
Jessica watched the front of the restaurant. “God, Toby, I still strike that pose—”
“Which is why fantasy girl is buying you your own restaurant. Your father is never going to fire you like he did Ellen. Butch Falcon, real estate tycoon.”
“He fired her? For what? When?”
“Butch Falcon, real estate tycoon.”
She rolled her eyes. “Butch told me what happened.”
“That I have a bid in on five properties, and he stole one right from under me without so much as a phone call?”
“Well, the property was listed.”
“Jessica. Falcon was carrying my water. Falcon represented me. That’s a big trust violation.”
“I guess you could see it that way.”
My right fist came to the table, silverware and coffee cups dancing. “I’m not seeing it a different way. I’m telling you how it is. I’m so fucking tired of a lifetime of people making excuses for bad behavior. Doing so is beneath you.”
Shawn passed a folder, which I slapped on the table.
“Thanks,” Shawn said, accepting coffee from Ellen.
“Anything else?”
“I’m good. Maybe some popcorn.”
“Popcorn?”
“Kidding. I’m good.”
“What’s this? If you really want the property, all you have to do is tell Butch—”
“The Nook has the best eggs.” I sat back, accepting my breakfast. “Thanks, Ellen.”
“Thanks,” Jessica said, flipping pages.
Minutes dripped by like water from a leaking rain gutter. With me at my breakfast and Jessica’s left hand to the side of her head with a fist full of black hair, she digested page after page.
“I do love you forever, more than anything in the universe except for Pamala and Antoinette.”
“And me.”
“And Shawn.”
“Does it matter if I state categorically I know nothing about this?”
“No. It wouldn’t matter. I already know you know nothing about this.”
“How?”
“Preponderance of all available information.”
“This is a big hunk of change.”
“Breakdown on the back page. Reasonable compensation plus ten percent gratuity because I’m generous like that. I even figured in a commission on all the limousine business he’s sending my way.”
She traded the folder for her fork.
“Your eggs are cold.”
“I don’t like to waste food if I can help it.”
“Good policy.”
She paused, then asked, “Why is Butch still alive?”
“If he were my problem, he’d not be. Butch Falcon is yours to solve.”
I shrugged. “I want the money he stole back. I want Butch put on contract, his duties limited to the restaurant to be strictly defined, and him put on salary determined by you. His problem has been he’s fiercely loyal to you, not loyal at all to me.”
“Do you wish to be in that meeting?”
“I do not. So you know. I’m locking down Archetype LLC. Soon, every expenditure will have to be approved by my new lawyer.”
“Stenholm’s good with that?”
“Mr. Stenholm is the reason for that. He doesn’t know yet.”
Shawn sipped her coffee. “He thinks Archetype is his own personal slush fund. He has a—what's it called?”
“Side piece. Euphemism I picked up from Serling.”
“A side piece with expensive taste.”
“That can’t be true.”
I gave Shawn a soft nod; she dropped a second folder on the table.
Leafing quickly, Jessica said, “When were you going to bring me in on this?”
“I’d planned this meeting for some time, certainly not today.”
“We’re all reasonable adults, Toby. Let’s call a meeting of everyone and work it all out.”
“Not while I’m exposed. Not while my money is exposed. It’s not just about the money. Stenholm could kill October’s Surprise because of where he likes to stick his dick, and then I’d have to kill him and his immediate family.”
Jessica looked over her cup. “October’s Surprise. I thought you hated that name.”
“It’s growing on me.”
I snickered, Jessica instinctively pushing back from the table. Even with my back to the room—uncharacteristic for me—I felt safe in the Nook—I saw him coming.
“Toby. I don’t wish to intrude.”
“Good morning, Mr. Peters. Breakfast?”
Shawn nodded up to the man. “Bat.”
“Shawn.” He nodded back. “Eh, Toby?”
Twisting around, looking up, I asked, “What can I do for you?”
“I heard what happened, well, I mean—”
“I know what you mean.”
He grimaced a smirk. “I was told Ice and Fire.”
“Exploits aside. What can I do for you?”
“I’m a man who knows when something is out of place.”
“Mr. Peters. What do you have?”
“Eh, there’s a candy apple red Corvette across the street, two stores east. Single occupant seems to be watching the Nook. Engine running. Never seen it before in this neighborhood. Been sitting there a long time.”
I raised my right eyebrow at Jessica.
“Jake. Must have followed me.”
With a soft nod, Peters asked, “Toby, is this Jake a threat to you? Perhaps I should have a conversation with him.”
“Mr. Peters. Jake is the kind of man who is a threat to all women. We can’t have a conversation with all of them.”
“He’s harmless—eh—Mr. Peters. He’s my fiancé.”
Peters chin-bobbed Jessica. “Harmless, huh? Did you walk into a door yesterday?”
Jessica put a hand to her face, watching what was left of her breakfast. “Eh, yes. Well. Yes. A door.”
Grovel one more word and Jake is dead today.
“Toby?”
“I feel we’re good for now, Mr. Peters.”
“For now,” he echoed. “You have my number. Shawn?”
“Bat?”
“I’ll be needing a couple limos toward the end of the month.”
“Not a problem. Stop by the shop.”
He rolled his eyes. “Always a delight to see Jane.” He bowed, backing a step. “Ladies.”
Jessica stared until Peters was well away. “My god, Toby. Is he your—eh—hit man?”
Shawn laughed louder than appropriate given where we were. “Toby doesn’t need a hit man.”
“Bartholomew Peters is an associate. He runs protection.”
“Protection?”
I rolled my eyes. “For a weekly fee, he won’t hurt you or your property.”
“You pay him not to hurt you?”
I smirked. “He pays me.” I waved my hand as Ellen gathered plates.
“Table by the door,” Ellen said to my ear.
“I saw. Let her know we’re wrapping up.”
