by John Locke
Listen to me, “gangster friend.” We’re talking about Karen Vogel here, not Vicky Gotti.
My inner voice starts in on me. Oh really? Then what about all the coincidences? I list them: One, at the exact time I’m in the hotel room with Karen, someone is photographing my wife on the kitchen floor wearing a bra with Karen’s initials. Two, when I leave Karen’s hotel room, a gangster attacks me in the hotel garage and takes me to a park. Three, it’s not just any park, but the park where Rachel’s sister happens to be.
So of course Karen is involved. But who came first, Karen or the gangster?
It had to be Karen.
Maybe she didn’t know the gangster before I started running my mouth, but after hearing my stories, she must have started formulating a plan. A girl like Karen wouldn’t know how to do it herself, but she probably knows some shady character who has the right connections. Meaning, there could be several, possibly a bunch of people involved in the plan—which makes sense. After all, I’m floating billions of dollars for my clients, not just millions.
My inner voice is relentless. Great work, big man. You thought you seduced Karen Vogel, but she played you and you fell for it like the pathetic little worm you are! Now your sister-in-law is dead, your wife’s in danger, your marriage is down the toilet, the cops are after you—oh, and by the way, if she succeeds in getting you to steal money from your clients … well, you know what kind of men you’re dealing with. There is no solution, no outcome that’s going to get you back to the life you used to have. Face it, you’re …
I’m fucked.
Unless …
Unless …
Unless I kill her.
Right, just listen to yourself. Like you’ve got the guts to kill someone! But even if you did, you’d have to kill the gangster and Mr. Clean as well. Think you’re up for the job, big man?
I want to pull over and throw up.
That beautiful bitch set me up!
My life is totally fucked. Everything I’ve built, everything I’ve worked for has been flushed down the toilet in a month’s time. I can’t believe I put myself and the people I care about into this situation. And for what: a little trim. Son of a bitch! What the hell am I going to do?
You can start by saving Rachel, you stupid prick.
I’m close to my exit but stuck behind an eighteen-wheeler. I want to pass him, but there’s a Saab clinging to the speed limit in the left lane. I’ll have to sit tight till I reach the turn.
My focus shifts to Mary and the policeman and the joggers from the park. Why were they shot? How did the gangster know Mary would be there? Could Karen possibly be involved in the park thing? Though I’m resigning myself to the fact that she used me and may have ruined my life, I’m still having trouble believing she’s a cold, calculating killer.
But Karen almost has to be involved to some extent. Could she have formulated the extortion plan? If she did, I wonder if maybe the gangster hijacked her plan. He told me he wanted me to know he means business. Kidnapping me and stealing my car would have convinced me of that. If he’s trying to extort money from me, why not give a warning first or make some sort of demand?
Why would he kill Mary? She’s completely innocent.
My inner voice says, What if Mary was in on it? What if she changed her mind at the last minute and they killed her to keep her quiet?
My inner voice always assumes the worst. But no, Mary’s a good— was a good friend. I always suspected she liked me far more than she liked her own sister. She wouldn’t have turned on me for the money.
But my inner voice isn’t through with me. It hits me below the belt with a question that sends me reeling: What if Rachel is involved?
Chapter 8
I think about that. If Rachel found out about Karen, she’d blow a gasket. She’d demand a divorce. But all we’d be splitting is our highly mortgaged mansion and the small amount I earn legally—not enough. So Mary suggests killing me, but Rachel says killing me would do her no good, since all my income is generated by what I do personally. If I were dead, all she’d get is the small amount of money in our bank account. So they hatch a plan to extort money from me. Mary gets a gangster involved, and he kills her to keep her quiet.
If this is how it went down, Rachel wouldn’t know that Mary had been killed.
I shake off these thoughts. In my heart, I don’t believe Rachel or Mary had anything to do with today’s horrible events. I think Karen started something that quickly got out of control, and as a result, Mary’s dead and Rachel is lying on the floor in my kitchen.
I wonder what happened to Rachel. I wonder who did it and why. I speed up at the Blankenbaker exit, squealing my tires on the wide, looping ramp. I glance at my watch. I’m sure she’s not hurt. Scared, sure, that’s a given. But they didn’t hurt her. They wouldn’t hurt Rachel.
Not until they get the money.
I make the light and shift into third. The gangster bought Rachel a replacement bra. He wouldn’t have done that unless he’d expected her to be able to wear it.
Unless it’s for her burial.
I feel the stomach juices boiling in my gut. I look at my watch again. I’ll know what happened to Rachel in about … four minutes.
This is not about the affair. Follow the money. They killed Mary to show me what they’re capable of. They physically manipulated and photographed my wife to demonstrate their ability to invade my house. The “K” and “V” prove they have something on me, something that can be used to disrupt my marriage.
It’s a lot to take in, but don’t kid yourself, Sammy Boy; this is about the money. They decided a warning wouldn’t do. A demand wouldn’t have the proper impact. So they’re putting on a show of violence and threats, and the implication is obvious: play ball and we won’t tell Rachel about Karen; play ball and Rachel gets to live.
