by Chris Culver
“Jane. Call me Jane.”
“Okay, Jane,” he said, nodding. “The floor’s yours.”
So Carla told him a story. Like all good stories, it contained half-truths amidst a few outright lies. She told him about a powerless woman whose ex-husband had forced himself on her, who had beat her so badly she miscarried twice, who had held a gun to her head and threatened to kill her if she left him. She claimed she had come to Indianapolis to start a new life for herself. In truth, Carla had been pregnant twice, and Tino had beaten the child out of her twice. Tino had forced himself on her more times than she could count, and he had held guns to her head, threatening to kill her if she ever told the police what she knew of him. Unlike Jane Rodriguez, though, Carla had never been powerless. She acted with deadly purpose, always and ever.
“I’m very sorry for what’s happened,” said Dante, once she finished. “But it sounds like this story has a happy ending. You’re free.”
Carla shook her head. “No, I’m not. He knows where I am, and I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.”
“It sounds like you should get a dog, the bigger the better.”
“I’ve thought about that,” she said, seriously. “But what if it’s not enough? What if he tries to hurt me?”
Dante considered her for a moment, but then pushed himself back from the table. “I’m not sure that I’m the best person to help you. If you feel you’re in danger, you should call the police.”
“I already did. They told me to get a dog, too.”
He held up his hands and smiled. “See? You didn’t even have to pay for that advice.”
“My husband’s in Indianapolis. If he finds me, he’s going to kill me.”
The smile left Dante’s face. “Did you tell the police that?”
She nodded. “Yes. They told me to contact a lawyer to help me file a restraining order.” She swallowed. “Do you have any family? A sister maybe? A wife?”
He nodded. “I’ve got family.”
“What advice would you give them in my situation?”
Carla didn’t think he would answer, but then his eyes flashed blacker than night itself. Before he spoke, Carla knew how he would die.
“I’d help her apply for a restraining order, and I’d tell her to go to the police if he threatened her.”
No, you wouldn’t. You’d kill him.
She wanted to say it aloud and to tell him any good sister or brother would do the same. Jane Rodriguez would never say that, though, so Carla simply looked at her hands, becoming meek and humble once more.
“You’re probably right. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”
“You didn’t waste my time. If you’d like, we’ll go back to my office and start the paperwork. No charge.”
She said she’d have to think about it. As she left, he warned her to think quickly, but she pretended not to hear.
Much had happened in the weeks since that meeting, but Dante had rarely been far from her mind. He played a pivotal role in her plans. Detective Ash Rashid, one of her targets, had somehow befriended a very powerful drug dealer named Konstantin Bukoholov. Though Carla had never met Bukoholov, she had heard the same stories everyone in her business had. That Bukoholov was a former intelligence officer in the Soviet military, that he didn’t like competition, that he’d murder not just his rivals but their entire families for multiple generations. Even at the height of his power, her husband had feared him—and with good reason from all Carla had seen. Perhaps one day she and Bukoholov would come to some arrangement, but for now, she couldn’t risk provoking him.
Luckily, she didn’t have to. Dante would eliminate Rashid for her.
Jacob turned their car onto University Avenue, just two blocks from Michelle’s house. Dante lived in a two-story house with office space on the first floor and an apartment on the second. If their plan failed, Carla would have to kill Dante herself, and she’d have to do it in a way that topped Michelle’s death. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to it, but she had a few ideas. They had cut off Michelle’s hand, then slit her throat, but Dante she’d fillet alive. Drug him so he couldn’t move and then cleave the muscles and flesh from his bones. Free of his skin, he’d die quickly and in agony, but she could arrange it for him to survive long enough for the first responders to hear him scream.
Because they needed the spectacle, that message in blood.
Of course, none of that mattered if things went according to plan. Dante would kill himself, hopefully taking Detective Rashid with him, saving Carla the trouble.
He lived on a peaceful, quiet street. Jacob braked in front of the house. Some of the homes nearby still needed work, but most of them had resplendent, mature gardens and all the trappings of their historic architecture. Dante owned a two-story Tudor-style home with a brick facade. Evergreen shrubs flanked his front door, while tall phallic-shaped hedges anchored the corners of the building. A wooden sign with the words LAW OFFICE carved into its face pointed to a side door.
Before she could open her door, Jacob looked at her.
“You sure about this?”
“Reasonably,” she said, reaching into her purse to ensure she still had her firearm beneath the eyeliner, tissues, and various other accouterments she carried with her. “If I don’t think he’ll go for the bait, I’ll improvise.”
“And I’m just supposed to walk away and leave you here to do this alone?”
“Yes,” she said, glancing over at him. “I can handle Mr. Washington. He sent your father to prison. He deserves to die. If we don’t kill him, you’ll look weak.”
He fidgeted and removed his hands from the wheel. “I don’t like killing people.”
She looked in his direction and waited to speak until he looked her in the eye. “Sometimes we have to make sacrifices for the greater good. That’s part of what it means to be a member of a family. We are family, aren’t we?”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice uncertain. “I mean, I guess we are.”