“I want to talk to you,” Jessica demanded.
“Do you wish to speak to Jessica?” I asked.
Ellen no-ed with her head, hurrying off. With a glance, I sent Shawn after her into the kitchen.
I caught and held Jessica’s eyes. “Mr. Peters came at me hard over my lawn business. We scuffled and came to an agreement. He is independent but does work for me now.”
Jessica blinked six times.
“Okay. You’ll have a meeting with Butch.”
“Right.” She displayed the folder. “May I keep this?”
“No. That file is a valuable asset.”
She nodded.
“Not a word to Mr. Stenholm.”
“Not a word. I really need to talk with Ellen.”
“If she ever wants to talk to you, she’ll call.”
Jessica bit her lip.
“Timing is everything, Jessica. When I set the building on fire, I have to have chains on all the doors and the windows locked.”
“I hope that’s a metaphor.”
“Not entirely.”
“Still.” She looked off toward the kitchen. “I can’t imagine in any of my wild imaginings how Ellen getting fired has anything to do with anything else. Don’t you dare have Shawn slap another folder on the table.”
Shawn’s hand ran over my shoulder. “She’s okay. She was going to leave.”
“Why?” Jessica asked.
“She doesn’t like crying in front of people. Such a delicate soul.” Shawn stared at the side of my head. “Jess isn’t going to let this go. You have to bring her in sometime.”
“I was hoping that time to be us gathered on the widow’s walk—”
“Crow’s nest.”
“Right. Evening, sunset, all this behind us.” I held Jessica’s black eyes. “You’re going to have more questions than answers. Thursday evening, Jake attended a private dinner catered by your father.”
“Jake couldn’t have worked that. He had classes.”
“Not worked. Attended. He was a guest.”
“Just how do you know this?”
“I was across the table from him.”
“Just what kind of dinner?”
“Don’t ask the question unless you want to hear the answer.”
“What kind of dinner?”
“The dinner was a formal meeting of organized crime lieutenants.”
“Jake attended?”
“He’s not a lieutenant. I believe he’s being groomed.”
“My father?”
“The cook, though I’ll be getting around to humping Michelangelo's books pretty hard. I’m sure they’re money laundering.”
“Eh—that would be chef.”
I shrugged.
“I’ve never been allowed near the books, locked up tight.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Shawn said. “We’ll have our look.”
“I wonder now whether your father kept all this from you to protect you or whether it’s none of your business, you being a girl and all that.”
“If what you say is true—”
“Every word of it.” I tapped my chin with an index finger. “To prove what a man he is, Jake called Ellen a stupid cunt and pushed her to the floor, where she sat crying until your father dragged her from the room, firing her and telling her to walk home, which was twenty miles. If not for my date, more an escort, I guess, I would have killed Jake then and there, sat and finished my chicken cordon bleu, which was pretty good.”
“Is there a private room with a lock on the door?”
“Bathroom,” Shawn said. “Standing room only.”
“I’m okay with that.” She narrowed her eyes hard at me. “Why were you there?”
“Cliff Notes: They had an assassination planned. They hired me to back up the two assassins. Saturday night.”
“What?”
“They seem to have mistaken me for a freelance assassin from out of town.”
“Fashion show Artemis Grimes. I saw the newspaper story Sunday.”
“Once again, reports of my death were exaggerated. The thing is, they did plan to kill me, too. I killed their assassins instead.”
She closed her eyes. “Fuck.”
“Jessica. There’s more.”
“I’ve heard enough for today. More than enough. Jake and I are going to have a little talk about his lies and sneaking about.”
“Jessica—and I can’t stress this enough even if I come around the table and smack you in the head as I say each word—these are dangerous people. Buried in the more is that they rape and sometimes murder children.
“Focus on October’s Surprise. Don’t push Jake or your father. Clean the bathrooms when your father wants to see your head in a toilet, blow Jake when he needs to feel like a man standing over you. They will kill you if they feel you’re a threat.”
She furrowed her brow. “Like a brick to the forehead, Toby. Difficult to believe.”
“We have files,” Shawn said.
“Okay,” Jessica resolved. “I’ll put self-esteem and ego aside—play the clown.”
“The survival tool of many women for generations,” I said, standing. “I really do have a full day.”
Jessica held me, going to my ear. “Thanks for taking time out of your full day for me.”
“We have a date in the rain.”
“I can’t wait.”
Shawn, Maria, and I stood four paces outside Nook’s door, watching Jessica walk east to her green MG with the black ragtop, Jake across the street, arms folded over his chest, leaning against his car.
“I didn’t believe you,” Peters said, appearing out of nowhere, stepping to my shoulder.
“I appreciate that.”
Maria circled the room with childlike wonder. “All these people.” She stopped. “My people. My. Three. Rapists.”
“And those who cheered them on. A dozen people.”
“A baker’s dozen,” Shawn corrected.
Maria looked at me over her shoulder. “You’re going to kill them all?”
“That’s up to you. We’ve talked about this.”
“We have background on each.” Shawn fished through the stacks of files on the table.
“I know all I need to know about them. I don’t know. I don’t know. Will killing them fix me?”
Keeping Maria’s eyes, Shawn’s hand went to the wall behind her. “Raymond Montgomery Schmit. I still like him. I don’t mean I like who he was.” She glanced the wall. “Look at those dimples.” Back to Maria, Shawn explained. “I like how he treated me, which was all an act, an act that went on for six months. Still.
“In a ritual we suspect goes back decades, he raped me to a cheering crowd. The others peed on me, spit on me, jeered at me, and dumped beer on me. After maybe an hour, I managed to gather my clothes and run. As luck wouldn’t have it, he caught an egg.
“I thought killing Ray would feel better than it did.” She shrugged. “Killing Ray didn’t feel like anything. He took something away from me, and there’s no getting it back.”
“Would you do it again?”