Okay, so if I’m right, if this is a warning, Rachel is probably okay. Maybe she’s been drugged, and if so, I’ll be able to untie her, destroy the bra, and get her back in bed. But yes, they are definitely serious. They’ve already killed Mary. Have I fully comprehended the enormity of that statement? They’ve killed Rachel’s sister, murdered her in cold blood, right before my eyes.
I’m two blocks away from my wife now, and my first thought is to circle the block and make sure no one is waiting for me. Then I realize how stupid this sounds because I’ve still got the only red Audi R8 in town. If they’ve put me at the scene, I’m toast, whether I circle the block or not.
I roar into my driveway, press the remote door button, and enter the garage. I press the button again to close the door behind me. No sense in making it too easy for the cops to know I’m home.
I climb the four steps to the landing, enter the code to unlock the door, and hit the hall running. My house is huge—13,000 square feet—but the kitchen is only steps away. I turn into the opening and see the large granite island in the center of the room. The island is four feet high, fourteen feet long, and six feet wide. It’s called a granite island, but only the top is granite. The base is wood, with cabinets on this side and bar stools on the other. From the angle of the photograph, I know that Rachel is lying on the other side, just past the bar stools, hidden from my current view.
I suddenly think, What if someone is crouching down, waiting there for me?
Before I go to her, I call out, “Rachel?”
I don’t expect her to answer in anything but a muffled voice, but I’m more than a little alarmed to receive no response at all.
I raise my voice and try again, but again, I’m met with an eerie silence.
I hesitate. The voice inside my head screams, It’s a trap! I think about it a moment. What should I do? I can’t save Rachel if I’m dead. The more I think about it, the more I believe this situation does have all the earmarks of a trap. But if it’s a trap, why not just jump up from behind the island and riddle my body with bullets?
Then I think, Rachel could be lying there, dying. They could have beaten her and l
eft her to die. Or maybe they tied the gag too tight and she’s choked to death.
This is Rachel, the woman I married. Why would anyone want to punish her?
This is not about Rachel. It’s about Lockdown T3. Someone wants the codes.
Whatever’s happened to Rachel, I now realize it’s my fault. I’ve brought this on her. This has to do with me and the people I deal with, my “prized” client list of drug lords; terrorists; a crazed, homicidal quadriplegic; a professional assassin …
Ours is a three-million-dollar house, not counting the furniture. When we designed it, there were certain things we both wanted, like the upstairs girl’s and boy’s rooms. Both would have lofts and deep, walk-in closets with secret rooms. This was years ago when we still dreamed about having children, back when we were having sex on a more or less regular basis. One of the things we didn’t agree on was this enormous pile of granite in the kitchen. From the initial concept drawing, I thought it a monstrosity, but I’d given Rachel my word she could design the kitchen and family room, and I stuck to it.
We’d been counting on this dream house to bring us together, and I didn’t want something as silly as a granite kitchen island to keep us apart. Here we are, two years later, and it’s standing between us again, perhaps for the last time. I dread turning the corner, terrified of what I might see.
Then I think, A sedative! That’s it! They gave her a sedative, drew the “K” and “V” on her cups while she was knocked out. A sedative could easily last three and a half hours. It makes sense, such perfect sense that
I put aside my fear and start to circle the granite island. Though I know Rachel’s okay, I have a pretty good idea what I’ll find on the other side, how she’ll look, so I take a deep breath and set my jaw.
But I’m wrong.
Oh, am I wrong!
Of all the things I expected to see on the floor on the other side of the island, this shocks me the most.
What I see is …
Chapter 9
Nothing! No Rachel.
Could she have gotten up somehow, untied herself? I run through the house, shouting her name.
Think!
I run back to the garage and notice for the first time that her car isn’t there. I call her cell phone.
No answer.
Think!
Lockdown T3. Someone’s kidnapped, Rachel. They want the codes.
I go to my desk, power up my computer, navigate to the key-code page. I pause with my hand above the mouse.
This is dangerous. Very dangerous. But I have to see if anyone has been trying to access my clients.
I click the cursor into the first space: Creed, Donovan. I type in the sixteen digits and press enter.
The house phone rings. Do I dare answer it? I have to.
“Hello?”
“Sam, what do you want? I’m about to go to lunch.”
My mind is sputtering.
It’s Rachel.
I’m so startled I can’t think of anything to say.
“Lunch, Sam. I’ve only got an hour, remember?”
“Uh, are you okay?”
She sighs. “What are you doing home? Are you sick?”
“Uh, no, I’m good. Had to pick up some work papers.”
She pauses. “Is this about last night?”
Last night? What happened last night?
“What happened last night?” I ask.
“Nothing. That’s the point. No good night, no hug, no nothing. I just figured you were all wrapped up in your little dream world. As usual.”
This is, of course, total bullshit.
Rachel has a way of transferring her thoughts and actions onto me. In fact, she’s the one who had no interest in saying good night last night. Now that I think about it, I remember she’d been pacing the floor from the time I’d gotten home to the time she went to bed. When I walked into the kitchen last night, she’d been on her cell phone, agitated. I saw her try to make a call over and over, though she never left a message. At one point, she’d been in her closet with the door closed. When I entered, I saw her sitting on the floor, eyes filled with tears, cell phone in her lap. I’d asked what was going on. She’d told me to leave her alone.
