by Joshua Corin
“Yikes.”
“Yeah.”
“So I’m still missing the part that involves me.”
“There were two witnesses. A young married couple. Scott and Crystal…what was their last name again?”
“McCormick,” said Chau.
“McCormick. Right. Nice kids. From Nebraska. On their honeymoon, if you can imagine it.”
“Who honeymoons in Atlanta?”
“By way of Paris.”
“Ah.”
So Konquist continued, outlining Scott and Crystal’s play-by-play from the moment they arrived at the hotel to their exchange of room keys with Phillip Wilkerson, Hercule Dacy’s arrival with room service, Hercule Dacy’s rant about fair justice, Phillip Wilkerson’s arrival with room service, and then Phillip Wilkerson’s rant about the Serendipity Group and the yellow slip of paper with the lists of targets and dates on it.
“Except we couldn’t find this yellow slip of paper,” Chau added. “We did get a call an hour ago from Crystal McCormick. She remembered the last name on the list. And the date.”
“Who’s the last name on the list?” asked Xana, but as soon as the question left her lips, she knew the answer, and everything made sense. “Oh. Well, that’s no good. When’s the date?”
“October twelfth.”
“Oh good. Three days from today. I’ll pencil it in. Is it a credible threat?”
“We don’t know. But the Serendipity Group is real. We have an appointment with their COO in a little bit.”
“But first you wanted to come by and see if I was dead.”
“I recognized your name as soon as I heard it,” said Konquist. After a moment he continued, “Always thought you got a bum rap. Didn’t take long to get in touch with your parole officer and he gave us your current residence and here we are.”
“Here we are.”
Detective Chau opened a notepad app on his phone. “Miss Marx, can you think of anyone who might want to target you? Anyone who might feel victimized by your actions?”
To this, Xana laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed. She laughed until she cried. She laughed until her spleen became a dagger poking at her bladder. She excused herself and walked to the bathroom and simmered herself down and halfway through emptying her poked bladder she burst again into full-body spasms and almost fell off the toilet.
Meanwhile, Chau, perhaps still smarting from her denial of simple hospitality re: coffee, grumbled, “I don’t see what’s so funny.”
“What’s so funny,” replied Xana, reentering the room, “was your question. Oh boy. I haven’t laughed like that in ages. Thank you.”
“Miss Marx—”
“Detective Chau, how long have you been with the force? You’re, what, thirty-six years old? So you entered the academy after college. That puts you at thirteen years on the job.”
“Maybe I went straight from high school.”
“If you did, you stole that Xi Kappa fraternity ring you’re wearing. My point is this—thirteen years on the job, how many people are out to get you? Add up all the spouses and parents and children and grandchildren of all the low-life scum you’ve put away. Now add onto that list all the spouses and parents and children and grandchildren who blame you for not protecting their loved ones in their time of need. Of not finding justice for their suffering. Now add onto that list the malcontents and misanthropes and anarchists who hate cops and who hate Asians just because. Now add onto that list every girl whose heart you know you broke. Now add onto that list every girl whose heart you don’t know you broke. Now add onto that list all of your wife’s exes. Now add onto that list that guy you cut off in traffic that one time.”
Chau didn’t speak.
“You’ve been on the force for thirteen years. You’ve been alive for thirty-six years. I worked for the FBI for almost thirty years and next month I’m going to be fifty-three years old and I’ve been a pain in the ass every step of the way. You want to know if anyone might want to kill me? Detective Chau, it’s a miracle no one hasn’t already done it.”
Chau didn’t speak.
“Now, if you can give me five minutes, I’ll shower and put on some relatively clean clothes and then we can go.”
Chapter 9
Xana disappeared into the bedroom before Konquist or Chau could react. But then Chau did react, and did speak, and said, “Wait, what?” but all he got in return was the crash of cascading water in a shower.
“She’s unbelievable,” he said.
