by Stephen Frey
“Right. I remember it all real clearly now,” Treviso said confidently, like his memory was suddenly turning crystal clear. “That was the night I told the kid I was gonna torture his mommy if he didn’t start paying me. Gouge out her eyes, pour acid in ’em.”
Damn. It was as if Treviso enjoyed thinking about what it would have been like to gouge out the poor woman’s eyes. Like he was disappointed he hadn’t actually had the chance to pour acid in the wounds. He’d caught a glint in Treviso’s eyes and a twitch of the lips at both corners of his mouth. Johnny killed, but he took no pleasure in it. Just got satisfaction from erasing one more scumbag from the face of the planet. But it seemed like Timid Tony might actually enjoy killing. At least when that psychopath switch flipped on.
“Well,” Treviso continued, “the kid hears what I’m gonna do and makes a move at me. Starts screaming about how he’s gonna kill me first, before I have a chance to do anything. Lucky for me, Paulie’s sitting in his car across the street, watching the whole thing. He comes running as soon as the kid comes at me. The kid sees Paulie, stops dead in his tracks, turns, sprints for his car, guns the engine, and squeals out. Just as Marconi’s grandkid comes pedaling around the corner on his bike.” Treviso held up his hands like he was gripping the handlebars of a bike, and moved his head from side to side, smiling foolishly. “And bam, that’s that. The little boy’s done. A bloody mess,” he said, grimacing. “Of course, McLean doesn’t stop after he nails the little guy, just tears off. Next day we hear McLean drove off a pier into the East River and drowned.” Treviso shook his head. “And I’m out a hundred grand.”
“That’s your story? Your whole story?”
“That’s it, Deuce.” Treviso leaned forward and pointed at Johnny. “Now, if you catch up to the kid, he’s gonna tell you something different. He’s going to tell you he didn’t hit a little boy on a bike.”
“Jeez, why would he tell me that?”
Treviso shrugged. “What the hell else is he gonna say?” Not picking up on the fact that Johnny was being sarcastic.
“Then why did you tell me?” There it was. That old desire to be a lawyer, to force people into corners. Maybe it wasn’t too late to be a white-collar guy, to be respectable. To put scumbags in jail instead of in the ground. “If it’s so obvious that’s what he’s gonna say, I mean.”
“Huh?”
All of a sudden Treviso looked like he’d been caught with his dirty hands in the cookie jar a minute in front of dinner. “Of course, he’s gonna say he’s innocent,” Johnny said loudly. “That he didn’t hit anybody. What? You think I’m stupid?”
“No, no, Deuce. I’m just saying, that’s all. I’m just saying. That’s why McLean faked his accident. Why he tried to make everyone think he drove off that pier. It all makes sense now. He knew Marconi would come after him for killing his grandson.”
“McLean faked his death,” Johnny said deliberately, “so you wouldn’t kill his mother. Not because he hit a little boy. He wouldn’t know it was Marconi’s grandson he hit. It could have been anybody’s kid as far as he knew.” He raised one eyebrow. “If he actually did hit a little boy on a bike that night.”
They stared at each other across the kitchen table for several moments. Suddenly there was no sound in the kitchen except for the gentle hum of the refrigerator motor. Even the baby wasn’t whining anymore.
Finally Treviso stood up. “I gotta hit the can, Deuce. Gotta recycle some coffee. Be back in a minute.”
“Sure,” Johnny said, standing up, too. “Take your time.” When it came right down to it, Treviso wasn’t very smart, Johnny realized, watching him head out of the kitchen. He’d stepped into that trap so fast.
He pulled out his cell phone and checked his text messages, deciphering code as he went. It was probably driving the cops crazy reading his messages, but they’d never figure out what was really being said.
“Hi.”
Johnny’s eyes snapped to the left, toward the soft voice. Karen was standing in the other doorway, the one by the refrigerator. God, she was beautiful. So beautiful it took his breath away. “Hi.”
She moved to him. “You felt it, too,” she said in a soft voice, “didn’t you?”
