by Devon Scott
“Fuck. All right! I got a call from this guy. He says the money’s being wired to my account.”
“What guy? Where’d you meet him?”
“His name is Mr. C. I don’t know his full name. I met him, like, two months ago. The Pink Pony. The strip club?”
“Yeah? Go on.”
“Like I said, I met him at this strip joint. We got to talking, drinking, enjoying the ladies, what have you. Anyway, he tells me about this gig he’s got going and he needs my help. Needs someone to help him with a cash problem he’s having.”
Joe raises an eyebrow. “Cash problem?”
“That’s what he said. He needed to be able to move cash from one bank to another. Talked about cleaning the money, or some shit like that. Said he’d cut me in if I would let him use my bank account. I was like, as long as I got paid, then hell, yeah. It’s not like I got money in the bank that he can rob me of.”
“Okay. How many times did you meet with this guy, Mr. C?”
“Only once. That night at the Pink Pony. He called me a few times after that.”
“But you only met face-to-face once?” Joe asks.
“Yeah.”
“And do you know Michael and Kennedy Handley?”
“Who?”
“Michael and Kennedy Handley.”
“Nope.”
“You sure?”
“Who the fuck are they?”
“They are a couple in D.C. whose bank account was emptied several days ago.”
“Look, man, I’ve never been to D.C., let alone met Michael and whatever his name is. Mr. C called me today and said the money was in my bank. Told me to go get it. That it was mine to keep.”
“Hold up,” Joe says. “Run that by me again.”
“He told me to go to the bank. The money was in my account, and it was mine to keep.”
“That didn’t strike you as strange?” Joe asks.
“I didn’t ask any stupid questions. He told me he was gonna throw more business my way, and that this was like a down payment for my services. So I did what I was told. I didn’t ask where the money came from or how it got there.”
“All right.” Joe runs what he knows so far around in his head. “What did this guy look like, this Mr. C?”
Tyrone shrugs.
“Dunno. Black dude.”
Joe sighs.
“You think you can be a bit more specific?”
Tyrone sucks his teeth, his confidence growing.
“Wha’d’ya want me to say? He’s a brutha. He was wearing a Boston Red Sox hat. He had a lot of cash, ’cause he kept buying lap dances for himself and then for me. I was like, that’s cool—keep doing that shit all night. I ain’t mad.”
“All right.” Joe stands, clicking off the recorder. “I’ll be back.” He exits the room and finds Frank and DeAndre at their desks.
“Not much to go on. Can we set him up with a sketch artist? It’s a long shot, but maybe he’ll remember something specific.”
“Yeah, sure,” Frank says. “Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of. What about the other dude?” Joe consults his memo pad. “Darryl Johnson, Jr.”
“Waiting on you. We can try his residence. Not sure how successful that will be,” DeAndre retorts.
“Let’s do it. But first let’s get Tyrone in front of the sketch artist. Maybe he can recall something useful.”
“Worth a shot,” Frank agrees, standing. “Let’s go catch us another bad guy. . . .”
Chapter 41
There is no sunlight blazing into their family room today.
Today, it’s gray skies; a dull, dreary morning that makes Kennedy think of the rain to come, and of sleep.
She’s curled up on the love seat that is situated close to the fireplace.
They’ve been back home two days now. The trip to Ithaca had been just what the doctor ordered. She, in particular, needed to get away. Needed to change her environment, at least for a few days. Refresh the batteries. Not dwell on all of the shit that had put her in a deep, dark funk and held her prisoner there.
Now they’re back.
Michael’s at work. Zack’s back in school. Kennedy’s returned to her groove with work. Still not returned to the office yet, but her exile is coming to a close. Soon she’ll be back in the saddle, hopefully putting all of this negative stuff behind her.
Kennedy stares at the unlit fireplace. Her thoughts are transported back to the day when she awoke to find herself in upstate New York with just herself and her husband in the quaint farmhouse. She smiles as she recalls the way Michael had stripped off all her clothes, remembers how he took her right there in front of the blazing fire. The heat, the intensity of their lovemaking—yes, she recalls it with vivid clarity.
Michael always knows what she needs.
And she had desperately needed to feel alive again.
She’s staring into space now, reliving the moments in her mind, when her BlackBerry rings. Reaching for it, she sees it’s her first husband, the detective, calling.
“Hey, Joe.”
“Kennedy. How’s my favorite ex-wife doing?” he says amusedly.
“Funny. Don’t quit your day job and go into comedy.”
“I see we’re in a good mood. How was your little getaway?”
“It was good, actually. Really nice to separate myself from all of this. Anything new?”
“That’s what I called for. I left a message with your husband, too. Wanted to bring him up to date.”
“Thanks. So?”
“Well, first your bank situation. We arrested two individuals whose bank accounts received the wire transfers from your bank. Each received six thousand dollars. Here’s the thing. Neither of them had any direct involvement with initiating the wire transfer.”
“What does that mean?” Kennedy asks, sitting up.
“It means that they had nothing to do with wiring the money out of your account. Someone else did that.”
