One In A Million (The Millionth Trilogy Book 1)

by Tony Faggioli

  The energy around The Gray Man began to crackle.

  “Any hints at least, for the rookie?” Kyle asked timidly.

  The Gray Man thought for a moment, and then looked up. “Find a way, Kyle, to remind her that she once loved you.”

  Then he was gone, and Kyle felt more alone than he’d felt in his entire life.

  CHAPTER 20

  Tamara hoped God could forgive her. She knew it was all too easy to have faith when things were going well, that now, of all times, she was supposed to stand tall and lean on Him. But to be honest, it was hard to lean on someone when it felt like they’d betrayed you. She knew it was a sin to think that, but that was how she felt. He was a traitor. He’d allowed her to build a life and was now forcing her to watch it crumble.

  She’d asked Trudy to watch the kids and the house so she could get away from it all for a bit and have lunch with Ben. Maybe it was irresponsible, but she didn’t care anymore. She was feeling increasingly defeated by this whole mess. Talking with someone outside of her circle of friends and family seemed like a good idea. Fresh territory. Fresh perspective. That’s what she told herself, though deep down she feared that she just couldn’t stop talking about it. When you ran out of ears, you found new ones, even if the ears willing to listen were doing so for selfish reasons. Ben had texted her all morning until he finally convinced her. It was a beacon of hope from work, that final place of retreat. He had a few “ideas” for the Watanabe account that he wanted to go over with her.

  Instead of meeting at the office first, they decided to grab a bite to eat at Lawry’s. Sitting opposite one another at a corner booth with a fresh linen tablecloth, they were left mostly undisturbed, the waiter only coming over to scrape the breadcrumbs from their table into a small tray from time to time. Ben had the prime rib; Tamara barely managed to eat half of her Caesar salad. Those detectives had shown up Friday morning with all their good news—that Latin cop with his studious eyes, his partner all jock-like and intense—and when they’d left they’d taken her appetite with them.

  Exactly as Tamara hoped he would, Ben was listening. That was all she needed. She noticed that he had learned his lesson, never directly prodding for information on Kyle or badmouthing him. Still, Tamara chastised herself each time Ben locked eyes with her and she didn’t look away immediately. He mostly said all the right things, but finally, after she joked about why he even cared about this mess, he said something that weakened her.

  “I’m not going to lie, Tamara. Because I care about you, perhaps a bit too much, and we both know it, right?”

  His green eyes italicized the question. She didn’t break his gaze at all this time, but held it firm. She knew better, a thousand times over, but still, she held it.

  The blue polo he wore was stretched tight across his shoulders, chest and biceps. He’d gotten some sun, his tan even and glowing. He was young, but so what? Caitlyn had been young too, and that hadn’t stopped Kyle, had it?

  Her reply was weak and without much resolve. “That’s sweet, Ben. But—”

  “I know, I know,” Ben said with an endearing chuckle. “I’m not trying to put you on the spot. I just wanted you to know how I felt. The timing’s horrible, but I don’t want you to feel so alone in all of this.”

  She let his assumption that his feelings for her would be comforting, now or at any time, slide. His self-confidence had always been a bit over the top. Most of the women in the office would swoon around him, and though Tamara was older and should’ve been a bit wiser, she did not find his extra self-assurance unattractive either. Ben seemed to know himself in a way that made you want to know him too.

  Before long, they finished lunch and then crossed the street to the office. Being a Sunday, they were the only ones there. This, she imagined, was exactly as Ben had planned it. They reviewed the Watanabe plans and budget with a matched nervousness that had nothing to do with the account. A few times he invaded her personal space, leaning in close or touching her hand briefly when they passed paperwork back and forth.

  It wasn’t until it was time to go that he stepped towards her again, deliberately, as he had done so the day before at the house in the foyer, except this time there was no cry from Seth to interrupt them.