“Murder Ray?”
“Yes.”
“You bet.”
Maria turned to the photos on the wall, the universe stood still for days. Finally turning back, she found my eyes, staring, not seeing me.
“My three rapists killed me but left me alive on the restroom floor to become someone—or something—else. This thing standing here. This thing my sister doesn’t recognize, my mother and father don't know.
“Yes, October. Kill them so my father will at least know we did something.”
“Thus, it is stated,” Shawn said.
“Thus, it shall be.”
Maria looked from me to Shawn and back. “How about that obvious thing?”
I pursed my lips.
“I know, full day. I’m thankful for the time you did give me today.”
“I don’t have a full day,” Shawn said. “Unless you need me in Philly. What can I do?”
Maria blushed.
I laughed, more like a loud chuckle. “Maria wants to get fucked.”
“Toby!”
I shrugged.
Face on fire, Maria said, “When we—eh—that’s been the closest I’ve felt to being a human being again. Eh, time with you, Toby, is therapy. Medicine. Life affirming.”
“I can attest to that,” Shawn said.
Maria gave Shawn wide eyes, open mouth.
Stepping, I took Maria’s face with both hands, kissing her more deeply than anyone has ever been kissed in the entire world history of kissing.
She panted.
“Two things. I love you, Maria, in a way few people can understand.”
“I love you back. Second thing?”
“I put clean sheets on the bed after my shower. Michelle is working; I’m going to Philly.”
I stepped through the doorway, sunlight blazing me in a halo. “I need a detective. It’s a matter of life and death.”
Richard Serling stumbled to his feet, his chair falling over. “My God, Toby.”
I whisked my floppy white hat from my head, removing my dark glasses, taking a half twirl left then right, showing off my spaghetti-strap sundress. “You like?”
“If I were your father—”
“We did this.”
“Yeah, we did.”
“I’ve been camping.”
“I figured.”
“You’ve had time to decompress.”
He dropped to the chair behind his desk, looking up. “I froze.”
“Wasn’t going to be my first question.”
“Oh. First answer: You’re stuck with me, if I’m not fired.”
“Fired? For that?”
“They were children, Toby.”
“Twenty-two years old, Rich. Hardly adults, but certainly post-child.”
“Still.”
I shrugged. “I get it. I’m pleased to learn you’re the kind of person who hesitates to shoot a barely adult in the back of the head.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really. The war didn’t steal all your humanity.”
“You put me in that position as a test?”
“We are what we do, not what we say we do. Now, we, that is you and I, know your limit. I won’t put you in the position again.”
He pursed his lips. “I understand.”
“Anything else? Questions, comments, criticisms, concerning our encounter with the Smith brothers?”
“Only that you were amazing.”
“Okay. We can put that behind us. Vienna Rhodes.”
“She’s a ghost. Doesn’t exist. She’s been chatty, a master at saying much without saying anything. She has no footprint. She has a room at the Lincoln, which I couldn’t get to. Men watching the door.”
“Adler’s?”
“That’s my guess. Vienna said you’d work it out.”
“Oh, I thought you were spying.”
“She wanted her things. Hasn’t left the room. Her brain is getting antsy. Her body isn’t.”
“Molly Rose.”
“Who? Oh. Right.” He shuffled folders. “I need my shoes on the concrete, do interviews. Records are thin. Her older brother has a police record, which is sealed. I have to talk up some of the locals and get them to spill.”
“Save your shoe leather for now. I have an inside woman. I only wish I could get the transcripts from the church confessional, where the first tip came from.”
“I thought that was confidential.”
“I can’t imagine listening to tales of child abuse, being helpless to do anything about it. Molly fits the profile of a child in trouble. I’m glad someone decided to give a fuck.”
“I’m not even going to bother asking who your source is.”
“Not without some irony; that would be confidential.” I half turned toward the door. “Anything else pressing?”
“I have a dump truck full of shit pressing here.”
I closed my eyes. “Tonight. 2 o’clock. Our war room. I have yardwork in the morning.”
Serling leaned back in his chair, feet going to the top of the desk, hands folded behind his neck. “You’ll want to hear this.”
“Listening.”
“Our client called.”
“Our caper client? Olivia Carter?”
“One and the same.”
“She wants full background on Artemis Grimes.”
“Good guess. There’s more, Toby.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“She asked if I contract or know someone who does.”
“Oh, she’s had her shot at me. I’m going to suggest to Chase she updates Carter’s obit.”
“Please wait until her check clears.”
“Check?”
“Well, she also asked me to do a complete workup and background on—”
“The original me? Did she rant?”
“Oh, she ranted. I told her what my usual fee was. Well, twice my usual fee anyway, and that I required a retainer.”
“What she say?”
“She’d put a check in the mail.”
“Which tells us she never planned on paying us for any work related to our original caper.”
“Hey, you’re right.”
“Mr. Anderson,” I greeted five paces inside the room.
“Miss Grimes. Bryant, please.”
“Bryant, then. How’s our guest?”
He rolled his eyes. “Delightful.”
I cocked my head and my right eyebrow.
“She’s what I call a cocktail personality.”
“Because saying prostitute personality would be impolite.”
“Situation, Miss Grimes. I’m trying to be her caretaker. Instead of telling me what she needs, she’s telling me what she thinks I think she needs, and she’s really good at reading people.”
“The list?”
“List? Oh.” He produced a folded paper from his inside jacket pocket.
I digested the names. “This, Bryant, is auspiciously similar to the other list.”
The door opened behind me. “Miss Grimes?”
“Johnny,” I answered without turning. “The Lincoln.”
“Eight blocks south, two east.”
“I need a maid outfit, my size.”
“Miss Grimes.”
“I’d not noticed,” Bryant said as the door closed. “About the list.”
With the sun past the apex, shadow washed the veranda. “Rhodes.”
