As a love philosopher, even Donovan had questioned the exact lengths he would go to in order to recapture that love, to get his daughter back. He’d tried, done some unthinkable things, told Amelia some unthinkable lies.
“Donovan? Hey, Donovan, are you okay?”
Blinking hard, Donovan dispelled the fog that had crowded in during his momentary lapse. He noticed the worry on Brenda’s face. He saw, as well, that Paul had returned. He had a cash counter in one hand and a fabric bag with the Second City logo in the other.
“You’ll want to count this, Mr. Glass,” Paul said before turning to Brenda. “You got this?”
“Yes.”
Paul left, closing the door.
“Are you all right, Donovan?” Brenda plugged the money counter into a socket underneath her desk. “You sort of blanked out there.”
“Let’s count the money,” he said. Everything else was in the past.
Within five minutes, he left the Second City branch. He was carrying just one bag, the one with the Apple logo on it, but it was a little heavier than when he’d entered the branch. Stuffed between the MacBook box and the iPhone box were several bundles of cash that amounted to $10,000, including the extra thousand he’d withdrawn from the ATM. In dollars.
CHAPTER 14
When Donovan stepped out of the garage with the Apple bag in his hands and started across his backyard toward the house, he’d been whistling. But he stopped abruptly, surprised by what he saw. For starters, Special Agent Mike Klein was sitting on the deck stairs, waiting for him, a cigarette pressed between his lips and his suit jacket unbuttoned. It was a little weird to find him sitting there. Most people would wait out front; the porch at the front of the house had a couple of cobweb-infested Adirondack chairs on it, both of which were more comfortable than the fading wooden steps to the deck.
“You look surprised to see me,” Klein said, standing and swatting at his thighs as if he’d been sitting on beach sand.
“I’d be surprised if I saw anyone in my backyard.”
“Even if they were just in the neighborhood?” Klein gave a knowing smirk.
“Yes. Even then.” Donovan tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry.
Klein gave him an upward nod as he rubbed his lower back. “What was that tune you were whistling when you stepped out of your garage, Donny?”
He hadn’t been paying attention to what he’d been whistling, his mind too busy replaying his experience with Brenda at the branch. Glancing down at the bag, he could see inside it, could make out the cash among the Apple packaging. “It must’ve been ‘You Are My Sunshine.’”
Stopping in front of him, Klein extended his right arm. The two men shook hands like old friends, and Klein’s lips curled into a pleasant smile, the cigarette little more than a stub dangling from his mouth. He looked a couple of decades older than when Donovan had last seen him six years ago. Given what he’d seen over the years, along with the smoking, Klein hadn’t aged well. Occupational hazard or whatever.
Frowning as he scrutinized him, Klein asked if it was the Johnny Cash version. “Or was it the version Elizabeth preferred?” He finished his cigarette and flicked it over the fence onto the back lane.
Already, Donovan didn’t like where this was headed. Shaking his head at the federal agent, he stepped around him and climbed the stairs to the back deck. There was a patio set, rusting from the elements, and a torn-up sun umbrella that Donovan hadn’t stored inside the garage for the past six years. He never spent time out back anyway—that had been Amelia’s thing.
Klein wasn’t chasing him up the stairs to the back door into the house, which Donovan found surprising. The agent had come for a reason—that much was obvious. As he slid his house key into the lock, Donovan wondered what it could be.
“Heard you made a pretty big cash withdrawal at your bank today.” There it was, the purpose of Klein’s visit. “You want to talk about that?”
Pushing the door open, he glanced back at the agent and motioned for him to come inside.
* * *
After tucking his Apple Store bag into a cupboard underneath the kitchen sink and brewing a couple of cups of Nespresso, Donovan and Klein retreated to the living room. Donovan settled into his regular reading chair and waited for Klein to sit on the sofa, the same spot where Monica would sit, before taking a sip from his cup. He was feeling pretty tired after all the fresh air and running around.