  She knew he was tall and in good shape, but the way he enveloped her as he moved in to kiss her was a surprise. She felt tiny and safe. She tried to put one hand on his chest and the other on his bicep to slow him down, but that only made the warmth in her body spread all that much faster. He felt good, his muscles firm beneath his shirt, and when he kissed her it was with soft lips that begged for permission.

  She felt shame and a touch of panic, but she kissed him back anyway, the anger of what her life had become exploding as she slid her tongue into his mouth. She lifted his shirt to feel his skin beneath it. He was hot to the touch, and soon she felt his hardness pressing against her leg.

  She was wearing dark blue dress jeans and chunky heels with a white blouse. Sliding his hands down the back of her jeans, he grabbed her and picked her up before sitting her down on one of the desktops, and now, in spite of herself, she was panting for him as much as he was for her. As their breathing intensified and they groped at one another even more, she had the realization that she was going to let him do it. It was a split-second decision, but it was one she felt she was going to follow through on.

  She didn’t know why at first. This was only going to make things worse. She was betraying so much just be by being there, much less by letting him do the things he was doing, but as he cradled the small of her back and ran his lips down her neck the answer became evident. She was betraying a lot, including her faith, but God had betrayed her too, so what was the difference? Yes.

  Sometimes you can toy with your creations too much, Big Fella.

  She closed her eyes and took a turn into a place of passion she hadn’t been to in years. His hands held her waist as he buried his face into her chest. She sighed deeply, and it was while running her fingers through his hair that she opened her eyes and saw her fingertips: they were French manicured.

  Kyle’s favorite.

  He’d never explained why. It just was. He loved French manicures.

  And that was it. Just the thought of him broke the spell and destroyed the moment.

  She couldn’t do it. Kyle had done it to her, but she couldn’t do it to him, and that made her loathe herself more than if she’d let Ben continue. He was trying to get her pants undone when she stopped him. Looking into those deep green eyes, which were now a mixture of frustration and defeat, she simply shook her head.

  “C’mon,” he urged, moving in for another kiss.

  “No. Stop. I can’t,” she replied, putting her hand over his lips and turning her face away.

  Exhaling in frustration, he dropped his head and nodded a few times.

  They released their embrace, and he stepped aside as she straightened herself out and gathered her things. “I’m sorry, Ben.”

  He held up his hand. “Please. I’m the one who should apologize. I had no right.”

  The sexual tension in the room quickly subsided and was replaced with an awkward silence and an overwhelming air of embarrassment.

  Tamara left without saying another word, holding it all in until a few minutes later when she was safely inside her car. She broke down and screamed, as loudly as she could. No more tears. No more sorrow. Just pure rage now.

  Rage and love.

  Love for Kyle.

  How odd. She could contemplate betraying God, but not the man who’d held her in his arms and rocked her to sleep after Janie was born, their little baby girl, who’d been sleeping soundly and couched softly between them in the hospital bed like a little present.

  That was the man Kyle truly was, and he was still alive out there, somewhere. Confused. Scared. Alone. He’d made this horrible mistake, and he would have to make amends for it. But she recalled all the good things he’d done too, in their fifteen years together, all the wonderfu
l memories. They were almost countless.

  She’d chosen to spend her life with him because he had the world’s greatest laugh, a big smile, a tiny mole on his left earlobe that always made him seem boyish for some reason, and the most unbelievable ability to hit the dance floor and not care one bit that he was the worst dancer who ever lived.

  When you counted the memory of the one, horrible mistake he’d made with Caitlyn against all the good memories that preceded it?

  It was one in a million.

  As soon as she got home, Tamara checked the mail and her heart seized. There was a Priority Mail Express Envelope with familiar writing on it. She tore it open and found a greeting card inside. Then she sat down, read it and cried.

  Kyle had remembered her birthday.

  Today’s mishap with Ben would’ve never happened if she’d just gotten this sooner. It was beyond her imagination, with all the checking of texts and caller ID, that he would contact her this way, that he would send her a card.

  This was not just any card either; it was a Peanuts card, a tradition that dated back to her twenty-second birthday, the first she’d ever shared with him. He was her “Charlie Brown,” and she was his “Little Red-Haired Girl.”