“Grimes.” She shifted uncomfortably on the chair. “It’s good to see you.”
“You need not do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pepper our exchanges with expected clichés.”
“It’s a shield—”
“Like armor. I know. If they can’t see me, they can’t hurt me.”
She looked up, half behind her, taking my eyes. “I do find sadness that you know that. Sadness isn’t—”
“The right word. I know. Sometimes we, people like us, are so different from those around us, the words to describe our experience are beyond the words we have.”
Nodding, pursing her lips, she watched New Jersey in the distance. “At first, I thought you a plaything of Mrs. French’s. A floozy who caught her attention, eye candy to dress up her weekly card game. Expected cliché comes to mind.”
“I’d giggle, maybe laugh, but—”
“That would be cliché. You worked the table with cold precision, dismantling each male ego in turn. I thought Forde was going to wait for you outside and kill you. I considered following him.”
“He already tried once, or rather, he and two friends gave it a shot.”
“This was his second bite of the apple.”
“Mrs. French was the primary target. Everyone at the table the secondary targets, which I believe included you.”
“Me? I haven’t been back in town long enough to get anyone that angry with me.”
“Primary: Mrs. French. Second primary: Reginald Abner. Third, and this is conjecture: whoever he’s banging. Following that, everyone else at the table.”
“Banging. So pedestrian.”
“People.”
“Yes, people. Where do you come in?”
“I absolutely hate conjecture and assumptions.”
“The world is in flat black and white. The presentation of clines and colors is an illusion created by conjecture and assumption.”
I closed my eyes. “The mythical assassin who’s come to town. That’s you.”
“I thought she was you.”
“I need a yes or no.”
“Yes. Though many of the stories are amusing—”
“You’re an expert in guns, as in firing them?”
“Long and short.”
“I need a trainer.”
“You?”
“My associate.”
“Oh, he’ll never learn. I could teach Rich to shoot. He’ll never have what it takes to pull the trigger when that trigger needs pulling.”
“That’s what I like about him. Another associate.”
“Since you saved my life, I have no place to be and nothing better to do, sure.”
I extended my left hand, carefully enunciating my entire birth name.
She watched my eyes, taking my hand. “Quite the myth yourself. You’re dead.”
“I get that a lot.”
“Jane Doe.” She released my hand. “Baby Jane Doe on the only birth certificate I have.”
“I can see why you change it.”
“I believe you are the only person alive who knows who I really am.”
“Someone else knowing. Not the relief you thought it would be, huh?”
“No, it isn’t.”
“You’re my ninth.”
“You must teach me how to make friends.”
“I never miss sarcasm.”
“A unique human trait.”
I’d heard the door and footfalls.
“Miss Grimes.”
I accepted a stack of clothes from Johnny. “Thank you.”
I finished tucking my hair under the black and blue cap as I exited the bathroom. “What do you need from your room?”
“Oh my God, October,” Rhodes said, sitting on the bed.
“Artemis in front of the children.”
“You look, eh, sixteen.”
“Artemis Grimes is an intentional fabrication—clines and colors of the universe. I am fifteen, sixteen in October if I don’t get hit by a car or catch a stray bullet.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m looking right at you, and I can’t see you.”
I shrugged. “What do you need from your room?”
“Clothes. I’m ready to struggle my way downstairs and sit in the restaurant.”
“What’s Kerney’s orders?”
“I like your Dr. Kerney. He said the bullet could have fractured, travelling to my breasts, so a careful examination would be prudent.”
“Men.”
“I don’t blame him, Artemis. I like to play with my breasts, too. He is a doctor and his hands are warm.”
“I have my own kink. I don’t judge. Just clothes?”
“Pull out the bottom dresser drawer nearest to the window. You’ll find a bag. You never said why you were at the table.”
“That’s a long story with many twists and turns, starting with a caper to gather proof of who Abner was banging leading me to a vast network of men who like to rape children, virgins, sometimes killing them.”
She tilted her head. “You’re a huntress.”
“I am Artemis.”
“Here I am. I come to town. Heard I could find some deep pockets at Redman’s. Work the bar. Catch Reginald’s eye. Seems he wants eye candy on his arm. Gave me ridiculous amounts of money just to hang on him.
“It’s not that I need the money. It’s the rush of taking their money.”
“I get that from sitting at the table. I get it.”
“I know much has happened much too quickly.”
“Okay.”
“Do you need, I mean, may I join you?”
“I recently told a friend the chances of two homicidal psychopaths being in the same geographical region are astronomical, us being so rare.”
“Is that what you think we are? Homicidal psychopaths?”
“I can read a book, though I favor Little Match Girl.”
“Perfect. So, may I?”
“Let me give it some thought.”
Turning on my soft-soled black shoe, I took four steps, pivoting back around. “Sure.”
I abandoned the elevator on the eighth floor, stopping three paces out, the housekeeping cart in front of me.
A familiar man leaning against the wall, thirtyish, in an off-the-rack plain dark suit, white shirt, thin black tie, and black fedora pulled down in front, ruffled the newspaper he was pretending to read. He gave me an up-and-down and sharp nod.
“Good afternoon,” I greeted back with cold indifference.
“Eh—yeah. Good afternoon.”
With an eye roll, I stopped at the first door, picked the lock without looking, knocked lightly, announcing, “Housekeeping,” and entered.
No one home.
The door to the adjoining room gave way just as easily. The bag, a black duffel bag, was where Vienna Rhodes said it would be. “Oh, so cliché, Rhodes.” I emptied the contents, bundles of money, jewelry, paperwork, and a serious handgun into a plastic bag, which went into the bottom of the trash bag hanging on the front of the housekeeping cart.
I managed all her clothes and personal items neatly under the curtained bottom of the cart.
“Silk,” I moaned. “It had to be silk.”
