“Some.” I buried my head in my hands, surprised by how guilty I felt. “I have two kids. I’m divorced. I’m in the middle of a messy custody fight with my ex.” I looked down at the Oreo crumbs on my stretched-out T. “And you more or less nailed my sense of style and dietary preferences.”
He sighed. Or maybe it was a heavyhearted laugh. “Who are you?” He sounded genuinely curious.
I leaned my head back against my desk. “I don’t think I can tell you. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“I want to.” I raked my hair back, my nails dragging over the phantom itch in my scalp. “I just … need to clear some things up first.”
“Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“I don’t want to be,” I said, fighting back tears. “I keep trying to do the right thing, and somehow it keeps backfiring.” All I had wanted was a chance to hold on to my kids. To prove to Steven that he was wrong about me. But what if he wasn’t?
“Did this Mickler guy—the one who went missing,” he asked gently, “did he hurt you?”
“No,” I said. But I thought about all those names on his phone. “Not me.”
“Did you hurt him?” There was no insinuation of guilt. No condemnation or judgment. Maybe there should have been.
“No. But I doubt anyone would believe me.”
“Maybe if you tell me what happened, I could help.” He sounded so earnest. So honest. I wondered if it would feel like confessing at church, to pour all my ugly truths into the phone to him. I wished I could utter a few Hail Marys and the rest of the world would absolve me the way Julian seemed to want to.
“I can’t. This thing I’m tangled up in … It’s complicated.” It was wrong of me to drag him into this. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called—”
“Why did you?” he asked before I could hang up.
The question pulled me up short. I picked at the fraying knee of my jeans. “I guess I just wanted you to know that I’m not a terrible person. And I never wanted to mislead you. If things weren’t so screwed up right now, I would tell you my name. I’d take you up on that offer to go out for pizza and tell you everything over a beer. But…”
“It’s complicated,” he said softly. “I know.”
“Do you believe me?” I closed my eyes and braced for his answer, surprised by the wash of relief I felt when he finally spoke.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Why?”
“Ever heard of Hanlon’s razor?” I tipped my head back and closed my eyes. The low timbre of his voice was even and calm, a balm on my frazzled nerves. “There’s an old saying that goes something like … ‘Let us not attribute to malice and cruelty what may be referred to less criminal motives.’ I make it a point never to assume the worst about people.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Sometimes people just make mistakes.”
We both fell quiet. I wondered if he would feel the same way if he knew the depths of the mistakes we were talking about. If he knew Harris Mickler’s body was buried at the bottom of them. “I should probably get rid of this phone and never call you again.”
“Is that what you want?”
“No.”
“Then keep it.” It was the voice of a lawyer giving counsel. There was something reassuring in it, something solid I could hold on to. “I still don’t know your name,” he reminded me. “This could be anyone’s number in my phone. The detective’s only interested in some woman named Theresa, and since your name isn’t Theresa, there’s no reason for me to tell him about you. Is there?”
I swallowed the painful lump in my throat. “No.”
“Promise me if you need help, you’ll call.”
I wished I could tell him this wasn’t as simple as a bad alternator. That I was in way over my head, and it was going to take more than a set of jumper cables and a wet wipe to fix the mess I’d made.
“I’ll be okay,” I said as I disconnected the call. I only wished I believed it.
CHAPTER 33
According to her engagement announcement in the local paper seven years ago, Aimee Shapiro had married a young entrepreneur who owned a chain of car washes. His name was Daniel Reynolds. According to a white pages search, Aimee and Daniel Reynolds now lived in a town house in Potomac Falls, about fourteen miles away. And according to the name tag pinned to the dress suit she’d been wearing when she left home that morning, Aimee Reynolds, aka Aimee R, was on her way to work.
Vero and I tailed her to a parking lot at Fair Oaks Mall, then into the cosmetics department at Macy’s. We huddled in the dress racks, watching her organize the displays under the glass counter.
“Go talk to her.” Vero nudged me with her elbow.
I pulled Zach from her arms. “I can’t be the one to talk to her. She might recognize me from the photos in Steven’s house.”