  “Except, well, you don’t have red hair,” he’d said that day, so many years ago. It stuck. Every year he wrote exactly that inside the card.

  This year though, he’d also written her a little note on the inside cover. She could barely read it through the tears filling her eyes, but she sniffled, focused and worked through it one line at a time.

  Babe, I’m so sorry. I have no excuse for what I’ve done. None. I love you. I love the kids so much. I should’ve just been happy, but I don’t know what happened. I promise you that I’ve never done anything like this before. Ever. I’ve never even thought about it. Now I’ve ruined everything. One screw up, and it’s all ruined. It isn’t fair…

  She was unable to go on. “Oh, Kyle.” She put her hand over her mouth, trying to stifle her sobs so that no one inside the house would hear her. She wanted this moment to herself, even if it hurt. When she regained enough composure, she continued reading.

  … but no one says it’s supposed to be. I don’t expect you to ever trust me again, but I hope you can still love me somehow. I never, ever wanted to hurt you.

  She took a deep breath and kept going, Kyle’s note now shifted in gravity.

  I want you to know that I didn’t kill her. Absolutely not. I mean that. I swear it on my father’s soul. I don’t know what did. I’m into something big now that I have to take care of. I know it sounds crazy to say “trust me,” but I need you to, just one more time. I’ve gotta help someone. I’m not going to lie to you, ever again. Her name is Victoria. I’ve mentioned her in the past a few times. She was my first girlfriend in high school. I haven’t seen her since then, but someone’s asked me to help her. I’d tell you who but you’d think I was crazy for sure. I’m not drunk. I’m not doing drugs. I haven’t had a mental breakdown. I mean all of this.

  Stunned, she blinked back the tears from her eyes, her cheeks sticky with salt and smeared mascara. He closed with three words: Pray for me.

  The three words scared her, because they were completely unlike him, the man who had to be dragged to church and rolled his eyes at most things spiritual.

  She had no idea what was going on, or why, or who had asked him to go help this Victoria person, and as irrational as it was, she didn’t really care. She wanted her husband back safe and sound, if not for herself then for her babies, who needed their father.

  Because, if he nothing else, Kyle was a man who knew the value of having a good father.

  That thought cemented it for her. She nodded and let the warm canyon breeze dry her face as it swept over Angeles Crest Highway and into the hills of La Canada.

  Kyle had just sworn on his father’s soul.

  That was beyond huge, because Kyle would’ve gone to hell and back, and back again a dozen more times, if it would’ve given his dad a few more days on this earth.

  Instead, the cancer had eaten him alive, and they’d discovered him dead in his hospital bed.

  “We were only gone for the morning Dad, I had some stuff at work…” Kyle had cried at his bedside while Tamara and the nurses tried so hard to comfort him, all to no avail.

  All the while Tamara couldn’t stop looking at her father-in-law’s face, his eyes wide with amazement and turned up to heaven, as if he’d seen the most miraculous sight.

  As if he’d seen an angel of God.

  She looked back down at the card in her hand, sprinkled now with a few tears, and read the words again, this time whispering them aloud. “I swear it on my father’s soul.”

  Kyle would never use those words, ever, unless he was telling the truth.

  She was sure now that Kyle hadn’t killed Caitlyn.

  CHAPTER 21

  Following jurisdictional protocol, Napoleon called San Diego Homicide when they got into town for clearance to check on two possible associates of Kyle Fasano. A Detective Bilham met them at Timothy Reardon’s home and then stood off to the side as they promptly made fools of themselves.

  Napoleon began to get uneasy when he saw the “Kyle, who?” look on Mr. Reardon’s face. As the first of the two leads they’d garnered off the computer at the Beaury Library, it was not a promising start. The look was genuine too, not even close to fake and somewhere about ten miles beyond a “maybe I know the guy” look. So they stood briefly on Mr. Reardon’s doorstep, Napoleon letting Parker run through most of the basic questions as it became more and more evident that this was a dead end.