The empty duffel bag found a new home on the center of the bed, a not-so-subtle message.
The man at the elevator tapped the button as I exited the way I came. “Oh, Inspector Bradley. What are you doing here? Don’t disappoint me with the answer.”
“Eh, what? Toby?”
“Girl has bills to pay. Are you working for Reginald Abner?”
“No!”
“You don’t have to go all defensive. You’re across-the-river out of your jurisdiction. Must be a private gig.”
“You don’t look a thing like you. Kind of unnerving.”
I shrugged, watching his eyes watching me.
“All hell broke loose Saturday night. Mob hit—”
“I know. I was one of the hit. Saw the story in the paper.”
He narrowed his eyes.
I shrugged again.
He reached across, holding the elevator door open. “They thought they had her.”
“Who they had who?”
“The FBI. The mob assassin.”
“I believe that’s mythological mob assassin. No name, no face. Her file likely a list of crimes assumed to be hers. With pictures. Barely more than stories floating around.”
“They got a tip.”
“From Reginald Abner.”
“A tip off the record. How could you know that?”
“Reggie’s got himself in a bit of a pickle. I bet he just wanted to throw some flak up in the air to keep everyone’s head down while he scurries into the woodwork like a cockroach.”
Bradley let out a long sigh. “I got loaned out as the local expert.”
“Expert on lore and myth.”
“I told them that, but the money’s good.”
“She is a myth, Joe. A story told at night over cigars and brandy by gangsters to scare other gangsters. A boogie woman for adults.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“I’m on the inside.”
“What do you know about Saturday night?”
“I know Uncle Peirce wasn’t at the table and I have it on good authority he’s always at the table on Saturday night.”
“Meaning?”
“There’s a war coming if I can’t stop it. If I want to stop it. People on the other side were warned of the assassination Saturday, so stayed away. I have a list.”
He bit his lip. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Inspector Bradley. Uncle Peirce is supposed to be Mrs. French’s in-house security. Since I know from the box Bill Locke owns him, I guess he’s more a spy on French than a protector. He skipped the card game Saturday. When you have this talk with him, tell him he’s picked the wrong side.”
He twisted his face as if he had shit smeared on his upper lip. “We have two very different reports. French and five others were gunned down. The other: Two assailants were butchered when they tried to assassinate French and five others. The story broke in the newspaper—”
“Witness statements, none on the record. More like catty gossips.”
“Yes.”
“It’s like the Herald Post published their plan instead of what actually happened.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“If I were you, I’d go by the evidence found at the crime scene.”
“The crime scene was a no-crime scene. I suggested that. Nothing to see here. The locals thought the same. The FBI, well. One clown thinks he smells bleach; they’re off to the races.”
“You didn’t push hard because the money’s good.”
“Girl has bills to pay.”
“When you tire of playing cops and FBI, suggest searching the room again.”
“You missed by one. We’re watching 807, not six.”
"Smoky mirrors, Joe. Smoky mirrors.”
“I think you mean smoke and mirrors.”
“Inspector Joe Bradley. I always know what I mean.”
“Eh. Okay.” He consulted his wristwatch. “I’m going to be relieved soon.”
“That’s my cue.” I winked. “Suggest checking the room again once you’re ready to get back to work.”
“Eh—you’re wrong about Peirce.”
“If he has an excused absence, I’m going to need to see a note from a parent or guardian.”
“Gold,” I said, brushing out Rhodes’ below-her-shoulder-blades hair after I gave her a bath.
“Strawberry blonde, they call it. Natural.”
“I noticed.”
“I am not comfortable with anyone touching me.”
“I’m particular about who I let stand close.”
“I was going to say you’re the exception.”
“Cocktail personality.”
“What?”
“Saying what you think other people wish to hear. Always working the room like a manic politician on the last day of an election.”
She released a long sigh. “To my bone. I won’t bother saying it’s different with you. That will sound like more cocktail personality-ing.”
“We’re known by what we do, not what we say.”
“The mass of people are easily taken in by what we say.”
“Oh, I learned that the hard way about myself.”
“Difficult lesson.”
“I had to learn it three times.”
“Ouch.”
“The problem I have with you is I can’t read you. Usually, I can read people. I can tell when they're lying or even cocktail personality-ing. My three lessons, oh, came hard. You’re a siren.”
“I’ve been called a siren before. Usually by a man. Screamed. Right before he dies.”
“You’re just flirting with me now. Up.” I took her under the arm. “On the bed.”
“Now who’s flirting?”
“I want to change your bandage.”
“Kerney’s coming up later.”
“That’s why I want to change the bandage. He said not to get it wet. I don’t want him scolding me, that finger of his waggling in my face.”
“He’s a character.”
“Is that your thing? Old men?”
“What do you mean?”
“The breast exam.”
She reclined on the bed, painfully.
I opened the white Commodore bathrobe.
“I do not have a thing. I require service and silence from our doctor Kerney. If him examining my breasts will aid in securing that—sex is a utility. A tool. I’m sure you’ve noticed men will do anything for even the hint of a promise of sex.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’ve noticed.”
The tape peeled off with a wince.
“Tell me more about these men who rape children.”
“Not now. Long story. Busy day. Looks good, I mean, as good as a hole in your abdomen can look. I still can’t figure out why I push his arm to the side and not up.”
“I was distracted by you.”
“Me?”
“Oh, Abner’s necklace. He’s ranted often about it. More like bragging about all the money he has. You wore the diamonds to mock him. I’m all set for a showdown when you decide to get up and dance.”
“That went according to plan. Everyone distracted.”
She grunted as I helped her sit up. “I’ll call down. Get my own room.”
“Stay,” I suggested, though I wasn’t completely comfortable with anyone else in my room. “At least for now.”
“Thanks.” She fell back. “I thought to get dressed, go downstairs, sit in the restaurant. I think I’ll take a nap instead. This has been rare for me.”