Nature. It was one hell of a thing. It always seemed to find a way. “Felt what?”
“Don’t deny it,” she said, putting her fingers on his arm. “You know what. You know exactly what.”
For several moments Johnny thought about how wonderful it would be to have a companion again. Somebody he could love and trust and who’d love and trust him. Finally, he willed his eyes from hers. “Tell your husband I’ll call him later.” Then he turned and headed for the door.
Stephen Casey hadn’t left his house or called anybody in two days. Not since the kindly old couple had untied him from the base of the streetlamp—where the guy who’d tortured him left him wearing just his underwear—and given him a ride all the way home at one in the morning. The couple had been coming back from babysitting their granddaughter in Queens when they’d spotted Casey. They’d even been nice enough to turn the heat way up in their old Impala because he was freezing. And waited around in their car until he found his spare house key under a brick in the garden beside the front door. They’d only asked him once what he was doing tied up to the streetlamp, and when he hadn’t really answered the question, they’d let it go, hadn’t asked him again. He’d gotten their names and address and was planning to send them something nice as thanks.
But first he had to get to his sister, to Kyle’s mother, Helen. Had to physically get to her so she could warn Kyle.
He couldn’t call Helen. He assumed her phone line was tapped, and he knew she didn’t have e-mail—she wouldn’t even know how to use it if she did. Besides, they’d probably be monitoring that, too. The question was how he was going to get to her. Whoever those guys were who kidnapped him the other night were out there watching, waiting for him to make a move. He could feel it. Those old constable-on-patrol instincts were kicking in.
Casey lifted one of the narrow slats of the blind hanging from his second-floor bedroom window and peered out. All the cars were on the far side of the street because the city cleaned the side his tiny house was on today. He gazed at the vehicles carefully, recognizing each one. It was a close-knit neighborhood, and everyone knew everyone else’s car.
Finally he let the slat drop, brushing the dust from his fingertips. He hated dusting, hated cleaning of any kind. His wife used to do all that—she’d kept an immaculate home for sixteen years—until she’d left him for another man. Left him for another cop, a cop from the same precinct. Which was really why he’d retired. He couldn’t bear to look at the uniform anymore. Everyone he worked with reminded him of what she’d done. It was as if she’d been with all of them.
He grimaced and shook his head, trying to rid himself of those awful memories. He had to get to Helen soon. He knew she was in terrible danger. And if they got to her, they’d get to Kyle.
15
JACK TOOK A quick belt of courage from the flask before climbing out of the Citation and heading into the store. Cheryl had finally persuaded him to go into work despite the headache splitting his skull, though she had no idea why he’d really bothered. She thought he was just doing the right thing.
It was eight-thirty; he was half an hour late. If they didn’t fire him for yesterday’s run-in with the woman, they were going to fire him for being late. It was the third time this month, and the store manager had warned him the last time that he wouldn’t get off with just a warning the next time. Next time was sayonara. So one way or the other, he was gone.
Which was fine. What Jack wanted—the real reason he’d bothered to swing his aching knees out of bed despite the migraine—was the four hundred bucks the store owed him. It was payday, and every little bit meant something at this point. Which was deeply depressing.
He kicked a flattened soda can, sent it spinning across the pavement into a car tire. It was such a bit
e in the ass to have to put every penny under a microscope. To scrimp and save just to be able to buy a ticket to a Single-A baseball game. To work menial jobs because there wasn’t much else he could do to earn a buck at this point in life. Well, he had a plan, a way to escape this desperate existence. Which was the other reason he’d bothered to get out of bed this morning.
Four years ago he’d figured he was set, hadn’t thought he needed a plan. Figured he’d retire from the Yankees with his pension and relax on his beautiful sprawling back deck during his golden years, sipping fine scotch. But the front office had yanked everything away when they fired him—including his pension. They’d cited some barely legible legal jargon buried deep in his contract. Something about actions by the individual that were in direct conflict with the welfare of the team or that caused the team harm. Something he’d never bothered to pay attention to or have a lawyer pay attention to before he signed the contract because he trusted the people he worked for so completely. And in the blink of an eye his ten-thousand-dollars-a-month-for-life-starting-at-age-sixty-five retirement payment evaporated because he didn’t have the money to fight the people in court.
