by TJ Nichols
Maybe that was too harsh, but if his mother or father cared, they would’ve given up the fancy holiday home in France and donated the money to build homes for the poor. If he’d played the game right, he could’ve done that. He could’ve shown his parents how it was done.
Had Connor? He had started to realize how little he knew his brother. He should’ve made time to come back and see Connor. Or Connor could’ve called him to say that something was wrong. Had he tried with their birthday, only to have Cody brush him off? Cody wished he’d swallowed his pride and come for a visit.
A woman in ripped jeans and a gray wrap cardigan walked in. Her hair was in a messy ponytail, and it took him a moment to realize it was Lily. Gone was the glamour and makeup. She walked over and sat opposite him. Something crossed her face, and he knew it was because he looked too much like Connor. He didn’t apologize, even though the words had formed on his tongue.
“Thank you for meeting me.” She gave him a narrow smile.
“Interesting place.”
She inclined her head. “I didn’t want to be seen with you.” Her eyes widened. “Not like that. If your father knew we were meeting, he’d want to know why.”
“We can’t meet and talk and reminisce about Connor?” That would be what any other family would assume.
“Your father… he worries what people are saying about him.”
His father never used to worry about things like that. He hated gossip and always put his business before everything, including family. “Why would he care? Why would he think we would talk about him?” Even though they were.
“Because of Connor.”
“What do you mean?” He didn’t want to play games. Either she told him what was going on or he’d leave. Connor wasn’t paranoid, and his father didn’t care about gossip. What had happened to his family after he left for Vegas?
She drew in a breath. “There was more than one argument between Connor and your father. I was in the house for one. Connor was accusing your father of being corrupt and that what he was doing was wrong.”
Half of what his father did was morally wrong. Cody shrugged. “So, Dad was always pushing the edge of legal. Connor would’ve known that for years.”
“He was using someone to threaten people who wouldn’t take the payout and move off the site he wanted to develop. Connor told me that much. He wouldn’t go into details, and he wouldn’t go to the cops.” She pulled a large yellow envelope out of her equally large beige handbag, which probably cost as much as his mortgage… for half a year. “I’ll get you a coffee while you have a look.” She paused. “How do you have it?”
“Black.”
“Connor had soy and sweetener.” Her expression clouded.
“It’s the dairy.” It was so much easier to just not have it in his coffee. “Real sugar.” He wasn’t going to have pretend sugar or pretend milk.
She looked at him again. He didn’t like it. He wasn’t his brother, no matter how much they looked alike. She blinked. “I’m sorry. I know I keep doing it, but when I glance away, from the corner of my eye, I keep thinking….” Lily closed her eyes and drew in a breath. “He wasn’t the man I married, and yet I want him back.”
“I think that’s normal. If he were here, you’d be able to get some answers.” And so would he, but he wouldn’t be sitting there if Connor were alive.
“I think it was looking for answers that got Connor killed. I don’t know what he was involved in, only that he didn’t want to be, and I’m too scared to ask your father. He’s involved.”
Cody winced. Her voice had taken on an edge like a razor. Beneath her grief there was anger, and he didn’t blame her at all. But her anger shouldn’t be aimed at his father. “Dad didn’t kill Connor. It was an overdose.” He couldn’t believe he was defending his father. His father was a piece of work. But murder? No. “Do you know when Connor started using?”
“No. I suspected that he was for a while. He’d get a nosebleed or just be… different.” She glanced down at her manicured white-and-gold nails. One was chipped. “I went through his pockets one time, looking for something. That was about six months ago. He caught me, and we argued. He thought I was worried about the money he was blowing. It wasn’t…”—she shook her head—“it wasn’t an overdose. He wasn’t an idiot.”
“There’s no quality control with street drugs.” Didn’t every addict think they were in control?
“No, there’s not. But I got a call about the tox screen, and the man mentioned that the cocaine was pure. Dealers don’t give addicts pure cocaine. They’re too greedy for that.”
Cody stared at her.
“Don’t you see? Someone killed him. It was a setup.”
“Then the cops should be out there looking for the killer, and they aren’t.” There was nothing suspicious. He was starting to regret meeting with her. It was clear she wasn’t dealing with Connor’s death very well.
“It was covered up.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
“I don’t know. But I want to know who killed him, and I want them to suffer.” She got up and walked over to the counter before he could work out what to say. His brother’s perfect life was a masquerade. Had Lily been like this before Connor’s death? Had she read too much into the arguments? Or worse, had she imagined them? He watched his sister-in-law order the coffees. He’d drink his coffee and leave. Then he’d call his mother and let her know that Lily wasn’t coping.
He didn’t want to be sucked into family dramas that weren’t of his making.
But if Connor and his father had argued, that gave his father motive. What had they fought about?
His gaze landed on the envelope that Connor had never sent.
“One phone call, Connor,” he murmured as he slid it toward himself. He would have come back to help Connor if he knew he was in trouble. If he wanted to get clean. Anything. A lump formed in Cody’s throat.
