Since We Fell

by Dennis Lehane

  “Shot once in the heart, once in the head. It probably led the news tonight if you’d been watching.” He gave the bar another glance. “But you were engaged in other activities.”

  “Who was she?” Rachel asked.

  “Her name was Nicole Alden. Beyond that, I don’t know much. No criminal record, no known enemies, worked in a bank. Knew your husband, though.”

  “That picture’s old,” she told him. “Might even pre-date when I met my husband. So what’s to say he’s still in contact with her?”

  “You say he’s in Russia?”

  “Yeah.” She found her phone, opened the last text he’d sent her claiming to be on the runway at Logan. She showed it to Kessler.

  Kessler read it and handed the phone back. “He drive himself to the airport or take a cab?”

  “He drove himself.”

  “In the Infiniti?”

  “Yes.” She stopped. “How do you know—?”

  “What he drives?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because an Infiniti FX 45, registered to your husband at this address, was found parked across the street from the victim’s home this afternoon. And a witness saw your husband exit the home on or around the time of the murder.”

  “And, what, he just walked away and left his car behind?”

  “Can we all sit down?” He tilted his head at the bar.

  All five of them took stools around the bar, Kessler in the middle, like the father at a family meeting.

  “Our witness says your husband drove up in the Infiniti, but he drove off again an hour later in a blue Honda. You ever use one of those map programs where you can see the actual street? Either of you?”

  They both nodded.

  “What the map companies do to get that picture is drive around in a van and film the streets. So you’re looking at pictures could be months old or weeks but not years. So I went on a real estate site and I punched in the victim’s address and then I went to street view and I clicked around a bit. And guess what I found?”

  “A blue Honda,” Caleb said.

  “A blue Honda parked halfway down the block on the east side of the street. Got me a license plate, ran that plate, and discovered it was registered to a Brian Alden. Ran Mr. Alden through the DMV, got a driver’s license photo that looks identical to your husband.”

  “Jesus,” Rachel said, not having to bring much to the performance to make it convincing. “You’re telling me my husband is not my husband.”

  “I’m telling you your husband may be living a couple of lives, ma’am, and I’d like to talk to him about that.” He folded his hands on the bar and smiled at her. “Among other things.”

  After a minute, she said, “I only know he’s in Russia.”

  Trayvon Kessler shook his head. “He’s not in Russia.”

  “I only know what he tells me.”

  “And that’s looking like it could be a lot of lies, ma’am. He go on business trips a lot?”

  “At least once a month.”

  “Where to?”

  “Canada and the Pacific Northwest mostly. But he also goes to India, Brazil, the Czech Republic, the United Kingdom.”

  “Some cool places there. You ever go with him?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? I’d like to see me some Rio, maybe walk around Prague.”

  “I have a condition.”

  “A condition?”

  “Or, I mean, I had one until recently.”

  She could feel them all looking at her, particularly the two female cops, wondering what “condition” could possibly afflict an entitled Back Bay princess like her.

  “It kept me from leaving the house,” she said. “I couldn’t fly, that’s for sure.”

  “So you’re afraid of flying?” Kessler’s tone was helpful.

  “Among other things.”

  “You agoraphobic?” he said.

  She looked in his eyes and they were far too wise.

  “I majored in psychology at Penn.” Again with the helpful tone of voice.

  “It’s never been officially diagnosed,” she said eventually and thought she heard Officer Mullen sigh. “But I definitely had symptoms that suggested it.”

  “Had? Past tense?”

  “Brian’s been working with me on it.”

  “But not enough to take you on a business trip.”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “Would you like protective custody?”

  He said it so casually it took her a moment to process the words.

  “Why would I want that?”

  He turned on his stool. “Officer Garza, you got that other picture?”