Vero rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right. Like Theresa’s got your face hanging all over her hall of fame.”
Point taken. “If Aimee was there the night I brought Harris to the house, she might have gotten a look at my face. You have to do it.” I watched Aimee surreptitiously as I slid dresses down the metal racks. “Dial my number and leave your phone on in your pocket. I’ll listen from here. And put your ear thingy on so you can hear me.”
“What am I supposed to say?” she argued as she stuffed the Bluetooth in her ear.
“I don’t know.” I angled Zach out of reach of a designer silk bustier before he could stuff it in his mouth and use it as a teether. “Make small talk. Find out if she was working here the night Harris disappeared.”
Vero held out her hand. “Give me your credit card.”
“You can’t use my credit card! My name is on it!”
“Then give me some cash. I can’t just loiter at the counter and not spend anything.”
I fished a few bills from my purse, stuffed them in her hand, and pushed her toward the makeup counter. Propping my phone under my ear, I hoisted Zach on my other hip and pretended to be on a call. Using the tall dress racks as camouflage, I wandered to the edge of the cosmetics department until I was near enough to eavesdrop.
“Can you hear me?” I said into my phone.
“All the damn time,” she muttered.
“Can I help you?” Aimee’s voice was light, pleasant through my receiver.
“I hope so,” Vero said a little too loudly. “I’m looking for a gift for a friend. She doesn’t get out much. She’s one of those lonely, reclusive, cat-lady types.”
“I don’t have a cat,” I said grudgingly.
“But there’s this guy who might be interested in her. He’s a cop. So hot.” Vero fanned herself. “I keep telling her she can’t go out on a date wearing sweatpants. At the very least, she ought to make an effort. I mean, come on, put on a little makeup, right?”
“Why?” I grumbled. “So I’ll look better in my mug shot?”
“Oooh!” Aimee’s eyes sparkled. She leaned on her elbows against the glass. “This sounds exciting.”
“You have no idea,” Vero said.
Aimee spread her hands to reveal the colorful rows of palettes under the counter. “I can help you pick something out for her. Tell me about her best features.”
Vero’s eyes rolled to the ceiling. “Wow, that’s a tough one.”
“Watch it,” I said.
“Well, she’s got sort of wavy, reddish-brown hair. It looks nice when she’s trying. Which isn’t often.”
I snapped a hanger over the rack.
“And hazel-green eyes. They change colors when she’s mad and her face turns real red. Most of the time, she’s sort of pale like a vampire, because she doesn’t leave the house much. But she’s got a few freckles here and there, so more like a friendly neighborhood sparkly vamp than one of those creepy coffin-dwelling kinds.”
Aimee let loose a full-throated laugh.
“I’m glad she’s amused,” I muttered.
“Well, let’s play up her eyes. They sound pretty.” Aimee slid open a glas
s cabinet and set a tray of samples on the counter.
“Get on with it,” I growled, earning a nasty look while Aimee’s head was down.
Vero tapped her chin, studying Aimee’s face as she arranged the palettes. “Have we met before?”
Aimee looked up. She tipped her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure?” Vero asked. “Because I was just here a few weeks ago for a makeover and I’m sure you were the one who sold me some blushers. Let me think … It would have been on a Tuesday, in the evening.”
“No.” She smiled politely. “That wouldn’t have been me. I don’t work on Tuesday nights. It may have been Julia,” she added with a lilt. “People get us confused all the time.”
Vero nodded. “Oh, sure! Julia rings a bell. Hey, is that a promotion?” Vero rose on her tiptoes to point out a display on the far side of the counter. As Aimee twisted to see it, Vero turned to me and mouthed, “What do I do?”
I swatted the air. “Don’t look at me! Find out where she was that night.”
“So,” Vero said loudly, pulling Aimee’s focus back to the counter, “you’re off on Tuesdays? You must go out on Tuesday nights then. I bet you hit all the best spots in town.”
“That was subtle,” I deadpanned.
Aimee’s smile was uncertain. Maybe a little uncomfortable as she returned to her task.