Good enough. “And Barrio Sureño, your father’s family. What about them?”
“They’re my family, too,” he said, his voice growing stronger, more certain that he had said what she wanted to hear.
“Then treat them like it. Our family has been without its leader for ten years now. We’ve both seen what’s happened, the infighting, the backstabbing. It’s time for that to end. It’s time for you to stand up and take what’s yours.”
“And you really think this will help?”
She shook her head as if she were growing annoyed. “Your father will be dead within a week. Are you willing to let the police take his legacy as well? To watch our family tear itself apart? We need a strong leader. We need you to take what’s rightfully yours and save our family from itself.”
The way she said it, she might have even believed herself. She had her own agenda, though. Jacob played a role, certainly, but she could work around him as well if she needed to get rid of him.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said. “This is all new for me.”
“I know it is,” she said, softening her voice. “That’s why you’ve got friends to help you.”
He slowly opened his door and started to step out, but Carla put a hand on his arm to stop him. He looked at her and raised his eyebrows.
“You’re going to Jockamo’s, right?” she asked.
He nodded. It was a pizza place on Washington Street, one of Carla’s favorite restaurants in the city.
“Make sure you tell the waitress that you’ll have a to-go order in addition to whatever you order. I hate to just show up and ask for another pizza on the way out the door.”
“Fine,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He handed her the keys. “Anything else?”
“Try to relax,” she said. “Put your feet up when you get there and watch a game or something. I’m sure they’ve got TVs. Work doesn’t have to be dreary. I’ll call you once I leave here.”
He didn’t respond and instead just got up and left.
She must have said something wrong. She didn’t have a lot of experience dealing with teenagers, so Jacob’s moodiness surprised her. She’d try to remember that about him.
As he walked away, she stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk. It was late evening but not quite night yet. Most of the families nearby would be sitting down to eat, not a care in the world. Years ago, when she was still a young girl, she had wished her family would sit down together and eat like that. Television made it seem that a family meeting in the living room could simultaneously cure her mother’s depression, her father’s alcoholism and drug abuse, and her utter confusion about the volatile emotions of her friends. Now, of course, she knew better.
She walked toward Dante’s house, a somber expression on her face in case one of the neighbors saw her. The local newscast had reported Michelle’s death, which meant the police had already notified the family. How long Dante would take visiting his parents, Carla didn’t know. Ten minutes? An hour? How long do you stay after finding out someone has murdered your sister? It was the sort of question a sociologist should study.
Dante’s house didn’t have a welcoming front porch like the craftsman homes around it, but he did have a nice, shaded patio with a padded wooden love seat, an espresso-colored coffee table, and a battered, paint-stained glider that had probably come from someone’s garage or attic. She sat on the love seat and picked her feet up off the ground, kicking the air nonchalantly while she waited. She had considered stopping by the library on her way to the house for a book, but ultimately decided that sent the wrong message. She needed to appear concerned, thoughtful, and unexpectedly there. A book would say she had planned the night’s events.
Since Dante might be a while, she took out her cell phone and began reading a novel someone had recommended to her. Eventually, she became so engrossed in the book that she almost didn’t hear Dante’s car. He must have seen her, though, because he parked in the driveway, got out, and began walking slowly toward her. By that time, night had overcome evening, throwing darkness on the area like a death shroud.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but this isn’t a good time,” he said. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Mr. Washington?” she asked, imbuing her voice with a false tremble. “It’s Jane Rodriguez. We met a couple of weeks ago.”
He sighed. “I didn’t recognize you. If you need legal assistance, I’ll give you the name of a friend of mine, but I’m not working tonight.”
“I’m not here for that,” she said, standing and wringing her hands together as if she were nervous. “I know about Michelle.”
He looked as if she had just hit him. He held up a hand and shook his head. “This is inappropriate…”
“Just wait,” she said, taking a step forward and furrowing her brow in what she hoped was a concerned manner. She had seen someone do something similar once in a movie. “Hear me out. I’m dating a man. He’s a police officer.”
“And he told you about my sister, and you thought you’d come over here and share your condolences. Well, you’ve done that, please be on your way.”
Carla shook her head but stopped walking forward. “Do you know Detective Ash Rashid?”
Of course he did, Carla knew that before she went over. Dante knew the man very well, and that gave her the opening she needed. She and Dante didn’t talk for long, but they didn’t need to. She sent him a voice mail containing some of his sister’s last words and told him a very special story she had written just for him to help him understand his sister’s death. By the time she left, Dante had rage in his eyes to rival anyone she had ever seen. She probably should have been scared, but it excited her. She had found Dante’s magic button. That meant the game had begun and the bodies would start dropping in earnest soon.
Carla almost felt like skipping, but she forced herself to maintain a steady pace down the front walkway. Once she reached the car and pulled away from the curb, she called Jacob, who was still at the pizza place.
“Hey. I’m on my way. How about ordering me something with goat cheese?”