  Garza handed him a photograph and he turned it faceup on the bar so she and Caleb could see it. The blond woman lay facedown on a kitchen floor, her lower half out of frame. Blood had billowed out from under her chest and pooled above her left shoulder. Her left cheek and part of the refrigerator door were also splattered with blood. But the worst image, the one Rachel suspected she’d be woken up by for the rest of her life, was the black gouge at the top of her head. It didn’t look like someone had shot her; it looked like something had taken a bite out of her skull. And the hole left in the wake of that bite had immediately filled with blood that spilled into her hair and turned black.

  “If your husband did this and—”

  “My husband didn’t do that,” she said loudly.

  “—I’m not saying he did but he’s the last person we know of to see her alive. So let’s just say, let’s just say, Mrs. Delacroix, that he did do this?” He turned on his barstool and pointed. “Well, ma’am, he has a key to that door.”

  He’s beyond using it, she thought.

  She said, “So you’d like to take me into your custody?”

  “Protective custody, ma’am. Protective.”

  Rachel shook her head.

  “Officer Mullen, please make note that Mrs. Delacroix declined our recommendation of PC.”

  “Got it.” Mullen scribbled on a pad.

  Kessler tapped a finger on the marble bar top, as if testing it, then looked at her again. “Will you be willing to come down to the precinct and talk about when you last saw your husband?”

  “The last time I saw Brian was eight o’clock this morning when he drove himself to the airport.”

  “He didn’t drive himself to the airport.”

  “So you say. That doesn’t mean you’re right.”

  He gave that a small shrug. “But I am.”

  He exuded equal parts serenity and skepticism. The odd mixture made her feel as if he knew all her answers before they left her mouth, as if not only could he see into her, he could see into the future; he knew how this was going to end. It was all she could do to hold his mildly curious gaze and not fall to her knees and beg for mercy. If she ever went into an interview room with this man, the only way she’d exit would be in handcuffs.

  “I’m tired, Detective. I’d like to get into bed and wait for my husband’s phone call from Moscow.”

  He nodded and patted her hand. “Officer Mullen, please make a note that Mrs. Delacroix declined to join us at the precinct to answer further questions.” He reached into the inside pocket of his car coat and placed his business card on the bar between them. “My personal cell is on the back.”

  “Thank you.”

  He stood. “Mr. Perloff.” His voice was suddenly louder and sharper, though he kept his back to Caleb.

  “Yes?”

  “When’s the last time you saw Brian Delacroix?”

  “Yesterday afternoon when he left work.”

  Kessler turned to him. “You’re in the lumber business together, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you knew nothing about your business partner’s other life?”

  “No.”

  “Care to come to the precinct and speak about that at length?”

  “I’m pretty tired too.”

  Another short glance at the bar, followed by a slight
ly longer one at Rachel. “Of course you are.” Kessler handed Caleb one of his business cards.

  “I’ll call you,” Caleb said.

  “Yes, you will, Mr. Perloff. Yes, you will. Because, can I tell you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “If Brian Delacroix-slash-Alden is as dirty as I think he is?” He leaned into Caleb and spoke in a whisper loud enough for all of them to hear. “Then that means you’re fucking dirty, my man.” He slapped Caleb hard on the shoulder and laughed like they were old friends. “So you stay in plain sight now, hear?”

  Officer Mullen jotted in her notepad as they headed for the door. Officer Garza moved her head on a slow swivel, as if everything she saw was transmitted to a central database. Detective Kessler paused at a Rothko reprint Brian had brought with him from his previous apartment. Kessler gave the painting a squint and then a soft smile, looked back at her and raised his eyebrows in approval of her taste. His smile broadened, and, man, she did not like what she saw there.

  They let themselves out.

  Caleb went straight to the bourbon. “Jesus,” he said. “Jesus.”

  “Calm down.”

  “We’ve got to run.”

  “Are you nuts? You heard what he said.”

  “All we’ve got to do is get to the money.”

  “What money?”