“Some people you meet, you realize there was no way they could have lived up to their reputation. On the other hand…” Konquist shrugged.
“She’s right, you know? If this is a credible threat, narrowing down the list of people she might have ticked off is going to take forever. And not just because she probably accumulates new enemies every day.”
“Enemy is such a strong word.”
“I’m not saying I’d put a hit out on her, but I wouldn’t mind watching her trip over a curb. It’s the difference between confidence and arrogance.” Chau left his chair and went to the kitchen. “If she’s not going to offer us any coffee, I’m going to take some.”
And then he began to sift through the pantry, which was suffering from a serious case of multiple personality disorder. Organic granola bars beside a tube of barbecue-flavored Pringles beside a nearly empty bag of figs beside many, many boxes of cereal. Next shelf: more cereal. So far no coffee, although there was an itty-bitty tin of Turkish tea.
Konquist joined him in the kitchen, leaned against the stove, crossed his arms, and watched Chau continue to search. “Maybe she doesn’t have any coffee.”
“She said she did. Why would she lie?”
“Why do birds sing so gay?”
“There’s a coffeemaker on the counter.”
“Maybe it’s a decoration.”
Chau waved him off and moved on to the drawers beside the refrigerator.
“You can’t wait five minutes and ask?”
“I am choosing to take life by the reins.”
“When you’re doing that, it helps to have a warrant.”
“That settles it.” Chau slammed shut a drawer of silverware and moved on to a drawer of knives. “No coffee for you.”
“They should add this to the sergeant’s exam. You got five minutes to find a box of coffee in a—”
The cascade of shower water stopped. So did Chau, for a moment. And then he returned to the pantry to search again.
“And we’re not really taking her with us,” he added, “are we?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“She’s a pain in the ass!”
“The way I see it, taking her with us gets us two things, OK? One, it lets us keep an eye on her in case someone is out to get her.”
“And two?”
“Well, let me put it to you this way—don’t you want to see the look on their faces at the Serendipity Group when we walk right through their doors with one of their targets?”
Chau replied with a loud grunt of reluctant acknowledgment.
“So it’s settled, then,” said Xana, returning to their company. Her hair was still wet, but at least now she was wearing a T-shirt and jeans.
“Hope you don’t mind. My partner felt like ransacking the place.”
Chau banged the pantry door shut. “Where’s your coffee, goddamn it?”
Xana glanced over at Konquist.
Konquist smiled, then uncrossed his arms, then moseyed over to the refrigerator and opened its door. On the middle shelf inside the door, nestled between a pint of nondairy creamer and a small jar of capers, was an eleven-ounce container of Folgers Classic Roast. He handed it over to Chau, although not before addressing him with all due respect: “Detective.”
“Fuck you. Who keeps their coffee in the fridge?”
“It tells you to on the lid,” answered Xana. “And I always follow directions.”
Twenty minutes and two cups
of coffee later, the three of them were heading to the neighborhood of Buckhead in Konquist and Chau’s beige Skylark. Xana stretched out in the back and dialed Hayley’s cell. She couldn’t wait to tell her the news. Unfortunately, the call went to voice mail. This not being the kind of message one left on a voice mail, Xana simply hung up.
The new special-agent-in-charge probably had Hayley in the basement, sorting old files. Cell reception was spotty in the basement. The old special-agent-in-charge, Jim Christie, would never have wasted someone with Hayley’s talent on a task as mundane as sorting files. No, Jim Christie had rightfully held Hayley in high regard, almost as highly as he had held Xana. It was Jim Christie, after all, who had protected Xana all these years from any kind of retaliation or reprimand for her less-than-collegial behavior. Jim had continued to cover for her even as her alcoholism made her surly and sloppy, although not even the director of the Bureau could have prevented the shitstorm that came down after Xana, quite soused, drove her car into a residence.
Almost a year ago now.
