Donovan pulled his stare away, noticing the bandage on his leg with the red dot on it. Maybe Klein was right. Maybe Monica wasn’t his friend after all. Maybe she’d just as easily shoot and kill him if she had doubts . . . the same doubts that Donovan himself had entertained. He still remembered thinking she was a fabrication of his imagination.
Pointing to his leg, he said, “She already shot me, Mike.”
“Good.” Klein smiled before standing straighter and adjusting the waistband of his pants. “Remember, too, that she shacked up with Leo Fletcher. Not exactly the poster child of heroism and kindness.”
Nodding, Donovan realized he still had the bruises on his face to support that claim.
“Anthony Kelly is dead. It’s time to let this go, Donny, all right?”
“I want Elizabeth’s remains,” he said. Even though he’d half mumbled the words, there was no dismissing the insistence behind them.
“Don’t worry. I promise you’ll have them soon.” He checked his phone, frowned at the message he saw on the screen, and then double-tapped the bed’s railing. “I have to get back to work. I’ll be in touch.”
Donovan watched him leave. He wondered whether Klein had been telling the truth about his belief in justice. Because deep down—well, not even that deep, truth be told—Donovan couldn’t help but think that after everything Klein had just lectured him about, the case for an alliance with Monica was actually stronger than the case against it.
CHAPTER 49
While in recovery, Donovan had just one visitor. It was late on Sunday afternoon, while he was reading a sappy Morgan Parker novel he’d picked up from the used book cart the day before during a trip to the hospital’s gift shop. At first, when he heard the door open, he figured it was another nurse coming to check on the dressing and maybe even the wound itself, which was apparently healing well.
“Hey, Donovan.”
To his ears, the visitor’s voice felt like spring, when the trees start to bud and the flowers bloom. He was instantly transformed into a good mood.
“Brenda,” he said, turning his attention toward the door as she entered.
Smiling, his banker took a few hesitant steps toward his bed. She was wearing a black evening dress and heels, more appealing than the nice, formal clothes she wore to work.
The way she stared back at him, Donovan knew that she meant everything she’d said the last time he’d seen her, the part about caring for and worrying about him.
“How did you know I was here?” he asked, and he felt his smile transform into a thoughtful frown. “What are you doing in Detroit, Brenda? Gee, you look gorgeous, like you’re dressed for a party or a funeral.”
Still grinning but blushing now, too, Brenda glanced down at her feet and shrugged. “When the virtual receptionist at work told me you’d dropped in, I figured I’d see you again. Or maybe hear from you. When I didn’t, I decided to do something that would have employee relations all over me: I investigated. And that was when I saw the purchase you made at the gift shop with your Second City credit card.”
His eyes widened. She’d stalked him?
“You look good,” she said, changing the subject. “You’re sleeping again, aren’t you?”
The medication the medical staff made him take—he was no longer on the intravenous drip, so long as he maintained his hydration and obeyed their rules—obviously included a sleeping pill somewhere in the mix. He nodded back at Brenda. “I’m back up to seven hours.” Scratching his head, he wondered whether some of that had anything to do with Anthony Kelly’s execution and the mental release it provided.
They stared at each other. The entire time, Donovan tried to think of something clever to say, but the way she looked, he figured if he spoke his mind, she might take him as a pervert.
Then Brenda giggled, nodding. “A friend from Wisconsin lives here. She’s getting married next month. We came yesterday, watched the Tigers game, and did the whole spa thing this morning. We’re going to live it up tonight, though, hit the slots and maybe stay up past ten o’clock.”
Donovan smiled. He liked Brenda’s sense of humor.
“I have to work tomorrow, so me and another friend will be heading back tonight.” She seemed bummed out about that.
“Drive carefully.” He didn’t like the thought of her driving all that way so late at night.
At last, Brenda stomped a foot and shook her fists at him. “Jeez, Donovan, you’re so frustrating sometimes! I came all this way to see how you’re doing, and you’re pushing me away again?”