“I’ve heard great things about a place called The Lush. You know anything about it?”
Aimee’s head snapped up as she dropped a tray of eye colors. The clatter of breaking plastic echoed through the store, drawing the attention of a floor manager. Aimee apologized, her cheeks flushing a hot shade of pink as she bent to scrape it up. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t go there.” Even from where I stood in the clothing racks, I could see her hands shaking as she wiped powder on her pant leg.
“My friend says the bartender’s an underwear model. She says they have good drink specials on Tuesday nights. Are you sure you’ve never been there before?” The color drained from Aimee’s face.
“Laying it on a little thick,” I warned.
Aimee darted anxious glances around the counter, checking to make sure no one was listening when she said, “Are you a cop?”
Vero’s head rocked back. She cocked a hip as they sized each other up.
“No, no, no,” I hissed into the phone. “You are not a cop!”
Vero raised an eyebrow. “What if I am?”
“Look,” Aimee said in a harsh whisper, “I don’t know how you found me, but I had nothing to do with that man’s disappearance. I haven’t laid eyes on him in more than a year. I saw his name on the news just like everybody else.”
“Then I’m sure you won’t mind telling me where you were the night he went missing.”
Breath held, I waited for her answer.
“I was at my AA meeting at the Episcopal Church on Van Buren. Same place I’ve been every Tuesday night for the last eleven months. You can check with my sponsor. She’s there every week. Meetings start at eight,” she said. “Just leave my husband out of it.”
“Is that why you’re working here?” Vero asked in a low voice. “To keep your husband out of it? Is that how you’ve been paying Harris off, using your paychecks to keep him from talking to Daniel?”
Aimee’s mouth fell slack. Her eyes darted anxiously around her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s okay,” Vero said softly. “The police already know about the photos. He won’t be able to hurt you again. If there’s anything you want to say, you can tell me.”
Aimee’s eyes glimmered with the threat of tears. She pulled herself up by her spine. “Would you like me to wrap anything up for you?” Her voice fluttered, fragile under the artificial edge she tried and failed to hone.
Vero must have heard it, too. “You know what, I’ll take that whole palette.” Vero pointed to a set under the glass. Aimee rang it up, smiling tightly as Vero put the bills in her hand. Our eyes caught as Vero took the bag off the counter. I was pretty sure we were thinking the same damn thing.
Aimee had a motive. But she also had an alibi. So if Aimee hadn’t helped Theresa kill Harris, who had?
* * *
“What does this mean?” Vero asked, throwing the bag of cosmetics in my lap and slamming her car door.
Aimee Reynolds was definitely the same Aimee on Harris’s phone. And she was definitely the same woman who’d made the anonymous call to the police, But if she’d been at her AA meeting from eight to nine, there’s no way she could have made it to the bar in time to see me leave with Harris.
“It means Aimee wasn’t there but Theresa definitely had a motive. And she still doesn’t have an alibi.” I thought of the cash Steven said he’d found in her underwear drawer. What if she’d killed Harris for far less noble reasons than revenge? What if she’d killed him for money? “What if Nick’s hunch is right and Theresa’s in over her head with Feliks?”
Vero tipped her head back, rolling it sideways against the headrest to look at me. “You think Theresa’s working for Feliks on more than just real estate deals?”
“It’s possible.” Nick had been right about everything else. “Harris clearly had a type. If Feliks wanted Harris dead, Theresa would have been the perfect lure. Maybe I just beat her to him.”
“What are we going to do about Nick? That man is like a dog with a bone. If he keeps after her like this, he’s going to end up right under our garage door.”
I shook my head, maybe just to convince myself. “As long as there’s no body, there’s no case.” It was possible to convict someone of murder without a body, but I knew from talking to Georgia, those cases were hard to prove. Nick would need solid evidence. He couldn’t arrest us on a hunch. “Julian told Nick he was certain the woman in the photo wasn’t Theresa. Theresa hasn’t blabbed yet and neither have we. And Nick’s not likely to get within three feet of Zhirov without Feliks’s lawyers putting up a wall. Nick said it himself: nothing sticks to Feliks. Assuming none of us talks, any evidence Nick has is circumstantial at best. At some point, Nick will get tired of chasing dead ends and the case will go cold.” I stared out my window at the rows and rows of cars, at the bright collective glare shining off the windshields. People went missing every day. As time went by, cases would pile up. Eventually, I told myself, Harris would get lost in the sea of them.