“Who?” Kennedy asks, somewhat forcefully.
“That’s what I’m trying to ascertain. We know that this guy, he calls himself Mr. C, befriended these two gentlemen in Atlanta close to two months ago. We have artist sketches of what he looks like. Unfortunately, and here’s the bad part, both of these guys described different people to the sketch artist.”
“Meaning what?” Kennedy asks. The frustration is evident in her voice.
“Meaning, this guy is slick. He either has an accomplice who assisted in recruiting these guys or he’s using some sort of disguise.”
“Disguise? Jesus . . .”
“And that’s not the weirdest part. This guy didn’t keep the money for himself. He left it all for his two little helpers.”
Kennedy stands, going to the window. “I don’t understand.”
“Mr. C arranged the transfer. But he didn’t keep any of your twelve grand. He let the two guys whose bank accounts received the funds keep the money. It’s like he’s playing with you. It’s as if he’s saying, ‘I don’t need the money—I just want to fuck with you and your husband.’ ”
Kennedy is silent.
Joe takes a breath.
“You there?”
“Yeah. Just processing everything you’ve said. This is unreal.”
“I hear you. Listen, I’d like to swing by and show you these sketches. Perhaps you’ve seen this guy around. Maybe . . . I dunno, maybe you were intimate with him at one point.”
“I have not been intimate with any men, Joe. I thought I made that clear,” Kennedy exclaims, her frustration and anger floating back to the surface, where it’s lived for the past few weeks.
“Relax, Kennedy. Your husband mentioned that you had been with a man, that’s all. I’m just doing my job—looking at this from all angles.”
Kennedy doesn’t respond.
“So can I swing by? Won’t take but a minute of your time.”
“Yeah, Joe,” Kennedy says after a lengthy pause, her mind a million miles away. “Swi
ng by.”
They sit at the kitchen table, sipping coffee.
Joe takes two folded pages from his inside breast pocket, unfolds them, and pushes them across the table to Kennedy.
She takes the pages and studies them.
The sketches are computer generated. The first depicts a brown-skinned man with a roundish, clean-shaven face, baseball hat, and glasses. The second shows a lighter-skinned man with a thick goatee and no glasses.
Kennedy does not recognize either man.
“You say this is the same man?” she asks, going back over the pages.
“Could be. Or not.”
“That’s helpful,” she retorts.
Joe stares at her.
“I’m doing the best that I can.”
“Sorry. I know you are.”
She puts the pages down, shaking her head.
“Where do we go from here?” Kennedy asks.
“We traced the cell phone that this Mr. C used to call both of these guys in Atlanta. It’s a Virgin Mobile pay-as-you-go phone. And it hasn’t been used since they withdrew the six thousand dollars from their respective banks.”
“We get the money back, right, Joe?”
“Yeah. Right now it’s evidence. But yeah, eventually.”
“Thank God.”
Joe stands, sipping his coffee as he eyes Kennedy.
“You mentioned that you’ve received some strange voice mails recently. I’d like to hear them and have your permission to check your phone records—see if those phone calls are related to this Virgin Mobile phone.”
“Okay. Yes.”
Joe nods, something else on his mind. He puts down the mug and locks stares with Kennedy.
“This case . . . It’s taking up a great deal of my time.”
“I know. And I appreciate it. We both do,” she replies, not sure where this is going.
“Investigating this case has got me reminiscent of the good old days . . . and seeing those photos of you, I have to say, hasn’t helped.” He emits a short laugh before turning to Kennedy.
“I forgot how incredibly sexy you were. How beautiful you still are.”
“Thank you, Joe,” Kennedy responds dubiously.
“I was thinking back to that time when you came to me because you needed my help. Remember?”
“Joe, please don’t go there. That was a long time ago.”
“How can I not go there? I mean, I’m staring at pictures of you being intimate with other people. And I’m saying to myself, that could have been me.”
“We’ve been down this road, okay, Joe?” Kennedy gets up from the table and goes to the bay window. She glances out onto the deck and the alleyway beyond.
“Kennedy, I was hoping you’d provide me with an incentive, you know, a little something—I mean, I’m sticking my neck out for you on this one . . . and it’s not like you’d be cheating, seeing how this is your thing.”
Kennedy twirls around, glaring at him.
“Are you for real?”
“Relax. I was just kidding—”
“What? You thought I’d do you because you’re working my case?”
Joe laughs. “Why you trippin’? I’m helping you, so what’s wrong with you helping me? Isn’t that the way it worked before? When your back was really against the wall, Joe came through. Remember that? Besides, it’s not like we haven’t played this game before. . . .”
“You disgust me, you know that? I thought you were on my side. I thought I could trust you. Fuck!”
Kennedy slams her coffee mug onto the table and storms into the family room. She reaches for her BlackBerry and begins to speed-dial a number, then thinks better of it. She glares at Joe, who is watching her silently.
“You need to leave. Now!” Kennedy is boiling.
Joe’s hand goes to his cheek, tracing the scar that lines his face.
