Les Recidivists (Chance Assassin Book 2)

by Nicole Castle

  He cradled her head, her hair unkempt. Her outfit was not one for grieving, or winter: a sleeveless champagne colored silk dress that looked conservative compared to her normal style. Had Silva’s death come suddenly, an unexpected turn for the worse before he could give them the answers they sought? So suddenly she couldn’t grab a coat?

  Casey helped her to sit on the bed, gently placing the earbuds in her perfect seashell ears, lighting one of the few cigarettes that he hadn’t smoked in her absence. She laid her head in his lap, sniffling to the Sex Pistols. He stroked her hair, the color as vibrant as he remembered, primary red with just a touch of walnut brown. Her makeup was smeared. She looked beautiful. He felt awful about it, but he couldn’t stop smiling.

  “He killed him,” she said finally, when her cigarette was nothing more than a line of gray ash attached to the filter.

  “Frank?” he asked in disbelief. Why would Frank kill Silva?

  “No. Vincent.”

  Casey laughed. “Vincent wouldn’t do that.”

  She rolled onto her back, her eyes puffy and defensive. Her ashes fell across her cheek. He brushed them away. “He was there, Casey! I saw him. He had blood on his hands.”

  “Bella, if he had killed him, do you really think he would’ve gotten caught? I know Vincent. He could get into trouble in his sleep. And he’s notorious for walking in at the worst possible time.”

  “Then who? They bashed his head in!”

  Bashed his head in. That didn’t sound like Vincent at all. Not with the amount of head trauma he was still recovering from. He’d looked like he was under the influence of a migraine when Frank brought him in the house. He’d also been wearing eyeliner. Maybe Vincent had killed Silva. It seemed more likely than him wearing makeup.

  “There was another guy,” Bella said. She looked around frantically like she was attempting to remember what had happened, to picture something she didn’t understand. “Frankie shot him! It must’ve been him!”

  “It’s okay,” he soothed, trying to bring her back to the present. She gradually became calm again, her eyes coming back into focus. “Do you want me to come with you to the funeral?”

  “NO!” Bella screamed. She sat up and roughly grabbed his sweater, pulling him so close their noses bumped together. She sighed and released him, smoothing the cloth down against his chest. “You can’t. I don’t want you near them. You’re too good for them.”

  “You are too.”

  She rolled her eyes, letting them fall on the portrait he’d painted. Bella gasped, crawling off the bed and cautiously approaching it. “You did it.” She raised her hand to touch it but stopped herself.

  Casey went to stand behind her. He took her hand in his and brought it to the canvas. “I figured you out.”

  Bella laughed frantically, putting both hands on it, touching her painted face and her red dress. She screamed and jumped into his arms. “It’s beautiful, Casey!”

  He kissed her forehead. “It’s you.”

  “It’s me.” She looked back to the painting, running her hands along the red dress again. “I wish Silva could see this.”

  “What was he like?”

  “He was very calm,” she said, smiling just enough to let it reach her eyes. “Men who never respected anyone respected him. He was sweet. And fucking smart. He was…he was a lot like you, actually.”

  “Me?” he asked in disbelief. Bella nodded. He could see that she was starting to tear up again. He had to think fast. “Maybe I should apply for the position, since it’s open now.”

  She scoffed. That was way better than crying.

  “I mean it. Then I can boss you around. I have an aunt in Georgia you could kill.”

  That familiar mischievous spark ignited behind her bloodshot eyes. “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah. And when you’re finished, bring me a sandwich.”

  Her eyes narrowed. For a second it looked like she might strike. “What type of sandwich?”

  He smiled. It was kinda fun bossing her around, even more so because he knew it wasn’t likely to ever happen again, play or not. “Peanut butter and jelly.”

  “Casey!” she groaned, hiding her face against his chest. “That is the least ferocious sandwich in the world!”

  “Well, I wasn’t finished. You didn’t ask what kind of jelly.”

  “What kind?”

  “Blackberry. Black, like my heart.”

  “Oh, I see. Do you want me to cut off the crusts?”

  “No, silly,” he said. “You have to use a cookie cutter to get it in the shape of a dinosaur.”

  “Cookie cutter?” She winced once more at his wimp of a sandwich.

  “Yeah. T-Rex. King of the dinosaurs.”

  “Is that how your mother used to make your sandwiches?”

