The Redemption Lie

by Amanda J. Clay

  Graham looked apprehensively excited for a moment. “What are you saying?”

  Nina sighed. “I'm saying I'm going to help you. I'll give you what you want, or what I can anyway. I’m dead anyway so why not? But don't think for a moment that I'm happy about this. Happy is the last thing that I am.”

  Melanie walked over tentatively, her footsteps like air. Beck smiled at her and took the utility broom from her.

  “Let me take care of this. You look like you’ve had a rough day,” he said.

  He started sweeping the broken glass.

  “You don’t have to do that—” Nina started.

  “Let me be the gentleman, ok? I don’t get to very often.”

  Nina smirked then went to the back and grabbed three cold beers from the walk in.

  She handed them out then hopped onto the counter. She took a long drag from it, savoring the cold bitter hops before swallowing.

  “This is super fucked, you know that?” Nina finally said.

  Beck laughed. “Yeah, it’s super fucked. But that's this life isn't it? No matter which side of this war you're on, your life is always a little fucked.”

  “Does anyone want to let me in on what’s going on?” Melanie said.

  They both turned to her like they’d forgotten she was in the room, then instinctively back to each other, searching for the right explanation.

  Nina took a breath and tried. “Well, some stuff I was involved in back in my earlier years has resurfaced. Some of the bad guys are back on the scene. Graham here is trying to help.”

  Melanie blinked, not entirely understanding.

  “We can’t really share a whole lot of other information, Melanie,” Beck said. “I’d really appreciate it if you would keep this encounter between the three of us. Think you can do that?” Beck flashed that delectable smile and Melanie’s cheeks exploded beet red.

  “Of course. Not a word. I’m just going to pop into the back and call my mom. Check in on Tara.” She looked to Beck. “That’s my daughter. She’s almost three. I love her.” She smiled and scuttled away.

  Beck watched her curiously and looked back to Nina with amused curiosity.

  “She wants you to know she’s a good mom,” Nina said.

  Beck snickered. “Ok. Noted.”

  “God, this whole thing is so absurd,” Nina said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Just this. For one, I never thought I'd be having a beer with a DEA agent. In my own restaurant nonetheless.”

  Beck smirked but added nothing.

  “You don't have to do that you know. I have the cleaning crew in here first thing in the morning. They'll take care of it,” Nina said.

  Beck sighed and set down the broom. “That’s a relief. I was really only trying to be chivalrous. I don’t actually know how to clean anything, and I was likely going to make it worse.”

  He joined Nina on the counter.

  “You’re not safe here,” Beck said.

  “I’m not safe anywhere. Might as well be where I know where all the knives are hidden.”

  She grinned and finished her beer.

  “You going to be okay tonight? I hate to think that you’ll be alone.” Beck said

  “Melanie is staying with me tonight. Plus, I have a ferocious cat. I’ll be fine. I'm a survivor, Graham. Hang around long enough and you'll find that out.” Nina blasted her own words. It almost sounded like an invitation.

  “I hope I do get to find out,” Beck said. Nina thought she saw a small blush in his cheeks. She felt her own cheeks burn and she turned away to compose herself.

  “Alright. I guess I should get going. Are you sure you don’t want to report this? Not even for insurance?” Beck said.

  Nina shook her head. “I’d rather eat the damage than get the police involved. It’s not worth the risk.”

  “Be safe, ok? Lock all the doors.”

  “You got it,” Nina said, saluting him. Beck rolled his eyes.

  As Beck headed out the front door, he turned back. “You won’t hesitate to call me if anything else happens, will you?”

  “Sure thing. Got your number, Agent.”

  Part II

  Money laundering from illegal enterprises comprises 3% of the Global Gross Domestic Product—$1.6 trillion worldwide or $300 billion in the U.S. alone. The vast majority of this money derives from drug trafficking.