“I was kidding, baby. Sorry you’re so caught up in everything that you can’t see that.”
Kennedy turns her back on Joe.
“I am not your baby, Joe. Go home to your fiancée.”
Joe glares at her before letting himself out, the front door slamming behind him.
Two stories up, in the attic/crawl space above the third floor hallway, a small electronic box pulses rapidly. Its front lights blink green as it transmits its data over a Wi-Fi connection to the Internet.
Nine hundred and thirty-two miles away, the data is received and stored on a FireWire hard drive. Later on this evening, the contents will be reviewed and analyzed, as they have each day since the device was concealed there.
Chapter 42
He knocks off early.
It’s as if he’s a kid on Christmas Eve—he can’t wait to open his presents.
Damian’s presents await him at his house.
He rushes home, grabs a beer out of the fridge, and gets out of his suit and tie, tossing his clothes haphazardly onto the bed. In his shirt, boxers, and socks, he goes to the office, where his presents await him.
Sitting down in front of the wall of flat-panel displays, he nudges the mouse, bringing the system to life.
On the left screen, still up where he left it last night, is her.
Damian sucks in a breath, as he does each time he spies her.
Butterscotch complexion.
Weave halfway down her back.
It’s the eyes that kill him the most.
They are sultry, sensuous eyes.
Mystical eyes—they suck you in, and you are powerless to resist.
It was like that with him.
From the very first moment he laid eyes on her, she had sucked him in.
Damian feels the pain overtake the sadness.
Pain, then rage.
A river, its power building, expanding, a turbulent vortex.
He reaches for the Tylenol, spraying his palm with glossy pills.
He swallows a half dozen with his beer.
Middle screen—he logs in and opens a window that displays the root directory of the FireWire drive.
His pulse quickens. He’s been thinking about this moment all day. It’s why he knocked off early.
Damian glances back to the left screen and to her.
Black widow.
The rage is molten lava.
She did this to him.
They did it to him.
But what goes around comes around.
Then, a funny thing happens—the pain dissipates into thin air.
Like a huge wave that crashes onto the beach, rolling up onto the sand, only to be sucked back out to sea as quickly as it came, the rage simply disappears.
His fingers are on the chattering keyboard as he types commands. Another window opens, and there it is.
Damian smiles.
He has to hand it to himself. He is pretty fucking slick!
They are totally oblivious. Going along like little fucking worker bees, head down, not seeing what there is to truly see.
Damian stares at the recordings. They’re voice activated, from mics he’s hidden in their house.
Miniature microphones with transmitters the size of a dime. Transmitting to a base station in the crawl space/attic. A base station that uploads the data over their wireless network to his server, right here by his feet.
LOL!
Oh, he is so fucking slick!
He stares at the screen.
The application displays the recordings as a series of analog waveforms that can be manipulated. Fast-forwarded, rewound, copied, or deleted. He can scrub through hours of audio rapidly just like the pros do.
He clicks on today’s data.
Hopes there will be some nugget of juicy information there. After all, things have been quiet the last few days. Nothing coming in since last week—they must have been out of town. But today, there’s something on the screen. They’re back home.
Damian takes a wild swig of his beer and focuses his undivided attention onscreen.
Let’s listen in, shall we?
An
hour later, after the sun’s gone down, Damian sits back abruptly from his desk. His palms are sweating. He can’t fucking believe his luck.
Can’t fucking believe it!
He rushes downstairs for his fourth beer of the evening.
Runs back upstairs, taking the stairs two at a time, his heart thumping as he slops back down in the chair, staring at the screen.
Damian replays the audio.
And again.
He presses both palms together in prayer as he snickers to the vacant house.
The monitors bathe him with their light.
Damian calls up electronic mail and furiously begins to type.
Chapter 43
Michael gets home a little after nine.
Kennedy is on the couch in the family room. She has a glass of Merlot in hand, glasses on, flipping through a magazine. He goes over to her, kisses her on the lips as he cradles her head.
“Hey, you,” she says.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, glancing around.
“What?”
“You’re not working. No laptop. No BlackBerry in hand. Something must be wrong.”
“Ha ha. Very funny . . .”
“Zack asleep?”
“Yep. You hungry? I can heat up some leftovers for you,” she says.
“No, I’ll do it. Let me check on him first.”
Michael takes the stairs to the second floor. Quietly he peeks into his son’s room. Zack is asleep on his side. Michael touches his head and kisses him gently.
He comes back down and angles for the den. Bumps the mouse to bring the screen alive. Logs in and calls up AOL.
Michael’s tired. He worked late to make up for the days off. He’ll be doing it again tomorrow as well. Perhaps the day after that.
He’s thinking about all that he has to catch up on when what he sees stops his heart.
Michael’s veins grow cold.
A new message.
From [email protected].
The very same e-mail address of the offending photos that went to Kennedy’s job.
His heart rate spikes.
egnever.
Revenge spelled backward.
Michael opens the message.
Reads it.
In an instant, his world turns upside down.