  “The money.” He drained his glass. “So much money these fucking guys, they’ll never catch us. Get the money, get to the safe house. Jesus. Shit. Fuck.” He opened his mouth to loose another expletive but then closed it. His eyes widened and welled. “Nicole. Not Nicole.”

  She watched him. He pressed the heel of his hand to each of his lower eyelids and exhaled through pursed lips.

  “Not Nicole,” he said again.

  “So you knew her.”

  He glared at her. “Of course I did.”

  “Who was she?”

  “She was . . .” Another long exhale. “She was my friend. She was a good person. And now she’s . . .” He shot her another heartless glare. “Fucking Brian. I told him not to wait. I told him you’d either catch up or you wouldn’t. We’d either send for you when it was safe or he’d forget about you.”

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “Me? What were you waiting for me to—?”

  The doorbell rang. She looked at the door and noticed Trayvon Kessler’s half-fedora sitting on the chair beside it. She crossed the condo and picked it up. Had it in her hand when she opened the door.

  But it wasn’t Detective Kessler on the other side of the threshold.

  It was two white men who looked like actuaries or mortgage brokers—middle-aged, bland, forgettable.

  Except for the guns in their hands.

  25

  WHAT KEY

  Each man held a 9mm Glock in front of his groin, their hands crossed at the wrists, barrels pointed at the ground. If anyone passed in the hall, they’d see only the men, not the guns.

  “Mrs. Delacroix?” the one on the left said. “Good to see you. May we come in?” He flicked the gun barrel toward her and she stepped back.

  They came into the apartment and shut the door behind them.

  Caleb said, “Who the fuck are—?” and then saw the guns.

  The shorter of the two, the one who’d spoken, pointed his at Rachel’s chest. The taller one pointed his at Caleb’s head. He used it to gesture toward the dining room table.

  “Let’s all have a seat over there,” the shorter one said.

  Rachel immediately saw the logic—of all the places in the apartment, the dining area was the farthest from any windows. The only way you could see it from the front door was to enter the apartment, close the door behind you, and then look to your left.

  They sat at the table. Rachel placed Detective Kessler’s hat on the table in front of her because she had no idea what else to do with it. Her throat closed up. Fire ants scuttled along her bones and crawled over her scalp.

  The shorter man had sad eyes and a sadder comb-over. He was about fifty-five and paunchy. Wore a fraying white polo shirt under a sky-blue Members Only jacket, the kind that had been ubiquitous when Rachel was in grade school but which she hadn’t seen much of since.

  His partner was maybe five years younger. He had a full head of gray hair and fashionable gray stubble on his cheeks and chin. He wore a black T-shirt under a black sport coat that was a size too big for him and looked to be cheaply made. The shoulders spiked at the ends from spending too much time on wire hangers and in between the spikes and the corresponding lapels lay a poppy field of dandruff.

  Both men gave off a whiff of curdled dreams and dead ambitions. That’s probably how they ended up here, Rachel thought, threatening ordinary citizens with guns. The one in the Members Only jacket, she decided, looked like a Ned. The one with the dandruff she dubbed Lars.

  She’d hoped humanizing them would reduce her terror but it actually had the reverse effect, particularly once Ned screwed a silencer onto the muzzle of his Glock and Lars followed suit.

  “We,” Ned said, “are pressed for time. So I’m going to ask you both to look after your best interests and not go down the ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ route. Fair enough?”

  Rachel and Caleb stared at him.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes for a moment. “I said, ‘Fair enough?’”

  “Yes,” Rachel said.

  “Yes,” Caleb said.

  Ned looked at Lars and Lars looked at Ned and then they both went back to looking at Rachel and Caleb.

  “Rachel,” Ned said. “It is Rachel, right?”

  Rachel could hear the tremor in her voice when she answered. “Yes.”

  “Rachel,” he said. “Stand up for me.”

  “What?”

  “Stand up for me, hon. Really. Just right here in front of me.”

  She stood and the tremor that had been in her voice found her legs.