  - Financial Action Task Force (FATF)

  Chapter 12

  Nina barely managed two hours of sleep that night. She tossed in turned in her tangled, sweaty sheets. The scuttle of insects and the clandestine affairs of nocturnal creatures; every rustle, every breath had her shooting up in bed, wide awake. Finally, she gave up and pulled out a book. Not wanting to disturb Melanie on the couch, she stayed in her room until dawn broke. By six-thirty a.m., she was back at the restaurant, assessing the damage. Her temple throbbed and her lower back ached from the stress of it all.

  The restaurant looked possibly even worse the next morning. In her adrenaline-fused haze, she hadn’t noticed the extent of the damage. At least half the front tables were turned over, broken white plates still littered the floor like confetti, one of the neon signs had been smashed on the ground. Not to mention the busted front window. It was going to take hours to get this place cleaned up. They weren't going to be able to open until dinner tonight.

  Dammit, and during tourist season. Just what she needed. And how was she going to reasonably explain it to the staff?

  She removed the hours sign from the front door. The usual breakfast crowd would be there in another hour, and she have to turn them away. She directed the cleanup crew where to go.

  This restaurant had been the one good thing she’d done in her adult life. Its walls had been a refuge for young women who needed a second chance. For herself needing a second chance. She had tried so hard to build a place that was clean and safe, but also fun. A place that could be part of the community, put down roots. For the girls to find themselves again. And that bastard had trashed it.

  The front door bells jingled and Brooklyn stepped in, already dressed in her serving uniform—high-waisted black shorts and suspenders over a tight white T-shirt. A red bandanna in her blonde hair, red converse. Even at this crack of dawn hour, she had a full face of perfect makeup, looking effortless and put together, a Hollywood pinup from another era. Brooklyn never showed up unprepared or disheveled. And considering who Nina worked with, that was saying a lot. Half the time, the girls showed up drunk from the night before. Helping recovering addicts was no easy task.

  “Jesus Christ!” Brooklyn shrieked as she stepped into the restaurant. “Did we get robbed?” She gently stepped her red sneakers over the debris and examined the mess.

  Brooklyn carefully navigated the broken plates and toppled chairs.

  Nina hesitated for a moment. The best answer was a half-truth at least. “Yeah kinda. I mean it was an attempted, but he didn't get what he came for.” That wasn't a lie, Nina thought. She wasn’t sure what exactly the man was after, but she was certain he’d gone away less than satisfied.

  “Holy shit. Did the cops come? Did you make a statement?” Brooklyn's blue eyes went wide as baby moons.

  Nina laughed. Brooklyn thought everything was going to turn into a real-life episode of Law and Order. It actually just might, Nina thought wryly.

  “Um yeah, the cops did come. I lucked out, there was a patrol in the neighborhood. He heard my shouts and came in. Scared the guy off.”

  “Well done, Mr. Cop. Did you buy him a drink at least?” Brooklyn said.

  Nina stiffened. Despite Brooklyn’s obvious jest, it struck a chord.

  The previous night rolled through her mind. Something strange had passed between her and Graham. Something like mutual understanding. Something like…chemistry. She shook it off. She was an idiot to think of Graham as anything but an adversary. The guy was as likely to get her killed as Luther had been. Just because a guy got your lady bits going, didn’t mean he was
on your side.

  “Hey, Nina,” Brooklyn waved a hand in front of Nina's face. “What’s going on? You're being so weird.”

  “Huh? Oh just a lot of weird stuff has happened lately. It’s messing with my head,” Nina said.

  Brooklyn put a hand on Nina’s head. “No, I mean what's really going on?”

  “Why would you think there was something going on?” Nina heard the stiffness in her tone.

  “I don’t know, maybe because you're getting creepy transients at your door in the middle of the night at your house, and the restaurant suddenly gets robbed. I mean, who robs a restaurant?”

  Nina chewed her lip. None of it could easily be explained, she realized that. Would Brooklyn ever believe it was all coincidence? But how could she sum it up in one clean sentence?