It took a couple of attempts, but he finally managed to stutter a response. “I . . . I . . . I thought you were heading out for a bachelorette party.”
“Okay, so maybe I was in the area, but my friends are waiting on me for dinner, and . . .” She seemed genuinely frazzled. “I’m sorry, maybe this was just one big, bad idea. I’m obviously not getting the hint when it comes to you, am I?” She gave a defeated chuckle and started to leave.
“Thank you for coming, Brenda,” he said as she reached for the door. “It means more to me than I can even say. Not just this, but everything. I keep screwing up with you. It’s not your fault, it never was, and I don’t deserve a second chance after I never called following that wedding. I’ve always wondered . . .”
She turned around. “That’s not up to you to decide, Donovan. That’s my decision to make, don’t you agree?”
He nodded. “Let me take you out for dinner this week.”
She smiled again. “I’d like that. A lot.” Motioning toward his leg, she asked, “When are you getting out of here?”
“Probably Tuesday, maybe Wednesday if they want to keep me another day.”
“Then let’s plan for Friday, okay? Pick me up at seven?”
They made their arrangements.
On her way out, Brenda gave a wave, wished him a quick recovery, and then left. There were no tears, no kisses and hugs like in the movies. Once she’d left, Donovan could still smell her lingering perfume. He realized he needed to ditch the guilt that held him back from moving forward and finding his own happiness in life.
Amelia was dead. She might not have felt he was the kind of husband she deserved, but she wasn’t the wife he’d deserved, either. They’d both been right about that. Even without their decision to do the “right thing” once Amelia got pregnant, the most in-love couples in the world couldn’t have survived the abduction of a daughter like theirs. Their marriage had been doomed.
And then there was Elizabeth, who, well, was gone. She wasn’t coming home. Ever.
It was time for Donovan to move on.
CHAPTER 50
That Tuesday when Donovan was released from the hospital, he took a cab back to the MGM Grand. Using his Second City credit card, he paid the fare and smiled at the thought that someone like Brenda might be checking up on him. But then he realized that if things worked out after that upcoming Friday’s dinner date, then he would need to get another credit card, one that a Second City employee couldn’t access.
Purely out of curiosity, he entered the hotel and saw the lobby was back to business as usual. The place wasn’t overrun with federal agents and local police officers, just guests and casino customers wandering through.
He limped deeper into the hotel and noticed a couple of people in the seats where he and Agent Klein had been sitting that night before he’d passed out and had been rushed to the hospital. One of the chairs became vacant when an Asian man finished reading the newspaper and walked off, heading toward the elevators. Donovan considered following him and checking out the pool area to see if it had been cleaned up, but that was when he noticed the cover of the Detroit Press.
On the front page, he saw a black van and men in evidence-collecting spacesuits scattered about. The headline said it all: FBI CRACKS DOWN ON INTERNATIONAL CHILD PORN RING IN FIFTH RAID IN TWO DAYS.
Glancing around to see if anyone was watching, he bent forward and picked up the newspaper. He settled into
the seat that had just been vacated and read the article, often stopping and rereading because his heartbeat had accelerated to the point where he just couldn’t focus.
He saw that Agent Mike Klein of the Chicago FBI had been quoted as saying, “Yesterday’s raid is part of an ongoing investigation into the most abhorrent type of criminal behavior imaginable, the worst kinds of crime.”
The worst kinds.
Donovan smiled, impressed that Klein knew such big words.
Agent Flynn of the Detroit bureau pointed out that “this fifth arrest has resulted in the confiscation of what has amounted to more than one hundred and fifty thousand videos involving America’s youth.” He also mentioned they believed they were just scratching the surface of this monster.
Nothing about the drama at the MGM Grand last Friday night. But then again, maybe that had already become old news.
More importantly, there was nothing mentioned about the return of the children, including Carmen Drouin.