  “What do you mean used to?”

  She laughed, smacking him playfully but hard. Then she wiped some of her smeared mascara off his shirt. “Your mother hates me.”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  “Do you?” she asked, looking up at him with hostility in her eyes where only vulnerability would’ve been in anyone else. But there was vulnerability there, and he sensed an apology that may never make it past her lips.

  “No, Bella. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t kill my dad.”

  She moved back to the bed and lit another cigarette. “Silva said I didn’t have to.”

  “He did?” he asked confusedly. “But what does that mean? That someone else…”

  “No one else gets assigned my fucking hits!” she snapped. “It means whoever ordered it is dead, or soon fucking will be. Because Silva loved me, and nobody makes me do anything I don’t wanna fucking do.”

  He smiled. “So he’s safe? The hit’s canceled?”

  “He should stay here for awhile just to be sure. If anyone he knows dies, that’ll tell us who ordered it.”

  He squealed and squeezed her. “What if my father ordered the hit?” According to his mother, Frank hadn’t even humored the idea before shooting it down and leaving it writhing on the ground in pieces. But Casey had a feeling it had been because he was the one who’d come up with it.

  “Your father had a million pounds and he never paid child support?”

  He gasped. “A mill—”

  “You think I’m fucking cheap?”

  “No, I…”

  “And anyway Silva would’ve canceled it if the client died. How the fuck else would we get paid the other half?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe the client should setup an escrow account or something beforehand.”

  “I never thought of that. You’re actually not bad at this.”

  “See, I could totally do the job,” he joked, barely getting out a request for crunchy peanut butter before she attacked him.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Frank sat before the fire, his body chilled despite the heat of the flames. Vincent had not wanted company, and Frank knew this was because of his comment, telling Bella that V wasn’t capable of killing Silva while his own guilt over the murder grew.

  Never in all his life had a hit gone so badly. Even his first murder at the age of twelve, one that was so muddled it landed him in an institution for over two years, had not been as incompetently fulfilled as Silva’s. They were lucky to have got out alive. He supposed he would owe Joe a favor, if they were ever to meet again.

  Frank finished his third glass of wine in the hour they’d been home, craving the numbness that seemed to move further and further out of reach. He lit another cigarette and re-opened Les Miserables, trying again to immerse himself in another life. He had always enjoyed the book, and admired the convict anti-hero Jean Valjean. But it wasn’t until he met Casey that he had truly related to the main character, had seen where he too could find redemption in helping a single mother and her remarkably high-spirited child.

  He had not actually wished Maggie harm, although for a very, very long time he had wanted Casey for himself; his Cosette, to take care of and b
ring happiness into his undeserving criminal heart. Like Cosette, Casey had fallen in love, and would leave him. Had left him. He hurled the book into the fire. He may never read Les Miserables again.

  The wine bottle was empty. Perhaps he had drunk more than he thought. It had little effect on him. He felt alert. Too alert. And he knew the footsteps to his left belonged to Casey, that bubbling, bouncing step.

  Frank turned his face closer to the fire. Part of him hoped Casey would get the hint and leave him to his solitude. Part of him hoped that Casey brought another bottle of wine. “Ça va?” Casey asked.

  He glanced up, feeling every day of his thirty-five years and then some. He gave an acknowledging nod and turned back toward the glow of the fireplace. No wine. The kid’s hands were empty.

  “Comment se fait-Vincent?”

  “Headache,” he said, trying to ignore how close Casey was standing. Casey’s hand was resting on the back of Frank’s chair and he was looking down at him with concern, that worried expression on his face. The expression which made Casey look so much like his mother, and reminded Frank that he was not, and never would be a true part of their family. “How is Bella?” he asked, flinching slightly after grasping what he had said. He had placed Bella in the same category as Vincent. Significant other. Why had he done that?

  “She’s kind of a mess.” Casey gave an uncomfortable, but still somehow cheerful laugh. “Are you okay?”

  In that moment Casey became an adult in Frank’s eyes, no longer the child prodigy sketching portraits of killers. “I am far from okay, kiddo,” he sighed, trying to force his way back to when Casey was still an innocent. And Frank realized for the first time how much affection there was in the term kiddo, a term Charlie had used on him until the day he died. Maybe it was all right for Casey to still be kiddo, together with Bella.

  “Bell thinks you’re going to the funeral with her.”