Because his ex-wife, Linda, had crushed him in the divorce. She’d gotten the savings, the cars, the house, and everything in the house—except his clothes, his shaving kit, and his World Series rings. Turned out her lawyer was tight with the judge in the case, and the judge was a huge Yankee fan. When he heard what Jack was supposed to have done—how it was supposed to have blown the 2004 American League Championship Series with the Red Sox—the man in the black robe had exacted his own revenge for watching his beloved Yankees beaten by the hated archrivals. Exacted his own revenge after the Yankees were so close to being in another World Series. And Jack had paid a terrible price.
Jack had heard from some friends in the old neighborhood that Linda still owned the house, though she wasn’t spending much time there. Apparently she was dating a rich banker from the Hamptons and living it up. Spending most of her time at his oceanfront mansion—when they weren’t traveling. She hadn’t called him once since they’d walked out of court. Not once. Forty years of marriage and it hadn’t meant anything to her. Jack grabbed an empty shopping cart resting against a parked car and pushed the cart angrily ahead.
Linda had tried calling Cheryl a few times after the move to Sarasota. To try to repair the damage she’d done by making Cheryl pick a side. But as far as he knew, Cheryl had never returned the calls. Cheryl was usually the most forgiving person in the world—but not this time. Apparently Linda had even offered to help support Cheryl financially, but it hadn’t changed anything. Hadn’t even tempted her despite their nearly hand-to-mouth existence down here.
Jack shook his head ruefully as he pushed the cart across the hot asphalt, thinking about how much more attention he’d paid to David than Cheryl while the kids were growing up. Grimacing as he remembered her asking if they could have a quick catch together one evening just as he was headed out the door to go to David’s baseball game—for the third night in a row. He could still see the hurt in her eyes as she stood there in the kitchen wearing her little Yankee cap and her little glove when she realized where he was headed—again. And after all that, here she was, taking care of him. Sacrificing her own happiness so he wouldn’t be lonely. Being unfailingly loyal. And what had David ever done? Nothing. In fact, David was sitting squarely on the other side of the loyalty ledger.
Jack stalked through the store’s main entrance, rolled the cart at two long lines of stacked ones, then headed through the second set of automatic doors. It was cool in here, a welcome relief from the sweltering heat. He saw Ned Anderson, the store manager, right away. Caught the other man’s irritated look when their eyes met. It might be cool in here now, but it was going to heat up in a few seconds.
“Hey, Barrett!” Ned yelled across seven checkout aisles. He was standing by the magazine display in aisle eight, talking to the cola delivery guy. “Stay put. I’ll be right there.”
Jack watched Ned subtly accept a wad of cash. Undoubtedly this week’s payola to maintain the end-aisle display—the best shelf space in the store. Ned was young to be a store manager. Only thirty-two, but he looked forty-five. He was bald on top and had deep crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes and mouth. He walked around with an air of self-importance that helped make him seem as if he were above everyone else, too. Most of the employees hated him, but the store was one of the most profitable in Sarasota. Ned wasn’t going anywhere. Except up when he got promoted.
“Hello,” Jack called when Ned was still three aisles away. Forcing himself to be cordial.
“You’re late again, Barrett.”
“Yeah, sorry about that.” Jack caught Ned glancing up, toward the second-floor office, which overlooked the store. He looked up, too, but didn’t see anything unusual through the long window. Just the guys who ran the produce and meat departments having a conversation. “Listen, Ned, I—”
“Hold on.”
“Huh?”
“Just wait a second.”
“But all I want to do is—” Over Ned’s shoulder, Jack saw a door open. Behind it were the stairs leading up to the office. Then, like a terrifying apparition, the woman he’d gotten into it with yesterday in the parking lot loomed in the doorway. She was wearing a big, wide-brimmed red hat—and a face full of rage.