He ran his finger under the flap to break the seal. Then he stared at it without opening it. Was it his brother’s cry for help? Or had Connor been killed the way Lily believed, and the envelope was important? He glanced at Lily. He wanted to believe that she was looking for monsters in every shadow, but he had to admit that nothing seemed right.
People changed, and he hadn’t been close to Connor in years.
Maybe he was tired of sucking up to Dad and he wanted to do his own thing. It was clear he disagreed with some of Dad’s business tactics… which seemed to be more underhanded than Cody had ever realized.
If he looked, he would end up involved.
Was he already involved?
No. He could give it back to her and walk away. He walked away fifteen years before and managed to have limited contact with his family. It had worked out very well. For him. If he hadn’t walked away, would Connor have confided in him? Would they have taken action together, the way they once had? But this wasn’t a school bully or a trick to play on the many people who got them confused.
Lily came back with a table number. She glanced at the envelope as she sat, but she didn’t say anything.
That meant it was up to him to open it. “I’m not sure I should be getting involved in family business.” His name wasn’t on the envelope. Maybe it wasn’t for him. Maybe she just thought it was for him.
“I don’t know what’s in there.”
“Are you sure it’s for me?” It could be confidential client info.
Lily nodded. “I asked if he wanted me to mail it. He said no, it wasn’t complete. I don’t think he was ready to send it to you. He knew you wouldn’t want it, but he wanted you to have it.”
To ease his conscience probably. Connor could be like that. He would tell his secret just so someone else could share the burden. Whatever was in there had made him seek escape in drugs. Cody didn’t need that kind of news in his life. “If you’re right, he was killed for something he knew.”
Right then he hoped she was wrong. But what if she was right?
“We don’t know why he was killed. Maybe he crossed the wrong person. Maybe he disobeyed your father one too many times.”
The words formed on his tongue, ready to defend his father, but he didn’t speak them. If his father had arranged for Connor to be killed, it made sense that the toxicology report would also vanish and it would be written off as a simple overdose.
Had Connor realized he was dying, or had he gone out on a wave of bliss?
“If he was asking for help, then I’m too late already.” He was running out of excuses not to look.
The waitress put down two cups of coffee and two plates of cake. “Two vegan peanut butter cheesecakes, a latte, and a black coffee.”
“Thank you,” Lily said.
He had no idea what went into a vegan cheesecake, but it looked good. It wasn’t what one would call a healthy breakfast either. If he was on vacation, it didn’t matter, right? He smiled. “You didn’t have to get cake.”
She’d even gotten dairy-free cake. She was probably used to doing that for Connor.
“I wanted cake, and I didn’t want to eat alone.” She took a sip of her coffee and picked up her fork. “If you aren’t going to read what’s in there, I will. I want to know what he was so worried about.”
“Maybe it would be best to leave it alone.” Let the past go. Nothing would bring Connor back. His heart hiccupped at the idea that was starting to become real.
She stabbed the cake, but didn’t eat any. “I’m pregnant.”
He almost choked on his coffee. “What?”
“He knew. No one else does, and I swear, if you tell anyone….” She pointed the fork at him, and he got the message—he’d end up like the cake.
“Who am I going to tell? I don’t speak to my family.”
“Maybe that’s why he was sending this to you.” She nudged the envelope toward him. “I need to know, because like it or not, I’m tied to your family. But I don’t know if I can trust them.”
“Why are you trusting me?” She didn’t know him.
“Because Connor did.”
“Fine.” He would regret this. He was sure of it. Thanks, Connor.
BENITEZ SAT in his office. It was a lovely office. Expansive views of the river gave it a light and airy feel. The man behind the desk didn’t look like he ran a major crime organization. He looked like a successful businessman who dabbled in nightclubs, owned a few properties, and had expensive art on the walls.
Olivier assumed it was expensive art. Buying the painting would be a way of making sure any money that come from shakedowns or drugs came out clean. Every so often the paintings would change and be sold on.
He’d been in there enough times to see the painting change four times. Right then it was landscapes. Last time it had been a portrait done in a style so messy it was hard to tell who the subject was. Olivier preferred the landscapes. They gave him a glimpse of places he’d never been and would probably never go. One was of an endless desert. After living his entire life in New York, the idea of somewhere without buildings or people was both terrifying and liberating.
One day.
The only painting that didn’t change was the picture of Mary and baby Jesus. It was a beautiful picture, but Olivier couldn’t bear to meet Mary’s sad eyes. She knew what he did, that his hands were bloody when he walked into church. He couldn’t go to confession and believe that made it all okay, the way Benitez did. When he stole a glance at the picture, it was never at her face. His mother had owned a painting like it. Well, it was less painting and more of a print of a painting. It was one of her prized possessions. Now it hung on his father’s wall in Florida.
Benitez finished whatever he was typing with two fingers. Olivier could have done it for him in a quarter of the time. Instead he stood and gritted his teeth like a lumpy, malformed statue that didn’t belong in such a pretty office.
“How is your sister?” Benitez leaned back in his seat.