Although it was certainly odd that Klein had known about the cash withdrawal so quickly that he’d managed to beat him home from the bank, Donovan didn’t dwell on the details. He knew that dwelling on things put him at risk of spacing out like he had at the branch. Besides, it was obvious that Paul, the manager, had still filed that report even after Donovan had reduced his request to $9,000. But now he wondered if Brenda had known about it and had kept him preoccupied in her office on purpose. He didn’t feel betrayed—he knew Brenda and Paul were just doing their job—but he certainly felt annoyed about having to deal with Mike Klein now.
“So tell me about the cash, Donovan,” Klein said, raising the cup to his lips and widening his eyes like he just had to hear this.
“I was thinking of doing some renovations.”
“Right. I see that.” He placed his cup on the coffee table and looked around the living room. “Don’t bullshit me, Donovan. We’re on the same team, right?”
“Right.”
“So I can tell you: you look like you haven’t slept in a week.” Oddly, Brenda had said he looked good. Now Donovan didn’t know which of them to believe. “And the last time you took out a large sum of cash, didn’t Teddy Marshall have to bail you out of some trouble you’d gotten into with the Wayne County Sheriff’s Office?”
Biting down the outburst that threatened to rise up his chest like bad heartburn, Donovan shifted in the seat. “I appreciate that, but I was chasing down the biggest lead that ever arose in my daughter’s abduction.”
“Dodge Ram?” Klein raised an amused eyebrow.
“RodgeDam,” Donovan said, correcting him.
Shaking his head, Klein fake chuckled in a way that only he could pull off. He leaned forward, turning his body sideways, placing one elbow on a knee, and using his free hand to wave a finger at Donovan.
“That’s right, RodgeDam. Which meant our Detroit field office was involved, wasn’t it?” He gave a tsk-tsk, just another cowboy in a suit with a gun and an FBI badge. “Their informant had you picked up for soliciting a minor, didn’t he?”
Donovan lowered his head and spread his hands apart, palms up. Noting the slight trembling in his fingers, he remembered worrying about what Amelia would say once he got home. And when he found her dead in the bathroom upstairs, her skin tone so pale it looked blue, her arm hanging out of the tub and no longer dripping blood because all the blood that was going to drip out had already dripped out, he wondered if she already knew what he’d been up to, where he’d spent the night, and why.
“That goes back a few years, doesn’t it, Donovan?” Still leaning forward at that odd sideways angle, still that obnoxiously inquisitive look on his face.
“Six years and two months.”
Klein snapped his fingers and made a gun motion with that free hand. “That’s exactly right. Damn, you’ve got a good memory.”
“Well, not always.” He could’ve pointed out how he’d told Brenda he was renovating this very room and then, two minutes or so later, said to her manager that it was a bedroom.
“Me? My memory’s the shits these days.” Klein made a rotating motion next to his temple with that finger gun. “All these crazy cases. Funding cutbacks. I can’t hardly keep the details of one file separate from the details of another. And Elizabeth’s abduction, I mean, that goes way, way back, so maybe you can help me out. You know, since we’re on the same team.”
“What are you doing here, Klein?” Donovan wasn’t buying into the act.
“How much money did you have in that room of yours at the
Detroit Hilton when the Wayne County boys took you away?”
“It was the MGM.”
He snapped his fingers again and barked out a fake laugh. “See, that’s what I’m talking about: that good memory of yours.” There was a brief pause and a staring contest that felt a lot like the gaze he’d shared with Leo Fletcher the night before on his way out of his Roseland apartment building. “So remind me, Donovan. How much money did you have on your person at the MGM Grand?”
Taking a deep breath, Donovan told him. “Ten thousand dollars.”
Another snap. “Ten large, I remember now.” Klein shook his head. “You mind telling me how much you withdrew from the Second City branch this afternoon?”
More staring, something of a sequel to the last time except this contest felt scarier.
“Keep in mind, Donovan, that could very well be what you’d call a rhetorical question.”