And as to her champion, Jim Christie? Despite having been burned time and time again by Xana’s malfeasance, he had allowed her to help out during the hostage situation back in July, and for his efforts he had been shot by one of the Chechen terrorists. He had quite literally died in Xana’s arms.
The list of people wanting to see her suffer was long indeed, maybe justifiably so. The list of people she considered friends, never too lengthy to begin with, seemed to shorten with each passing year. Sure, Xana took pride in her independence, but still…
This naturally made Xana think of Em, and she dialed her number next.
Em, as always, picked up almost immediately. “Hey, sweetness.”
“Hey. Where are you?”
“I’m at the bookstore. I told you I had to be here early to set up. We’ve got that children’s author coming in today.”
That sounded vaguely familiar. And so funny that Xana had to smirk. Her lover had picked up a new bad habit. Em no longer referred to the authors who came by her bookshop by name. Too many “Who’s that?” from Xana. Oh, how it irked Em to no end how someone as worldly and wise as Xana could be so clueless about the world of contemporary literature, and oh, how it tickled Xana to irk someone as even tempered and laissez-faire as Em.
“So what are you up to today, sweetness?”
“Nothing,” replied Xana, only then realizing that she was not about to concern Em with these matters. Best to let her worry about her author. Best to let her stakes be as far from life-and-death as possible. Wasn’t that, after all, part of Em’s allure? Yes, she was an alcoholic, but she was still so…so untainted.
“Nothing sounds like fun.” Chomp, chomp. Em’s breakfast must have been an apple. “I could use a little nothing in my life.”
“How about a little fun?”
“Oh I’ve got that,” Em flirted back.
Chomp, chomp, chomp.
They pulled into a parking garage buttressing an office building. Xana bantered her phone conversation to its logical end. By the time she pressed END, they were parked.
According to the map on the lobby wall, the Serendipity Group was on the second floor. They could have asked the old man at the lobby desk, but why disrupt someone so peacefully asleep?
On the elevator ride up, Chau delivered the inevitable line: “Let us do the talking.”
Xana batted her eyelashes with faux naiveté.
“I’m serious.”
Xana batted her eyelashes with faux anxiety.
“You’re a real pain in the ass. You know that?”
“She knows,” said Konquist.
The elevator jolted to a halt. The doors opened.
Suite 206 was two doors to the left. Detective Chau pressed the buzzer beside the locked door. Down the hall, a pair of day laborers in coveralls were staple-gunning new carpet into the floorboards. Twenty-two seconds passed. Chau angled his index finger toward the buzzer and the door unlocked with a loud click almost identical to the sound of those industrial staples stabbing into wood down the hall.
Inside, Suite 206 was perfectly ordinary. A waiting area, well-appointed with rented furniture and month-old magazines. A frosted-glass partition in front of a receptionist’s desk. And another locked door, presumably leading into the heart of the beast.
The glass partition was halfway open, revealing a man on a stool. Behind him were rows and rows of color-coded files. Very much a doctor’s office vibe. Not quite what Xana had expected, but then again, she had never before visited a vengeance-for-hire matchmaker.
Chau flashed his bona fides. “Hi, there. We have an appointment with Aaron Solo.”
The receptionist smiled, nodded, and handed Chau a clipboard.
Chau handed it back.
The receptionist didn’t take it.
“I don’t think you understand…” said Chau.
“It’s policy.”
The receptionist shut the partition.
“It’s policy,” Konquist echoed.
Chapter 10
Their appointment with Aaron Solo was scheduled for 10 A.M. At 10:01 A.M., twenty minutes after they sat down with the empty form, the door to the inner sanctum opened and a Nordic-angled male model stepped out. Blond hair, blue eyes: check. Skin tanned from the ski slopes sunshine: check. Steely posture: check. Today he was apparently modeling a blue-blood button-down, open at the collar, and a pair of tight-fitting chinos.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. Slow melodic accent. Denmark by way of Appalachia. “Follow me.”