  Ned’s nose, red-veined and pitted, was eye level with her belly. “Good, good. Stay right there now and don’t move.”

  “Okay.”

  Ned leaned back in his chair so he could get a clear look at Caleb. “You’re his partner, right?”

  Caleb said, “Whose?”

  “Ah ah ah.” Ned tapped the butt of the Glock on the table. “What’d we say about that?”

  “Oh, Brian,” Caleb said quickly. “Brian’s partner. Yes.”

  Ned rolled his eyes at Lars. “‘Oh, Brian.’”

  “Oh, that Brian,” Lars said.

  Ned gave it a rueful smile. “So, Caleb, where’s the key?”

  Caleb said, “What key?”

  Ned punched Rachel in the stomach. Punched her so hard she could feel the impression of his knuckles as they burrowed under her windpipe and lifted her off her feet. She landed on the floor and lay there, stripped of oxygen, her insides aflame, her mind filled with black gum, unable to process anything. And once she could process, around the time that the air returned to her lungs, the pain intensified. She ground her head into the floor and made it to her hands and knees. She gasped several times. But the pain was nothing compared to the realization that she was going to die tonight. Not soon. Not someday. Probably in the next five minutes. And definitely tonight.

  Ned lifted her to her feet. He grasped her shoulders. He seemed worried she might collapse. “You okay?”

  She nodded and for a moment was sure she was going to vomit.

  “Say it.” His eyes searched hers. Ned, the Good Samaritan.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Good.”

  She went to sit down but he held her upright.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but we may have to go again.”

  She couldn’t stop the tears. She tried, she did, but she was overwhelmed by the memory of his knuckles, of the loss of breath, of pain so acute and immediate it short-circuited her ability to think, and, worst of all, the advance knowledge that it was coming, that this sad-eyed man with the comb-over and the concerned v
oice would hit her again and keep hitting until he got what he wanted or she was dead, whichever came first.

  “Ssshhh,” Ned said. “Turn around. I want him to see your face.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her so that she was facing Caleb. “My first punch, young man, was to her solar plexus. Hurts like hell but it’s not all that harmful to your health. My next punch will blow up her fucking kidneys.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “Sure you do. You’re the IT guy. You were part of this from the beginning.”

  “Brian went rogue.”

  “He did, huh?”

  Caleb’s eyes danced. His face was covered in sweat and his lips twitched and he looked for all the world to see like the frightened boy she now realized he’d always been. He glanced at Rachel and at first she mistook the emotion in his eyes for empathy but then realized, to her horror, that it was embarrassment. Shame. Pity. He was ashamed because he knew he’d never have the courage to save her. He pitied her because he knew she was going to die.

  He’s going to pulverize my kidneys, Caleb. Tell him what you know.

  Ned ran the silencer down the side of Rachel’s right temple and then along her neckline. “Don’t make me do this, young man. I got a daughter. I got sisters.”

  Caleb said, “Look—”

  “There’s no look, Caleb. There’s no ‘Hang on a second,’ or ‘Let me explain, or ‘This is just a big misunderstanding.’” Ned inhaled deeply through his nostrils, a man trying to retain his cool. “There’s only a question and an answer. That’s it.”

  Rachel felt his penis stiffen against the back of her left hip. He was hard, this father of a daughter, this brother of sisters. Monsters, her mother had told her and she had learned herself over the years, don’t dress like monsters; they dress like humans. Even stranger, they rarely know they’re the monsters.

  “Where’s the key?” Ned said.

  “What key?” Caleb said, his entire face quivering.

  It stopped quivering when Ned fired a bullet into it.

  She wasn’t sure what had happened at first. She registered the slap of the bullet entering flesh. She heard Caleb make a surprised yelp, the last sound, it turned out, he’d ever make. His head snapped back hard, as if he’d just heard the funniest of jokes. His head snapped forward, except now it was covered in a beaded curtain of blood, and Rachel opened her mouth to scream.