“That’s him!” she shouted shrilly from the doorway, pointing a bony, diamond-drenched finger at Jack. “That’s the man who dumped a whole bag of my groceries out on the parking lot. That’s the man who called me a bitch! A fucking bitch!”
Ned stepped in front of Jack just as the woman reached him. “Easy, ma’am, easy,” he said soothingly. “Is what she said true?” he asked, turning to Jack once he was sure the woman had stopped.
Jack looked around, aware that everything in the store had come to a halt. Cashiers weren’t cashing, baggers weren’t bagging, shoppers weren’t shopping. Everyone was staring at what was going on at the end of aisle one. “I just came in to get my check,” he said quietly. “I quit, Ned.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Did you call her a—” Ned interrupted himself. “Did you call her that?”
“I want my check.”
“Answer my question!” Ned shouted, veins rising up out of his forehead. “Now!”
“Mr. Barrett didn’t call her anything.”
Jack, Ned, and the woman all glanced to the right quickly. It was the bag boy who’d been stowing groceries across the lane from where Jack and the woman had gotten into it yesterday. The young man who’d shown Jack the ropes on his first day at the store.
“Mr. Barrett was real polite to her,” the bag boy continued. “She was the one who was rude,” he said, pointing at the woman. “Real rude.”
Ned gritted his teeth and cursed. Two seconds ago Jack had no way out. Now the old man was going to slip through the dragnet. “Don’t get involved in this, MJ,” he warned.
“I’m just telling you what happened.”
Ned rolled his eyes. “Look, I—”
“Are you going to let this man get away with speaking to me like that?” the woman demanded, eyes bulging. “Are you?”
Ned’s eyes flashed from the woman to Jack to MJ. “No, I’m not,” he finally said. He pointed at the bag boy. “You know what, MJ? You’re fired, too. You’ve been late four times this month.” Then he pointed at Jack. “If you want your check, sue the company.”
“You can’t do that,” Jack retorted angrily.
“I just did. Now both of you get the hell out of here before I call the cops.”
Biff stood up as Harry continued CPR. There wasn’t any point, he knew. The guy was dead. There would be no miraculous recovery, no back from beyond. The old guy had managed to crawl to the phone and dial 911 after the heart attack hit him, but that was it. He was probably dead a few seconds after he called for help. The 911 people said they couldn’t raise him again, said the line was busy. Hell, he hadn�
�t even had time to put the receiver back down.
So many people came to Florida to die. Maybe they didn’t think of it that way when they moved, but for all intents and purposes, that’s what they were doing. Yeah, yeah, it was just nature taking its course, but Biff was getting sick of facing it every day from the front row. Over and over.
“He’s dead, Harry.”
“I gotta keep trying,” Harry answered, puffing hard as he pressed on the old man’s chest with both palms.
Harry was a prime target for a heart attack himself. Soon, too. He was a decent enough guy, but he was stupid. He was forty pounds overweight, drank, smoked, and never exercised. He knew better than most people what could happen to him, but he still did all the bad things. Well, you couldn’t have any sympathy for someone who knew what was going to happen to him but didn’t do anything about it.
“There’s nothing you can do,” Biff called, moving toward the living room’s sliding glass doors. “Nothing.”
He unlocked the doors and moved out onto a small patio overlooking a pool four stories below. The old guy had died alone—and lonely. The super who’d let them in the condo had told them that the wife had passed away four months ago of cancer, and that the old guy hadn’t been the same since. That he didn’t have any other family members down here to keep him company. The sons and daughters were all back in Michigan or Minnesota or wherever with the grandkids, and the old guy rarely went out. Just sat around and stared at his television hour after hour, day after day.
Biff turned away from the pool. Harry was still at it in there, still trying to revive the old man. He watched the futility for a few more seconds, then glanced around the place. There were beautiful, expensive things everywhere—and probably a ton of cash in accounts all over town. The guy had spent his entire life working his ass off to get these beautiful things and all that cash, and now what good had it done him? Nada. Now he was headed back to Michigan or Minnesota in a pine box—or to a crematorium.