They followed him, passed a row of windowed offices and busy young urban professionals until he led them into his corner chunk of Buckhead real estate. There were two chairs for clients. Xana remained standing. Per edict, she hadn’t said a word. Yet.
“So, Detectives,” said Aaron Solo, “how may I help you?”
No diplomas on the walls. Nothing on the walls, really, except a fresh coat of peach-hued paint. His glass desk at least had an aluminum laptop and a small potted succulent. Then again, the succulent may have been fake. Xana was tempted to poke it.
Detective Konquist elaborated on the reasons for their visit. He offered very few actual details, but in that roundabout way of his, which made him sound more like a forgetful uncle instead of an evasive cop. While he spoke, Chau watched Aaron Solo for any physical behavior that might indicate guilt.
Xana watched the plant. She was 70 percent sure it was plastic.
She’d already made up her mind about Aaron Solo.
As Detective Konquist relayed, more or less, the context of their visit, Aaron Solo fixed his elbows to his glass desk and arrayed his fingers in a perfect isosceles triangle. When it came time for him to respond, he rested his dimpled chin on top of his steepled fingers.
“This is all very tragic. Very, very tragic. And tragedy is the opposite of what we do here, so I am not sure how I can help.”
“Well, first, you can confirm—and this would be a great help—that Father Hercule Dacy was a client.”
“I can do you one better, Detective. I can confirm that Father Hercule Dacy was not a client.”
“Don’t you want to check your files?”
“No need. I remember all of our clients.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, I’m quite serious, Detective. When a man loves his job, he invests all of himself. I remember the names of every one of our clients. I remember their stories. We’ve been in business for over seven years. When my wife and I started this business, we were inspired by our time volunteering for the Make-A-Wish foundation. Do you know what the number-one request they receive from children is?”
“To go to Disney World,” said Chau.
“That’s what I thought, but no. Children want to meet celebrities. Wrestlers, movie stars, comic-book heroes. Before they die, the children want to spend time with their heroes. My wife wondered about the rest of us. We all have heroes. We all have people we wish we could meet. An
d so we created the Serendipity Group almost eight years ago now, and we have helped fifty-eight clients meet titans of industry, poet laureates, politicians, and, yes, celebrities. We call them ‘persons of interest.’ ”
“Funny, that’s what we call suspects,” Chau replied quietly.
Konquist spoke over him. “How are you able to put your clients in touch with all these persons of interest?”
“Networking, mostly. We have an extremely dedicated staff.”
“And you remember the names of all fifty-eight of your clients?”
“Oh yes. Don’t you remember the names of all the people whose lives you’ve changed, Detective? No? That’s a pity.”
“And where do you—and forgive me if this is a rude question, but I’ve got to ask—where do you get your funding?”
“Private donors. Many of whom, I might add, are satisfied clients hoping to help others, as others helped them. Giving is a circle.”
“So I come in and offer to pay your fee, whatever it is,” said Konquist, “and I say I want to meet Merle Haggard, which I do, by the way, but we can discuss that after the case is over. What happens next?”
“We arrange for you to meet Merle Haggard.”
“And what if the reason I want to meet Merle Haggard is I want to kill him. I mean, I don’t tell you that. I tell you that I want to meet him because I’m his biggest fan. But after you arrange for us to meet, I take out a knife and stab him to death.”
Aaron Solo didn’t flinch. “That would never happen.”
“Well, no, because I love Merle Haggard, but you see what I’m saying.”
“We vet our clients extensively. Our business depends on it. Among the qualities our persons of interest treasure in us is security.”
“More than that, Mr. Solo,” Detective Chau opined. “Because in that hypothetical, if one of your clients committed a crime during one of these arranged meetings, you could be held criminally liable. And that’s why we need to see your client list.”
“Even though you have my word that Father Dacy is not on it?”
“Yes.”
Aaron Solo considered the request. Then he responded, “No.”