“Getting shot?”
“Feeling comfortable.”
“I just got back from a couple of nights by myself in the woods alone. There, I’m comfortable—feel most like myself.”
“Little Match Girl is perfect. Always looking in. Always the orphan. I never knew my parents. Died with twenty-three other people back in forty-two.”
I have no desire to be your confessor. “I have a busy day. If you’re a good girl, maybe I’ll read the story to you tomorrow evening.”
“Match Girl? I’d love that.”
Siren, I thought. My soul burned to believe her.
“Mr. Hudson,” I greeted at the front desk, turning the telephone toward me, working the rotary.
“Miss Grimes.”
“Serling,” I said into the telephone. “Glad I caught you.”
“Glad to be caught.”
“Drop everything. “1942. Twenty-five people died.”
Repeating, he spoke as he wrote. “And?”
“I need the story verified.”
“Huh?”
“Such a story had to make national headlines.”
“On it. See you tonight.”
“Two o’clock.”
“Miss Grimes,” Hudson repeated as I replaced the receiver.
“Mr. Hudson.”
“I am not the kind of person who eavesdrops.”
“I should hope not.”
“I did, however, overhear.”
“And?”
Hudson looked in all directions as if affirming he’d not be overheard. “1942? A building, well a meeting hall, across the river was set on fire. As children, we’d tell the story on Halloween night. All the people inside died. Twenty-five was the number.”
“So, a ghost story?”
“A true story told as a ghost story.”
“Terrible, not really ghosty.”
“Ah, one person survived. A baby, less than a year old. Put in a freezer.”
“Baby Jane Doe?”
“Oh, you’ve heard this.”
“Lucky guess. Still, not ghosty.”
“Ward of the state, went from family to family.”
“Pulled wings off flies? Killed family pets.”
“Lucky guess?”
“Cliché.”
“As the story goes, when she was sixteen, she slaughtered the family she was living with.” He raised his right eyebrow.
“What?”
“Oh, I thought you’d drop a guess.”
“Mr. Hudson.”
“Husband, wife, two boys older than her. Then, she disappeared.”
“What do some people say, Mr. Hudson?”
He chuckled. “Some people say she grew up to become that mysterious assassin we hear about now and then.”
“Okay, that’s ghosty.”
Five paces inside, Christeen French halted her rush toward me, wisely deciding we were not friends that hug. “Artemis. Where have you been?”
“Out and about, Mrs. French.” My attention fell off to my right. “April.” Her I did wish to hug.
“Miss Grimes.”
“You look tired.”
“It’s a quagmire. These records. We wanted to get everything in order. Jennifer is a taskmaster.”
“Good.”
We moved to the small table, Mathers on my right and French to my left.
“About Saturday night—” French began.
“I don’t need accolades or praise. Criticism?”
French fell back against her chair. “Thank you, then.”
“April?”
“I appreciate what you did to get me out of the room.”
“I wanted to eliminate all the variables I could. Shawn told me you had a great time.”
She blushed slightly. “We did.”
“Vienna Rhodes?” French asked.
“What about her?”
“She was shot. Is she okay? Do you know?”
I was pleased to learn Bryant Anderson, Hudson, Johnny, and Larry could keep their mouths shut.
“Who do you work for, Mrs. French?”
“Huh? Oh. You have to understand—”
“I don’t need excuses or explanations. No judgement from me.”
She sighed. “I’ve not bothered with the details, which I think has been the problem, also my fault. Reginald Abner was all too happy to run the day-to-day, and I let him. Laziness on my part, I guess. He’s always been a close friend.”
“We talked about friends. He is not. Him running things for you neatly explains why Mr. Abner was a target Saturday along with you, well, aside from his wife looking to get out of getting slaughtered in a divorce settlement.”
“Abner, too?”
“Everyone at the table.”
“I would have been there,” Mathers breathed out, barely a whisper.
“I told you I thought we’d need to make an example, put everyone on notice. Dropping Hightower’s two nephews is a good example.”
“They were Cameron’s nephews?” French asked.
“Twenty buck knee-cappers. They should have stuck with muscling crippled women on crutches. We’ll need Hightower’s numbers by Saturday morning. Meeting downstairs in the restaurant at ten o’clock. He’ll be there, hat and checkbook in hand, to make full restitution.” I pursed my lips. “He should have just paid for the church renovations.”
“Church?” Mathers asked.
“Who do you work for?” I asked again.
“Jennifer says it looks like Bill Locke.”
“Ah, my favorite child rapist. It’s not him. One thing I’ve learned about Bill Locke is if all things point to Bill Locke, it’s not him. I’d put Hightower in the box and ask him, but I don’t think he knows. Maybe Abner.”
“Abner, what?” French asked.
“In the box. Interrogation room.” I turned to Mathers. “There’s a reason Joe told you not to bother putting me in the box.”
She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes.
“Are you armed?”
“Of course.”
“Mrs. French, you should come out of hiding. Get seen.”
“As if nothing happened.”
“Exactly as that.”
“Eh, Artemis.”
“April?”
“Can you prove that?”
“What? Oh, Locke being a rapist of children?”
“Yes.”
I held French’s eyes. “What do you know about the rape club for men?”
She drew a sharp breath, looking away to the right. “Rape club?”
“April.”
“Artemis?”
“Get your things. We’re done here.”
“Wait.” French reeled back, keeping my eyes.
“Waiting.”
“You have to understand—”
“I understand plenty.”
“I don’t know much. Over these years, I’ve been willfully ignorant. Lark’s rise to power. He often mentioned his initiation, never details. I’ve suspected.”
“You’ve never been invited into the inner circle because you’ve never raped a virgin.”
“Lark, in a drunken stupor, blurted out something like that when I pressed to be his partner in the business.” She stared at the ceiling for an eternity and a half. “Brought forth the blood of a woman onto the sacred floor.”