Lowering his attention into his lap again, Donovan noticed that the trembling was a little more intense than it had been the last time he looked. He could also feel the sweat dripping down his spine. When he’d returned from Detroit and found Amelia in the bathroom, he’d worried that his visit to the MGM Grand and the amount of money he’d withdrawn from their savings account had driven her to slice her arms up. Using their good knives, the ones that self-sharpened each time you slid them back into the block. But once the Cook County Medical Examiner had filed its report, Donovan knew she’d been dead a few hours before the Wayne County authorities had even arrested him; there was no way Amelia had known what he was doing in Detroit or what he was up to.
More snapping fingers, except now they seemed impatient, repetitious. “Rhetorical question or not, I’m still waiting for your answer, Donovan.”
Looking up, he met Klein’s penetrating stare. The federal agent didn’t look happy, so Donovan nodded that he would answer his silly question.
“Ten large.”
“Huh.” Klein twisted out of his sideways leaning position and reclined back onto the sofa before saying “Huh” again. His stare swallowed Donovan whole. “I have to wonder, what with all those coincidences, whether you’re getting yourself into the same kind of trouble as six years and two months ago.”
Donovan shook his head, maybe a little too eagerly. “No. No trouble at all. I swear, I’m not going to Detroit or any other hotel.”
“Uh-huh.” Klein scratched his chin.
“Really.” He shook his head some more. “In fact, since the last time you and I spoke, I’ve come to accept that Elizabeth is probably dead. Just like Amelia, she’s dead. And here I am, all by myself with nobody, all alone in this house that seems to be getting old, faster than I am.” It felt like today was the most he’d spoken to other people in months, possibly even years. Maybe he would sleep a full six hours tonight.
Frowning at him, Klein grabbed his cup of Nespresso. “So ten grand. That’s for what, companionship?”
Klein’s suggestion actually made sense. It sounded like a good way to spend some money. Too bad Donovan had already earmarked the cash for a young, purple-haired Maple Tree housekeeper who not only claimed to be Elizabeth’s last friend while in captivity but had promised she could show him his daughter’s unmarked grave.
“Yes,” Donovan said, and the word whooshed out of his mouth as if Klein’s companionship solution was the most brilliant idea in the entire world and he’d better jump on it. “Companionship.”
The federal agent groaned. “You realize that paying for sex is still illegal, even if the companion isn’t underage, right?”
Embarrassed about falling into Klein’s little companionship trap, Donovan chuckled. “Not that kind of companionship,” he said, trying to recover even though he was sure that Klein wouldn’t believe anything he said at this point. He pointed to the wall with the fireplace on it. “Imagine white bookshelves, a gas insert, a big television above it.” He flicked at the old reading chair’s weathered arm. “A recliner, maybe even one that vibrates and has speakers in it.” He pointed to the hallway, toward the stairs. “That carpet needs to go, and I’d like some wrought-iron banisters.”
Klein raised an eyebrow, finished off his Nespresso, and stood. “So you’re going to play the renovation card with me, are you? I thought we were on the same team here.”
Rising from the reading chair, Donovan asked, “What else could I do with ten thousand dollars, Agent Klein?”
He chuckled. “That’s why I’ve got my eyes on you. I want to see how you spend that money.”
“Renovations. I told you already.”
Another chuckle. “Same team or not, I’m not buying your bullshit about renovations.” Reaching into his pocket, Klein produced his phone. He read a message on the screen before lifting the device to his face and raising a finger to Donovan to keep quiet. “I’m on my way, ten minutes out.”
Donovan walked the agent to the front door. “Are you still working on abductions?”
Klein reached into his suit jacket and produced a cigarette. “These days, not so much. Fewer than a hundred kids a year are abducted by strangers.”
“Maybe that explains the funding cuts?”
Klein shook his head. “Seems fraud and money laundering are a big deal, though. Lot more white-collar stuff, like embezzlement, extortion, schemes, and such. Which makes your withdrawal today so much more interesting to me.”