Chapter 6
The clock had just struck eight when I reached my house, and I found my wife in the front room, the newest Lee Child novel propped on her chest and a blanket covering her legs. The kids hadn’t greeted me, so she must have taken them to her sister’s house. I walked into the living room from the hallway, sat on the other end of the couch, and put my hand on Hannah’s feet. She wore a pink terrycloth bathrobe and loose-fitting pajamas. Some of the tension left my chest as soon as I saw her.
“Are you in for the night?” she asked, laying the book on her lap.
I nodded. “Yeah. Were you actually able to get any reading done?”
“A little. I figured I could still have a quiet night at home, so I dropped the kids off at Yasmine and Jack’s house.”
I held an arm toward her, and she took the hint, scooting toward me to rest her head against my shoulder. She put her hand in mine and squeezed tight, like she had found something great and didn’t want to let go. Not for the first time in the last few months, I wondered what she saw that I didn’t.
“Thank you,” I said, pulling her against my side and inhaling the scent of her perfume. “It’s been a long night. I needed a hug.”
“What’s the news on Michelle?”
I relaxed my arms and then shook my head. “Paul Murphy is working the case, but somebody hurt her pretty bad. I don’t want to think about it.”
“You want to talk about anything?”
“I just want to sit down for a little while.”
She hesitated, but only for a moment. “You want me to get you something?”
She didn’t need to say what she meant by something. For the past few months I’ve been seeing a psychiatrist, although realistically, I should have started seeing him a long time ago. Over the years as a homicide detective and then in various other positions in the department, I’ve seen sides of humanity I wish I didn’t know existed. I understand a battered spouse who shoots her abusive husband—I don’t condone it, of course, but I understand.
Other crimes, though, make me think people must have a black stain where their souls should be. My doctor had prescribed me antidepressants and had given me some anti-anxiety drugs for those times when things got especially difficult. I was still waiting for them to start working.
“No, thank you.”
“The pills are helping though, aren’t they?”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding and turning my head so I wouldn’t have to look her in the eye and lie. “I’m better every day.”
She rested her head on my chest again and patted me on the arm. “Even if they’re not helping much yet, I know they will. Things will get better.”
I gently hugged her and closed my eyes. Hannah and I had been through a lot in our marriage, and for as long as I’ve known her, she’s been my biggest champion, my support when everything else in the world around me fell apart. I wished I could share her optimism.
“I hope so.”
“Whatever happens,” said Hannah, looking in my eyes, “things will work out. They always do.”
She hoped to keep talking, but I didn’t know what to say.
“What do you say we sit back and watch a movie? Something I don’t have to think about.”
She didn’t even hesitate. “I think I’ve got something that will fit the bill.”
I kissed her, and she stood and almost ran to the kitchen, where she had a makeshift work station. I didn’t know which movie she’d get, but I knew it’d be bad. Probably really bad. Hannah had a blog on which she reviewed bad movies, so she was something of a connoisseur of terrible movies. We watched one together once or twice a week, my schedule permitting. I’d probably have protested, but she sold ads on her blog and made enough money that we might be able to take a real vacation this year, something we hadn’t been able to do for quite a while. Hard to complain about that.
When she came back, she put in an action mo
vie called Samurai Cop and curled up against my chest. It was among the better bad movies she’s put on, which meant we laughed most of the way through. For almost two hours, I didn’t think about Michelle or liquor, and it was only after the movie went off that I realized how badly I had needed that.
At a quarter after ten, with the credits playing, Hannah looked up at me and smiled.
“You know, the kids are still gone.”
“I guess they are,” I said, arching my eyebrows. “You have any ideas about how we can take advantage of this situation?”
She winked and walked her fingers up my chest and then to my chin. “I can think of something.”
I wanted to tell her that I’d meet her in the bedroom, but before I could, my cell phone buzzed from the end table. I considered ignoring it, but it might have been Paul Murphy or someone else from my department.
“Can you give me a minute?” I asked, leaning to grab my phone.
“Sure,” said Hannah, standing. “I’ll get ready. Come in when you can.”
She started walking to our bedroom, and I looked at my phone. The call came from a reporter I vaguely knew who worked for the Indianapolis Star, our local paper. As I hit the button declining his call, the phone in the kitchen rang. And then Hannah’s cell phone rang from our bedroom. I groaned, having a pretty good idea of what had happened.
“What’s going on?” asked Hannah.
I looked at my phone to confirm the time. Seven minutes after ten.
“I think someone leaked my name to the press, and the evening news just reported it. Give me a few more minutes. I’ll unplug the phone and turn off our cells.”
“That sounds like a good idea.”
As I walked to the kitchen, I got two more phone calls on my cell phone, both of which I declined. The first came from Sergeant David Lee, a friend of mine who worked narcotics, and the second came from Randy, the lawyer who had represented me at my disciplinary hearing. I probably should have taken the call from Randy, but I had already talked to enough people that evening. If he really needed me, he’d call me the next morning. And if the department really wanted me, they’d send a squad car. I turned my cell off, unplugged the landline, and then met my wife in our bedroom.