He read all the way to the end of the article and let out a long, satisfied sigh. This was goodbye to that old life. He had a date on Friday with a beautiful banker who looked stunning in a black evening dress, and that would mark the start of something new, something better and happier. Donovan was convinced of that.
After folding the paper and placing it back on the table, Donovan glanced around. He stood up with a wince—anytime he spent too much time sitting down like that, his wounded leg felt like it had cramped—and headed to the parking garage.
His Impala was parked exactly where he’d left it. He remembered Klein saying something about a Sprinter van a few spots away, but the van had obviously been removed as part of the FBI’s ongoing investigation. There was no Sprinter on this level.
Settling into the driver’s seat, all Donovan could think about was getting home and starting that new life he’d been planning. He knew he had to impress Brenda and—
He remembered the cash in his trunk. Sliding the gear back into park, Donovan hoisted himself out of the car and walked to the back. He opened it and glanced inside, but there was no money. All that remained was the canvas Second City bag.
Shaking his head, he reached in and snapped the bag out. But then he felt something crumple inside the bag, a piece of paper or a postcard or something else. Donovan pulled out a small handwritten page with the MGM Grand Detroit logo printed in the header.
Mr. Glass, I’m sorry I took the money, but it helped save those girls, trust me. I’ll repay you someday, I promise. Please be safe. M.
M for Monica.
Still shaking his head, he crumpled the note and tossed it onto the ground before throwing the canvas bag back into the trunk.
As angry as he wanted to be, he had to agree with Monica; the $20,000 had saved four girls’ lives. That worked out to $5,000 for each liberated child, and six years ago when he had come to the MGM by himself, hadn’t he been willing to pay $10,000 for one?
Except each of these rescued girls would have an opportunity his daughter never had. That opportunity was called life, and at $5,000 a person, it really was a bargain, wasn’t it?
“Damn genius,” he muttered as he slipped back into the driver’s seat.
And she was, too. A damn genius.
CHAPTER 51
NINE MONTHS LATER
With the renovations underway and on track for an early spring completion date, Donovan stepped away from the hardwood flooring he’d been installing in the office and admired his work. The living room downstairs had been the first room, and now most of the second floor had been completed—new paint in all the rooms, hardwood flooring, and there would be new trim throughout. As he backed away from the beauty he was creating with the floor, he felt the arms wrap around him from behind.
“I’m wiped,” Brenda said. “I’m going to have a glass of wine with my bath.”
“And then . . . ?”
“I might just have enough energy to—” She cut herself off, spun him around so that they were facing each other, and poked him in the chest with her finger. “You better not pass out downstairs, old man. It’s the weekend.”
Donovan laughed. Having replaced his old leather chair with a new one—a recliner that happened to be a lot more comfortable, in fact—he knew Brenda’s accusation about passing out probably wasn’t too far-fetched.
“I’ll stay awake, I promise,” he said, kissing her on the lips and watching her skip toward their bedroom at the other end of the hall.
As Donovan followed her away from the unfinished room, he glanced into Elizabeth’s old bedroom. It had been converted from pinks and ponies to the grays and generics of a guest room. They’d used Brenda’s old bedroom furniture to make the space unrecognizable as the room where Donovan’s greatest life’s treasure had spent nine years of her abbreviated life. Even though the room had changed, the feeling of unconditional love for his daughter never would. Sucking back a gulp of air, he closed the door.
Moving along, he stopped at the old bathroom where, nearly seven years ago, he’d discovered his wife in the tub after she’d killed herself. The feelings he experienced with the bathroom were a little different—always were. Those feelings were colder. Harder.
Taking a deep breath, he entered and started the water. He grabbed the reading tray (something else from Brenda’s old apartment) from under the newly installed vanity and set it up for her.
When he left the bathroom, he didn’t even glance back.