  Well, truth is Brooklyn, I used to be known as The Cat—the girlfriend and right hand to Northern California’s leading drug kingpin. I turned on him, getting him killed, then served three years in prison for it. Now his old cronies are back and want me dead and conversely the DEA wants me to cooperate in a new sting operation. So, what should we serve for the daily special?

  “Come on Nina, I thought we were friends,” Brooklyn said.

  Nina ran a hand through her hair. She took a breath and tried. “Of course we are. It’s just…ok, the truth is that I have this ex-boyfriend.” God it sounded so trite.

  “Oh,” Brooklyn said. She sat and looked up at Nina expectantly as though she were about to watch a performance.

  “So yeah, I have this ex-boyfriend who was kind of trouble. And you know he's just causing me some problems.”

  “Like stalking you?” Brooklyn said.

  “Yeah, kinda like stalking. Well, I mean, actually he’s dead, but his friends are kind of stalking. Look, it’s a long story and I can’t really explain it. But it's okay, I have it under control. I've got the police involved. They’re on it.”

  “Jesus. That sounds like some pretty serious shit, Nina. Be careful.”

  “I'm being careful.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Brooklyn said.

  Nina’s heart warmed at the offer. She needed to remind herself that she had people in her life loyal to her, people who cared. Brooklyn was the best friend she had, but she still held up her guard. She couldn’t let anyone close to her get involved. Anyone who touched this thing might wind up dead.

  She took Brooklyn’s hand and squeezed. “Thanks for listening. Everything is going to be ok though. So don’t worry, ok? Let’s just get this place cleaned up so we can open for dinner.”

  

  By two, the place was starting to look normal again. The lunch staff eagerly hustled to clear the debris, most of them either finding it exciting that their little restaurant was the victim of a crime or unaffected from years of growing up with home break-ins.

  Nina’s phone buzzed with a text from Beck.

  How are things today? You feeling okay?

  Nina ran her thumb over the screen, taking in the words of concern. She may be imagining things, but it felt like there was more than professional worry behind them.

  She typed back. Things are fine. We picked up the pieces. Pretty boring day otherwise.

  He wrote back. You free later tonight? I’d like to check in on you?

  Business or pleasure? She said with a little :-).

  Beck responded back with a :-). Best to keep it all business. Just want to see how things are.

  Sure. I can leave the dinner shift to Reina tonight. We'll go get a beer somewhere.

  It's a very professional date, Beck wrote back.

  

  Beck and Nina settled into a bar high top at Tahoe Brewing Company. It was a mellow night, the low buzz of chatter and laughter and placid music hummed in the background.

  Nina’s stomach rolled and twisted as she settled in across from Beck. The sensation of wings beating against her insides kept her on edge. Was that nerves? Her black motorcycle boots tapped in rapid staccato against the stool and she pressed down on her thigh to calm herself.

  Beck ordered a tall pale ale and Nina a Jamison rocks. They clutched their drinks as they peeled away the layers of awkwardness.

  “So what's all this business you need to discuss?” Nina finally said.

  “Just wanted to check in on you.”

  “You treat all your suspects with such a gentle hand?”

  “You’re not a suspect, Nina.”

  “Then what am I? A co-conspirator?”

  Beck snickered and shook his head. He took a long sip of his draft beer. “We call you an asset.”

  Nina raised her eyebrows. “Sounds nefarious.”

  “You’re important to the case, Nina. I think you know that. And you know that I want your cooperation. But I also want to make sure you're okay. You won't be a good asset to us if you have a mental breakdown over this.”

  “Free psychotherapy.”

  “I know a thing or two about PTSD and how it continues to affect you years after the fact.”

  Nina tensed. “I don’t have PTSD,” she snapped.

  Beck blinked a few times as though waiting for her to retract.

  “I don’t,” she went on. “It’s not like I fought a war.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “What’s your point, Beck?” Nina swirled the ice in her glass, then drained it.

  “My point is that I understand that by pulling you back into this, we’re asking you to relive your trauma. We’re asking you to go back to the thing that broke you.”