“Then you’d better make sure there aren’t any sod farms in this book of yours.”
“It was a cemetery,” I muttered against the window, the words almost lost under the steady stream of Zach’s babbling in the back seat. Vero looked at me askance. “In the book,” I explained, “she buries the guy in a cemetery, in a freshly dug grave. You know, on top of some other guy who’d been buried there earlier.”
Vero thought about that. She nodded appreciatively, as if she were tacking it to a corkboard in the back of her mind. “That’s good. We should have thought of that before. We’ll have to try that when you kill Andrei.”
“We are absolutely not killing Andrei.”
“Try telling that to Irina Borovkov.”
CHAPTER 34
Ramón’s shop was dark, with the exception of a single dim light in one of the office windows. On our way home from the mall, I’d gotten a text message from Vero’s cousin, letting me know my van was fixed and would be ready for pickup at eight. But when I’d pulled up to the shop, the garage bay doors were already rolled down and the neon sign in the window was off. The dashboard clock of his loaner car said I was right on time, but everything about the place screamed, “Go away, we’re closed.”
Loose pebbles in the weatherworn asphalt crackled under my sneakers as I got out of the car and nosed around the lot. I found my van parked behind the garage, but the doors were locked and I hadn’t brought a spare set of keys. I kicked the tire. Apparently, I’d driven all this way for nothing.
I groped in my purse, muttering a swear. I must have left my cell phone in my diaper bag when we’d gotten
home from the mall that afternoon. Which meant my phone was at home with Vero. With a heavy sigh, I banged on the bay door. Maybe Ramón was still inside somewhere.
The knock was tinny and hollow. I shouted Ramón’s name. When no one answered, I tried the side door to the office, surprised to find it open.
The bells on the door jangled, the sound echoing eerily off the smoke-stained walls and the mildew-stained ceiling. A water cooler gurgled in the shadowy corner of the waiting room. The place smelled like exhaust and ashtrays and the moldering hot rod magazines scattered over the plastic chairs.
“Ramón?” I called out. The door clanged shut behind me. “Ramón? It’s Finlay Donovan. I’m here to pick up my—”
Snick.
I froze as a firm pressure, cold and sharp, pressed into the soft skin below my jaw.
My purse hit the floor with a thud. It was the only sound in the room.
Slowly, I raised my hands. I didn’t dare move as a heavy boot kicked my purse out of the way. The contents spilled out of the open zipper, my blond wig splaying, loose change rolling, a tube of red lipstick skittering across the floor.
I aimed a glance at my wallet where it fell, careful not to lower my chin. The man’s boot was huge, with wide steel toes and thick grooved soles. His clothes smelled like cigarettes, and his breath smelled strongly of garlic.
I swallowed carefully against the blade. “My wallet’s on the floor. My keys are in my pocket. The car’s out front. Take it and go.”
He had the deep, husky laugh of a smoker. I yelped as he grabbed me by the hair and shoved me down the dark hall ahead of him.
Heart in my throat, I let him push me through a doorway, into the belly of the shadowy garage. He pulled me up short, barking gruff words I didn’t understand. A smooth, cool voice responded in a guttural language that sounded decidedly Russian, and the man behind me let go of my hair with a grunt.
“Sit down, Ms. Donovan.” The disembodied words ghosted from the far side of the room. The man’s English was inflected with a subtle accent, and the frosty edge of his tone sent a shiver down my spine. I blinked, my eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. The white collar of the man’s dress shirt became visible in the dim light filtering through the high, narrow windows from the streetlamp outside. He stepped closer, his silhouette assuming the shape of a crisply tailored suit.
Finlay Donovan Is Killing It Page 23