Donovan and Brenda crossed paths as he entered the bedroom, and she was left in nothing but a housecoat. She smacked him on the butt and thanked him for starting the water. After changing into a pair of fresh, crisp pajamas, he retreated downstairs to the “new” living room. Before he’d even asked Brenda to move in, he’d modernized the fireplace. There was a big television above it, along with a wireless receiver that distributed music from his iPhone and pumped it through the many speakers he’d installed in all the rooms.
But before Donovan could pick a tune with a bit of kick to keep him awake, Brenda beat him to the punch and picked her favorite from Miles Davis. She was a jazz junkie, and Donovan was fine with that. But he might have a tough time staying awake, after all.
After pouring Brenda a glass of wine and serving it to her in the tub, he returned downstairs and poured the last few ounces for himself before settling into the recliner. The new chair had cost three times as much as the television, but he’d never experienced anything like it before. Pushing back, he noticed the involuntary moan that escaped. His own mother’s womb couldn’t compete with this.
A sip of wine later, he decided that closing his eyes for a few seconds wouldn’t hurt anyone, especially with Miles taking things nice and slow on the speakers.
But before he could close his lazy eyes, Donovan heard a knock at the front door. He recognized it right away, and not because he could hear his heart thumping in his ears.
Jumping out of his comfortable seat, he hurried to the front door—also new—and stared through the frosted glass at the silhouette of a woman who was exactly Monica’s height, possessed her body type, and paced on the spot just like she had all those months ago. When he unlocked the door and opened it, the cold winter air hit him, and Monica spun around on the heels of her winter boots.
“Mr. Glass!” she said before throwing her arms around him and holding on tight. The jacket felt cold against him, the chill seeping through the fabric of his crisp pajamas, and she seemed to breathe him in, her grip tightening. “I’m so glad you’re okay!”
“That’s right,” he said. “You shot me.”
Monica chuckled like that kind of thing happened all the time. “I know you have a lady living with you,” she said, releasing him and sizing him up. “Oh, you look so good, Mr. Glass. Exactly the way Elizabeth described you.”
In the past, Donovan had savored the talk about his daughter. Monica had reignited that flame of her memory, brought it back to life and inspired some kind of hope deep down in the pit of his co
re. But he felt like he’d said his goodbyes, between Roger’s—Anthony Kelly’s—execution and kissing his daughter’s skull at the grave site. Bringing Elizabeth up now caused discomfort, pain, and heartache. The worst kind.
Monica coughed into her bare hand and looked down at her feet. “I’m sorry. The reason I’m here is because of Elizabeth, in fact.” She glanced back at the street, toward the Range Rover waiting at the curb with its engine running and parking lights on. “I’ve recovered her remains, and I want you to have them.”
Monica? She’d been the one who recovered Elizabeth’s bones?
She swallowed what appeared to be a painful lump in her throat. “The, um, last promise I made to Lizzy was that I would tell you she wanted to be cremated.”
Blinking against the cold, Donovan remembered something Monica had said early on, back when she stopped in for daily conversations. “I thought Elizabeth believed there was a happy ending to your time in that place. What would possess a preteen to talk about cremation if she believed in happy endings?”
Smiling, Monica gave a nostalgic nod that rose into her eyes. “Yes, but she also said she could never return to you in her broken, beaten, and abused state, remember?”
He did, biting his lower lip and looking away, because he’d have taken her back in any condition. He was her father; he loved her beyond the confines of life itself.
Deep breath from Monica. “So this is the real hard part, Mr. Glass.” She fanned at her welling eyes. When she spoke next, her voice came out choked and raw. “She made me promise to tell you that, with her remains, she wanted you to take her back to the Navy Pier. She wanted you to release her ashes at night, set her free into Lake Michigan on the tail of a gust of wind, because that was how she imagined that last day with you . . . she talked about the wind in her face so much, and she associated that with the freedom of never having to let go of your hand while on that Ferris wheel.”
The Last Friend Page 25