Mather’s left hand went to her chest as she offered a silent whisper.
“You’re right. Bill Locke runs everything, but he doesn’t.”
I offered a smirk that should have brought the walls down. “His sister lets him think he runs things.”
“Mary lets everyone think he runs things.”
I nodded.
“I’m going to have to meet with some people. I’d like you along. You and April.”
“Hold off on that. Let me see what kind of picture Miss Reeves comes up with and what the meeting with Hightower brings; catch up to Abner, who’s gone to ground. He may be feeling friendless right about now.”
“I don’t think you’ll be seeing Reginald, not the way he left the building.”
“Oh, Reggie’s going to come looking for me.”
A cold smile curled her lips. “The necklace.”
“What are we doing?” Mathers asked, following me into the hallway, standing closer than I allow most human beings. I resisted taking her hand, walking her against the wall.
Good question.
“You wanted inside. You’re inside.”
“I mean—”
“I know what you mean. Protect Mrs. French, restore her empire.”
“She’s a gangster.”
“From what I’ve gathered, she’s the least malevolent of the local gangsters. The world would be better with her in the top seat.”
“Still, Toby.”
“You want to uncover who kidnapped, repeatedly raped, then murdered Jody Demarko.”
“Yes. That’s why I was at the Grill. Following the leads. Leads you provided. I was not looking to become the right hand of a crime boss.”
“You weren’t drafted. You volunteered.”
“Like caught in a whirlwind. Everything happened so fast.”
“I know the feeling. Trust me.”
“I’ve been going over everything. I can’t even wildly guess how you got here to this place, in this moment.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Jody Demarko. Bill Locke?”
I held her eyes. “Bill Locke rapes children. I know this for a fact. I suspect with high confidence Bill Locke kidnapped Jody Demarko with the assistance of his sister, Mary, and a minor girl. His asshole buddy, Michael Borrows, held Demarko captive, repeatedly raped her, tortured her, murdered her by intent or accident, then with the assistance of Bill Locke and a different minor girl, buried her in the Pines.”
“Whoa. I need my notebook.”
“Don’t write any of this down. I have a file, which I’ll share when the time comes.”
She closed her eyes. “You know for a fact—”
“That Bill Locke rapes children? Yes. He raped me.”
Her eyes popped open. “Do you have proof? I mean, we’ve got him right there. Can you prove that?”
“If you mean in court, I don’t need to. The only reason Bill Locke is still alive is because I haven’t killed him yet.”
She kept my eyes, a hand to her chest. She stopped breathing for a geologic age, maybe two.
“You scare Mrs. French a little and me a lot.”
“I warned you lines would be crossed.” I nodded toward the elevator. “You can walk away.”
“I should and I can’t.”
“I understand. As for Jody’s murderer, Borrows, I don’t know for a fact what I said. I have his drunken confession, him on his knees, crying, begging for forgiveness all the while making excuses for his bad behavior.”
“Is he dead?”
“Eh, no. At the time, I just wanted to confirm we buried Jody in the Pines.”
“I have difficulty seeing you as a minor.”
“At the time, I thought Locke and Borrows were just fucking with me, that we buried a bag of dirty laundry. Locke had these loyalty tests.”
“Help bury a body, no questions asked.”
“Just like that.”
“It was you, then, who called the police.”
“To bring Jody home.”
“Because her cousin is your best friend.”
“Shawn and I are beyond friends, beyond family.”
“I envy that.”
“Buckle up, April. By the time we get to the end of this ride, we may stand on a hill watching the stars, holding hands, and I say the same about you.” I nodded toward the elevator again.
April Mathers backed into Christeen French’s room.
A bit warm for a trench coat, I thought, dropping to a chair in the lobby of the Commodore.
“Mr. Dixon.”
“Sh—keep your voice down,” he said, ruffling the newspaper, keeping the paper open held high.
“Sunglasses, black fedora. You are quite the cliché today, Mr. Dixon.”
“Briefcase.”
“What?”
“Don’t look at me. Briefcase. On the floor.”
I opened the briefcase on my lap. “This is it?” I displayed the single large envelope.
“Sh. Yes.”
I glanced through the dozen pages.
“$10,000,” he said.
I stifled a laugh. “I know you’ve been on a monthly retainer.”
“How could you know that?”
I didn’t.
“You’ve not been working on speculation. You’ve been paid.” I displayed the pages again. “Not very productive for a year’s work, Mr. Dixon. The $10,000 amounts to a shakedown.”
“Shakedown? That’s solid work. I name Sierra Bradshaw's killer.”
“Speculation from conjecture. Mark Hastings? What you have here barely amounts to a lead.” I shuffled the papers. “Where’s the police report and the notes on interviews? You’ve done little more than milked the cow.”
“Well! I never!”
“I’m sure you have. I should shake you down for $10,000 for saving your life. I’ll give you $500, and I won’t kill you.”
“We have a deal.”
I fished money from my red suede bag.
John Goldman detailed the dozen-odd changes to October’s Surprise, turning the large pages of the blueprints. Taking a cue from Shawn, I showed interest, asking questions and offering Great idea where appropriate.
Sallying. Cocktail personality-ing.
John was excited to see me, more excited about the project. He appeared bone-tired, which I didn’t mention.
“Butch Falcon,” I dropped into a quiet moment. John’s face told me all I needed to know.
“Butch is a good friend to Jessica.”
“But not good for Jessica,” I stated.
“I didn’t say that.”
You didn’t need to.
The door opened, Mackenzie Bond struggling through the doorway with a dozen or so long scrolls. John rolled his eyes.
“It’s okay, John. Let’s have a look.”
Bond unfurled roll after roll, pontificating upon his talent and genius.
I stopped him in midsentence. “Have you even been out to the property?”