So it was Rachel who was responsible for last night, not me. But none of this matters now. She’s okay. Rachel’s …
“I’m sorry,” I say. “About last night. Look, I’m—” I thought about the time stamp on the photograph: 8:46 am. “What time did you get to work today?”
She pauses. “Sam, what’s going on?”
I can’t think of any reason to give for asking the question. So I say nothing. Finally, she answers. “I got here the same time I always do, eight thirty.”
I recover slightly. “I’m … I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
I start to answer, but when I think about the conversation from her point of view, I sound like an idiot. Instead, I just say, “I love you. Have a good lunch.”
We hang up. If she’s confused about the call, I’m dumbfounded. I take a minute to look closely at the floor. There are no holes in the wood. There have to be holes, right? From where they screwed in the eyebolts when they tied Rachel down? I wonder if maybe I had the angle all wrong. Maybe the picture was taken on the front side of the island. I check it and the entire surrounding area.
No holes.
I go to the car, retrieve the photograph, bring it back inside, and check it carefully. I get on my hands and knees and brush the floor with the heel of my hand, thinking maybe they’d filled the holes with some type of epoxy that appears invisible when dry. But I find nothing. I briefly wonder if Rachel found out about Karen Vogel and decided to stage the whole thing. If so, who bound her and took the photo?
No, that whole line of thought is crazy. Rachel wouldn’t know how to put all this together, and anyway, Rachel isn’t the type. If she knew about Karen, she’d be in my face about it.
But if Rachel had nothing to do with it, what the hell’s going on?
It finally hits me: they used a body double.
Then, by extension, I think, Could they have used a body double for Mary? And if so, why?
I think about calling Mary and quickly discard the idea. If she answers, what reason could I give for calling? And if she’s dead, why would I want my number among her recent calls in the phone records? I decide to work with what I have: a photograph of a body double, wearing a white bra, with the letters “K” and “V” on the cups.
I go back to my idea that the “K” and “V” are a warning to me. If that’s the case, maybe the bra is hidden somewhere in the house, possibly in the laundry basket or among Rachel’s things. I can’t take the chance that Rachel will come home, find the bra, and confront me with the initials.
I rush to her closet and check through her drawers but come up empty. I look in her laundry basket. Nothing. I run back down the hall to the laundry room.
Then I hear the front doorbell ring.
Chapter 10
I peer out the laundry room window and freeze. Two guys in suits are standing at the front door. I look behind them, to the driveway, and spot a black sedan, one that looks very much like the standard detective cars you see on TV. They ring the bell again and wait twenty seconds. Then, they knock on the door, loudly. I see one of them sweep the windows with his eyes. Before he can see me, I drop to the floor and make my way to the little cubby where we keep the large laundry bag, the one that has different sections for sorting colors and fabrics.
The bag is on a metal frame and has wheels. I roll it out of the cubby and work my way behind it. I reach into the laundry bag and pull out an armful of dirty clothes and cover myself as best I can. If the detectives are honest, I’m safe. If not, if they break in and search the place, I’m caught. A couple minutes pass. More ringing, more knocking, and suddenly, a knock from the back door, ten feet from my hiding place, scares the shit out of me.
“Mr. Case?” a man’s voice says
.
“Sam?” It comes at me again. “We need to speak with you. We need to talk about what happened at Seneca Park.”
That said, he circles to the back of the house, where he has to open a gate and climb the patio steps if he wants to knock on the back door. He does. It strikes me that if Rachel had been lying behind the island, he’d be able to see her clearly from the patio door. I hear yet another burst from the doorbell, which tells me the first guy is still on the front porch. They spend five minutes trying to find someone home, and then everything goes silent.
Probably going to get a search warrant.
I carefully climb out from under the pile of laundry, and as I do, my arm gets hooked up in the strap from a white bra with the letters “K” and “V” written on the cups in heavy black marker ink. I hang onto it while peering through the window, checking to see if the detective guys have left. They haven’t. They’re at the end of the driveway in their car. They’re probably going to wait there and keep an eye on the place until the cops get here with the warrant. Fortunately for me, I’ve got two driveways. I might be able to outrun them if I work it right. I stay low in the house, avoid the front windows and door, and quietly gather some things, including my cash stash and a 9mm Glock.
I’m ready to attempt a getaway. I check my watch. 12:20 pm. I look out the laundry room window. The car has gone. Maybe they’re hiding further down the road.
There are two ways out of my neighborhood, I just have to pick the right one. I sneak out the door into the garage and open my car door as quietly as possible. I enter, hold my breath, and press the button. The garage door ambles upward noisily, and I have no idea what might be waiting for me on the other side. Finding nothing, I charge down the driveway. I lay it all on the line and take the short route out of the neighborhood, figuring if I can get around them, it’s a quicker shot to the freeway, where I can probably lose them, if not their radio.
Miraculously, it appears that no one is waiting for me.
So far, so good.