Opening the front door, Donovan faked a laugh. “It’s really nothing. Hopefully something, though, I really need to upgrade this place while the market’s hot, and I know cash keeps the trades happy.”
“As long as they file their taxes.”
Was he serious? Donovan glanced sharply at the agent. Or was the stoic look part of Klein’s poker face?
He smacked the federal agent on the back as he walked out to the porch. “You’re moonlighting for the IRS now?”
Except Klein didn’t find that funny. Before stepping off the porch, he turned to Donovan and pointed his unlit cigarette at him. “I’m watching you.”
“You should be looking for Elizabeth.” It felt like their conversations always circled back to this critical point that Klein and the FBI never seemed to understand.
Frowning, Klein stepped a little closer. “But I thought you just said you’d accepted she was dead?”
Another inconsistency. Nodding his understanding, Donovan gave a quiet wave before shutting the door and pressing his back against it. He raised his hands to his face and took long, deep breaths of air to calm his nerves. All he kept thinking was, What am I doing?
CHAPTER 15
He waited until ten o’clock. Seated in the reading chair, he’d set up both his new MacBook and iPhone, checking the time with increasing frequency as it started to get dark. Monica wasn’t going to show up tonight, was she? By this time yesterday, she’d already come and gone.
Sighing, Donovan placed the computer on the table next to the chair and got up. He grabbed the Apple bag with Monica’s cash in it and was deliberating where to hide it when the knock came at the door.
Right away, he knew something was off. It was Monica’s knock—that much he recognized from that first day she’d shown up. But this evening’s rapid tap-tap-tap sounded out of character compared to the previous evening’s, where it had been quieter and quieter.
Before answering the door, Donovan looked down at the bag of cash in his hand. The closet in the front foyer would do. He lifted the bag onto the top shelf and then turned to the door. Through the peephole, he’d expected to find Monica with Leo Fletcher, his lion’s tattoo howling at him for falling for their little scam.
Except Monica had come alone.
In his fish-eye view, Donovan saw that she was still wearing her Maple Tree housekeeping uniform, her hair pulled back in a ponytail as she stared out at the street. Outside of the timid knocking, the only other thing that stood out as different from previous visits was that the Mustang was parked almost directly in front of Donovan’s house. In the past, she’d parked half
a block or so away.
At last, he unlatched the two dead bolts and opened the door.
Monica spun around and smiled.
“What’s wrong?” Donovan asked. As much as he wanted to invite her inside, he just wasn’t sure it was prudent for him to do so.
The smile vanished as she stepped into the house, the way he’d always imagined his daughter’s friends would when Elizabeth got old enough. “What, I can’t smile when I see you?”
“It’s just that it’s pretty late, Monica.”
She kicked off her work shoes without untying the laces. “Once a month, we go through each of the rooms for quality inspection.” She stepped past him, entered the living room, and sat down on the sofa, letting out a long sigh. She looked tired, even to Donovan’s eyes.
“I picked up the money today,” Donovan said, knowing that might bring her smile back.
It did. She snapped her attention to his face almost immediately, and her eyes seemed to come alive. The fatigue that had drained her just a few moments ago seemed to be replaced by a rejuvenated energy. Her shoulders relaxed and her entire body straightened, a predator sensing its prey.
She opened her mouth to say something but then seemed to reconsider before applauding him the way a real con artist would. “I knew you’d pull through for me, Mr. Glass.”
He nodded, trying to appear happy with her praise, although he felt that rolling his eyes might be more appropriate. “So—when can I see Elizabeth’s grave?”
Monica jumped off the sofa. “We can go now if you want.”
At this time of night? It was after ten o’clock, according to the watch on his wrist.
“It’s a little more than five hours away, so it’ll almost be morning by the time we get there.”
It didn’t feel right. Donovan shook his head. “Five hours? I thought you said a few.”
The Last Friend Page 7