  An hour or so later, the San Diego sun burning bright and alone in a clear blue sky, seagulls crisscrossing overhead in a light breeze, and Bilham’s car right behind them, they arrived at Larry Klein’s residence.

  Mr. Klein seemed to have it all: a new Porsche Panamera in the driveway of a multi-million dollar home in La Jolla to match the multi-million dollar view of the ocean below. None of this helped. His response to them was even worse.

  Having recently broken his leg water-skiing, he wasn’t just annoyed at being bothered, he was pissed. He knew a Kyle Dansby from back in college at Harvard but hadn’t spoken to him in at least twenty years. “So, unless he went gay, married some guy and changed his damned name, I got no clue.”

  Napoleon sighed and bit his tongue. What a dick.

  But he was now happy that Klein had a broken leg. It balanced the cosmic scales a little bit. If he ended up with a permanent limp? Even better.

  The four of them agreed that the odds of Klein’s scenario were not very high, though Parker did muse it over later, after they finished asking Klein a few more questions and Bilham had left. “Anything’s possible.”

  “Sure,” Napoleon replied. “I mean, why the hell not make Fasano a closet gay? He’s already a possible devil-worshiping adulterer with a posse of friends who like to murder people with microwaves, sulfur and blowtorches.”

  Parker paused, and then wrinkled his brow. “Ya know, when you say it that way…”

  They stopped on the sidewalk, next to the car, for an ad hoc meeting, frustrated and with tails tucked.

  Napoleon cleared his throat. “That’s because it’s insane. The whole thing. I really expected forensics to give us more than a comic-book explanation.”

  “So?” Parker put his hands in his pockets and nodded. “You obviously been at this a lot longer than me, so what do you make of it?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I have no clue. All I got is that I keep remembering the hotel footage. You kill someone; you run to the elevator. Yeah, you’re scared. But you’re nervous-scared. You’re ‘looking around for witnesses’ scared.”

  “And?”

  Napoleon let out a deep, cough-free sigh. “Fasano was terrified-scared. You could see it in his face on the tape, as if he was fleeing something.”

  “Besides a murder scene, you mean?”


  “How do we know she was dead at that point on the tape?”

  Parker was instantly confused. “Huh?”

  “We have no actual proof that she was dead when he got into that elevator. We walked in, looked at all the physical evidence, and made a reasonable assumption based on what looked like a murder.”

  “Well, I mean… that hole was too high for her jump through. There’s no way we call this a suicide, man.”

  “I’m not saying we do, but think, Parker. That very same physical evidence is a complete mess. The hotel room was mostly undisturbed, save for the gouges in the back of the door and the hole in the window. Those are usually clues for us, but instead they’re more like fucking enigmas in this case. They just don’t fit. “

  “Okay. I’ll run with you on this for a bit. What if it was a gang rape, or devil-worshiping sacrifice, or any of that?”

  “We found one condom. Gang rapes usually involve more condoms or no condoms.”

  “Maybe Fasano was the careful one and the other guys didn’t give a shit.”

  “Beecher didn’t say anything about semen in the girl. That would’ve been one of the first things she would check. Granted, the girl was splatted, and that could have made a mess of things, but still. No.”

  “Okay. Then the devil worshippers?”

  “Maybe that plays out somehow. I don’t want to be dismissive. It’s early. Maybe she was into some wacked-out shit that she pulled Fasano into. Maybe vice versa. Maybe it all went wrong. No one’s really dug into her history yet, and we haven’t had much time to dig into his. Again, this is not a normal case. Because of the vic’s family, we were sent on a manhunt before we could do any groundwork.”

  “Maybe Murillo or Klink, back at the squad room, could help us out,” Parker suggested.

  “Agreed. But we’d have to run it by the cap, because the more people we get involved… I mean, if the press gets word that we’re investigating this as a possible pentagram gang rape? It’s going to be off the charts.”

  Parker shrugged and kicked at the corner of the well-manicured lawn. “So what, then?”