“No need! I got the dimensions from Katz—”
“Mr. Katz.”
“Huh?”
“You got the dimensions from Mr. Katz.”
“Oh, sorry. Mr. Katz.”
I narrowed my eyes, keeping his. “You can lose the sarcasm, Mr. Bond. You don’t wear it well.”
He stifled a challenge, choosing rather a slight bow. “My apologies.”
I indicated the drawings. “What was your inspiration? The Sistine Chapel? That was sarcasm.”
“I worked hard on—”
“Imagine me saying something supportive and reassuring here. I know I’m supposed to. That’s just not me.”
John snickered. “Maybe something like: This is great work, but not for this project?”
“Yeah, like that.”
Bond held my eyes. “I guess it’s back to the drawing board.”
“You can’t really say that.”
“We do,” John said.
“Put this project on hold. I’m going to get you a designer. Mr. Bond, I’d like you to put her ideas into architectural drawings.”
“I look forward to working with Samantha Sullivan,” John said.
“Mrs. Sullivan,” I greeted.
“Eh—what can I do for you?”
I removed my sunglasses.
“Toby. Wow.”
“I like to peacock.”
“Good word for it.”
“I need some research.”
“Owl nesting habits?”
“Urban mythology? Folk lore? I’m not sure. I do know this rabbit hole is dark and deep.”
“Intriguing.”
“Let me say upfront, I’ll be paying for your time.”
“Toby, I—”
“If you don’t wish to accept payment, then we’ll donate to the library.”
She produced a pad and pen.
“This geological area, maybe going back to the Mayflower—”
“That would be New England.”
“Okay, a cult operating in this geological area for at least one-hundred years, possibly longer, roots going back to Europe, which is speculation on my part.”
She bit the end of her pen. “That’s a little vague.”
I glanced all directions. “Secret. All male members. Power brokers, initiation involves bringing forth the blood of a woman onto the sacred floor. That’s a quote.”
“From whom?”
“I don’t have the source qualified, so I’m not saying.”
“I appreciate that.”
“You’ll accept the assignment?”
“Intriguing.”
“You said that.”
“So, I did. Yes. Looks interesting. I have never heard of such a thing in local myth, lore, or history.”
“That’s the secret part.” I bit my lip. “Mrs. Sullivan, and I do not say this lightly. If they are still in operation, they can be dangerous.”
“Toby.”
“Mrs. Sullivan?”
“Are they still in operation?”
“Yes.”
“Toby.”
“Mrs. Sullivan?”
“Human sacrifice?”
“That’s why I need the history. I believe in modern times, any human sacrifice is by accident, incidental, not by intent.”
She held my eyes. “I’ll take the assignment, but first, I need to know what you know.”
“What I know will damage your soul. You’ll never be the same.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
“I’ll prepare a presentation. Meanwhile, can you have Samantha get in touch with me?”
“I have her in the back filing microfiche.”
“Such a waste of her talent.”
“Maybe so.” She bit her lip. “Regardless of outward appearance and demeanor, Andy is a child. Do keep her out of harm’s way.”
She’s my age. “I have a church interior renovation. The plans from the architect are soulless, appealing more to God than to human beings. I figure Samantha—”
“She prefers Andy.”
“Andy can idea the project; Mackenzie Bond can architect her ideas.”
“Ah, that is the proper use of her talent.”
“I feel the experience will be good for both of them.”
I paused halfway across the lobby, casually examining the spacious interior. Within minutes, Sister Rebecca joined me.
“Miss Grimes.”
“Sister. I thought we’d have one of those hug fests.”
“Toby, yes. Artemis Grimes, no. I do understand the difference.”
“You are one of the few.”
“Good timing.” She nodded.
Across the lobby, Tayor, Bob, and Maria Edwards emerged from the elevator, Tayor and Bob obsessed with escape, Maria catching my eye, looking away, blushing.
“Mrs. Edwards still carries on about, eh, Toby.”
“She needs someone to blame. Is that for me?”
“Oh.” She indicated the folder in her hand. “Yes. Though I hesitate.”
“Why so?”
“I should hand it off to the authorities.”
“They’d circle the wagons. You’d become the focus, you having illegal possession of the medical file, and the file itself would be lost in the shuffle.”
“I’ve prayed about it.”
“What did God tell you?”
“It doesn’t work that way. Walk with me.”
In the elevator, I fished an envelope from my red suede bag, which Sister Rebecca accepted with a nod, trading for the file.
“You aren’t going to look?” she asked.
“It’ll just confirm what I already know,” I answered with a shrug.
“Tend the hubris, child.”
“I grant a fine line separates hubris and confidence.”
Exiting the elevator, Sister Rebecca guided us into the third room. “Sally, I’d like you to meet Artemis.”
Sally, a child of maybe eight, glassy eyes, blinked up at me.
I removed my dark glasses. “Hello, Sally.” I took her clammy hand.
She choked out a hello.
Back in the hall, Sister Rebecca said, “You paid for her operation. I wanted you to understand. This is how I see you.”
I pursed my lips at the chart, replacing the clipboard on the hanger at the foot of the bed. “That’s not good.”
“We have her on IV antibiotics—”
“I can read a chart.”
“We’re optimistic—”
“I can hear you,” Pamala said, her eyes closed. “I’m optimistic, too.”
I took her hand, kissing her forehead.
She opened her eyes. “This is where you say something reassuring.”
“I read the chart—”
“I’m just tired, Toby, is all. I’ll be okay. Sister Rebecca, tell Toby I’ll be okay.”
I let out a sigh that should have stopped time. “I love you more than I love me. Now, forever.”
“Graduation. Next week. Promise me. After. Sister Rebecca. Close your ears. We go see Father Petey, get married.”
“Promise.”
Sister Rebecca gasped.
“I am not afraid, Toby. Even death can’t keep us apart.”