  Nine lowered her eyes, unable to meet his. It was like they stripped away the layers of her, peeling back each one until her vulnerability was exposed, a gaping wound, raw and bleeding for the touch.

  “But all that said, we still have to ask it of you.”

  “I know. And I said I’d cooperate. So let’s not talk it to death, ok?” Nina said.

  “You're staying remarkably calm through this. I've seen a lot of people get out and fall to pieces the moment they get that fresh air,” Beck said.

  “I don’t really see another option. Losing my shit doesn't help anything. I have to keep a clear head. Stay focused. I've worked hard to get where I am, to rebuild my life. I don't think you have any idea how hard that was.”

  “I think I might. I’ve been to the dark place, too, Nina. Not quite in the same way, but I’ve had to learn to live again.”

  Nina tilted her head and studied him. “Iraq?”

  Beck nodded. “How’d you know?”

  “Back to the wall, always looking about, eyes scanning. A lot of psychological jargon—clearly been to therapy. You’re the right age.”

  “You’d make a great profiler.”

  “Too bad they don’t admit criminals to FBI school.”

  Beck snorted a laugh.

  “How’d you get the strength to rebuild your life so well?” Beck asked.

  Tendrils of heat crept through her at the compliment. But then she thought of all the broken pieces of her life.

  “I promise it’s not all put back together as well as it looks. Still a lot of cracks. But I didn’t want to live the rest of my life in fear. And until I got some control, got some confidence, I knew I would. I fear I’m forever a work in progress though.”

  Beck smiled. “I really respect that, Nina. There are a lot of women in your situation—-a lot of men in your situation—people who get mixed up with people like Luther and live in fear for the rest of their lives. I can't change that. But I can help you. We can put the right people behind bars.”

  There is no one like Luther, Nina thought. But she held the sentiment back. She could never explain Luther’s power to anyone who hadn’t met him. Luther was a drug, a mastermind, a warlock. He’d known exactly what you were thinking, the darkest parts of your soul, and he used it to bend you until you broke.

  “Why’d you come back here?” Beck went on. “After…you know, you got out.”

  Nina chewed on the
question she’d asked herself so many times. Her mind conjured the lake, a vivid shimmering expanse of diamond blue.

  Tahoe Village and the surrounding small towns never had the nightmares that big cities got: the serial killers, gang violence, streets lined with bodies thick as autumn leaves. But with the drug crisis spreading like a plague, Nina was afraid it was only a matter of time. The area was changing faster than their minds or resources could handle. The economic boom of the casinos and ski resorts had drawn investors like ants to the picnic. But the crash of ‘08 had all but devastated the Lake, leaving it ripe for corruption.

  The growth had birthed too many people with private chalets and conversely too many people crushed into cockroachy apartments, way too many loathing their lives in fluorescent cubicles, trying to sell said expensive chalets. The community began to fracture under the weight of it all. By the time Nina had gone to prison, she’d felt the high sing of madness in the air, the area hunching and twitching like a rabid dog building toward rampage. Sooner or later, it was all going to come crashing down on itself.

  She refocused on Beck. It was hard to explain her connection to the place. It was a piece of her.

  “Tahoe, a sweet-sounding word if there ever was one, is the Anglo mispronunciation of Da ow ga, the Washoe Indian word for lake,” she said in response. “We have a pretty intense history here, you know. A lot of people don’t realize the significant impact Lake Tahoe had to northern California. Sinatra had a resort here and it became a playground for his rat pack. Even Kennedy supposedly met Marilyn here.”

  “Is that true?” Beck asked.

  Nina smiled like a child with juicy gossip and shrugged. “No one knows. But it’s a fun story to think about. The lake is a magical place.”

  Beck laughed. “You really love it here, don’t you?”

  Nina met his eyes. “It’s my home. I won’t abandon her just because I made some mistakes. Instead, I endeavor to prove myself worthy of her.”

  “Is your family still here?”

  Nina’s body tensed at the mention. She sipped her drink for a moment before answering. She pictured Cammy with her perfect life—reliable husband, beautiful children. Mom’s approval.