“She’s well.” His boss didn’t care how his sister was. He was just letting Olivier know that he knew where he’d been. He wasn’t there to talk about Marie.
“Good.” He nodded. “I need you to collect a payment for me.”
Olivier didn’t collect money. Someone else did that. If he was going, someone was late and he was supposed to give a warning. “And if he doesn’t have the money?”
“He will. I’ve given him a chance to grieve and waited patiently, but he owes me, and he’s late. He’ll be here at four this afternoon. In the members’ bar.” Benitez slid a business card over the table. “Just tell them you’re meeting Mr. Anders, and they’ll let you in.”
Olivier’s heart stopped for a second. He’d long ago learned to school his expression. Anders. Some relative of Connor Anders. That wasn’t going to be awkward at all.
Was Benitez setting him up? Letting him take the fall for that job? Unlikely. Benitez preferred his hit men to die. That way they couldn’t talk. He waited for Benitez to ask if there’d been anything unusual about Connor’s death. He wanted to ask if Benitez was watching Connor’s wife. Should he honor the dead man’s last request?
No. Not unless he wanted to join him.
“Jacob will drive you there. It’s not the kind of golf club one shows up to in a cab or whatever you are driving these days.” Benitez gave a dismissive flick of his fingers as though he found the idea of not having a car distasteful. He knew exactly what Olivier drove and probably how many miles were on it.
Olivier didn’t have a car at the moment. There was no real point. If Benitez wanted him to get somewhere, there was a car provided or he caught a cab. The motorcycle he kept in his allocated space at his apartment was so he could get away for a few hours and pretend he was free to do whatever he liked. It was tempting to just keep riding, but if he vanished, Marie would pay the price.
So he stayed.
Olivier turned the business card over. On the back was an account number and a five-figure amount. That was a hefty bill. What kind of service was Benitez providing?
He didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know.
THE CAR ride was smooth and quiet, and he didn’t talk to Jacob, although they could’ve swapped stories about how they came to work for Benitez. There had been a time when Olivier had wanted to know as much as he could. He quickly learned that everyone owed Benitez. His brand of help came with ropes of steel, not strings.
Olivier had made a deal with the devil. His mother got an extra two years of life, and his father retired debt free. That had to be worth it. Wasn’t it?
If he could go back, he’d shake his scrawny teenaged self and tell him that there were worse things than death. That death was a blessing at the end of suffering, and if he went down that path, he would cause the suffering. He was a bullet that ricocheted through a body, pinged off bones, tore apart organs, and then moved on to the next person and the next. Everyone he touched got torn apart.
The car went through a set of fancy gates and pulled up at a cream-colored building. Olivier could smell the money before he opened the car door. He wanted to throw up. He’d never met a relative of anyone he’d killed. Not knowingly, anyway. Was it a little test?
Benitez had picked him for a reason.
But trying to work out why wouldn’t get the job done. If he was walking into a trap and about to die, at least he’d die somewhere pretty—better than a back alley somewhere, with a knife to the kidney so it looked like a mugging gone bad.
He walked up to the door like he belonged there, but he was sure the doorman knew that was bullshit. One look at his suit and shoes would tell him that Olivier couldn’t afford to even park his car on the other side of the gates.
Olivier was shown to Mr. Anders’s table. The man was old, overweight, and looked pasty and unwell. The father of Connor. When Olivier researched a mark, he learned what he could about them and spent a week or so following them. The better he knew them, the more he could make their death look natural or at least like an accident.
Should he off
er commiserations? Probably best to plead ignorance of the issue, though it had been in the papers for several days. Things like that made the papers. Rich people’s deaths meant something, as though the more money you had the more worthy you were.
That was a piece of crap lie that everyone bought into.
He’d wanted to be rich once. Once he had money, he didn’t know what to spend it on. He set up an education fund for his niece and bought his father the condo, but he’d gladly give up the paycheck to have a normal life. He’d be happy being a janitor like his father.
Olivier sat.
The old man might be ill, but his eyes were sharp as razors. There was nothing kind in there at all. “The mourning period is officially over, then.”
Olivier gave Anders an equally cool stare. It was clear he wasn’t still grieving for his son—which was interesting and disturbing. “It appears so.” He pulled the business card out of his jacket. “You have a bill to pay.”
“He told me it would be collected in person.” Mr. Anders gave Olivier an even cooler glance, as though Olivier were something he should’ve scraped off his shoe before he entered such an expensive venue. “Was it you who made the very personal warning with my son?”
Olivier raised an eyebrow, as though he had no idea what Anders was talking about. “I’m just here to ensure the bill is paid.”
“Don’t ask questions? Smart man. Smart enough to think about ways to get out?” He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and studied the business card as he transferred the funds.
There was no “out.” Had Anders tried to end his dealings with Benitez? Or was that some kind of veiled job offer? Anders didn’t look at all concerned that he’d lost a son. He seemed more annoyed that Benitez had beaten him in this round. Any man who could be that cold was not someone he wanted to have as an enemy. Or a friend.