  Frank put his head in his hands. He had forgotten that stupid promise she forced him to make. It would not be as easily broken as the one he made to Vincent.

  Casey sat on the arm of the chair and affectionately roughed up Frank’s hair. “Do you remember the day we met?”

  “Night,” Frank corrected.

  “Day. It was after midnight.”

  Frank smiled. Night versus day was the essential difference between him and Casey. It was always daylight in Casey’s world, always bright. And yet they had so much in common. Even their birthdays were close, only about two weeks apart. Worlds apart.

  It had terrified him to think that Casey might end up like him, although seemingly inevitable. Frank had dreamt of him, of something happening to Maggie and Casey becoming feral. Rabid. That was why Frank had claimed them. Casey more than Maggie, ready to keep him bright. Keep him him. But Frank also felt alone in this, secretly wanting it to happen, wanting Casey not as a companion in the life he led, but as proof of how things could be different. Proof that Frank was not necessarily meant for what became of him. Because the guilt he felt was never over killing. It was the lack of it, the remorselessness, which spoke of true evil.

  And yet here was Vincent, who enjoyed killing for the thrill and for the strength it gave him, and Frank saw him as nothing less than an angel of death. L’ange de la mort.

  “You should have been in bed.” Frank remembered the kid wearing pajamas, dropped off at his mother’s work by an uncaring father. The man claimed to have better things to do than babysit his own son. Casey was a treasure even then, twelve years old with purple tinted hair, and that ridiculous hat he still wore. Maggie’s boss had thrown a fit, claiming the poor kid would disturb the customers. Frank was the only customer. He stood up for them. He could still remember how Casey smiled, the first time Frank had ever seen anything like it. And Casey had smiled at him! It had been months since anyone had done so, years since it was anyone without ulterior motive: waitresses performing for a tip, clerks handing over hotel room keys after receiving a cash deposit, or Charlie manipulating him—always manipulating him.

  “There’d be more blood than that,” Casey said, his voice dropping an octave and taking a serious tone as he mimicked Frank’s words. “That was the first thing you ever said to me.”

  It was true. Casey had been drawing Maggie’s boss on a napkin, using crayons to color blood as his head exploded. And Casey had thanked him, for the advice but also for defending his mother. “I thought you might be sick in the head,” Frank told him.

  Casey laughed. “I was a little boy, Frank. I was normal.”

  “Aren’t you normal now?” It concerned him that Casey had jumped to such a conclusion, had decided that his father must be guilty. Frank wanted to be reassured, for Casey to confirm that the poison Bella had given him was gone and he was back to thinking about paint and pretty things.

  “Normal for me.”

  Frank shook his head. It was a lie. Not deliberate, but a lie nonetheless. Six months ago, Casey never would have thought of such a thing, much less verbalized it.

  “I may be able to read your mood, Frank, but I can’t read your mind. What’s going on?”

  “Since the night—day we met, I have tried to keep you away from all of this.” He should have stayed away from them. Given Maggie what she needed and disappeared. Maggie should have accepted his charity and locked the bloody door. But he did not say that. Casey would only argue with him, and he couldn’t bear it. “How could you think such a thing about your father?”

  “He’s the worst person I know,” Casey said.

  Frank scoffed, nearly laughing at the incredulousness. At the same time it was reassuring for Casey to think that Rick Harper, who was a terrible father and a useless human being, was the worst person he knew. But it was not the truth. “No, he is not.”

  “You mean you?” Casey said knowingly. Frank looked away. He could feel Silva’s journal inside his coat like the Tell-Tale Heart, the personal notes of a man he had just killed, pages of men and women he may be killing upon translation. “Some of the best things in my life are because of you.”

  “They are because of you, Case.”

  “No, I’d be painting with dollar store watercolors on the streets of Portland for cigarette money. I never would’ve met Alan.”

  “You would have met someone better.”

  “I never would’ve met Bella.”

  Frank shut his eyes. As if he didn’t have enough to feel guilty about.

  “What happened to Alan’s friend? The Italian. Paulo.”

  The Italian. Apart from colleagues, Frank had come across a great many people who were capable of killing another human being; ordinary people who would let instinct take over if required. He had seen it in Vincent before he even found out about the body V had left behind, and he had seen it in Maggie, a spark that exists in most parents, protection for their children at any cost. Casey’s father, despite being a soldier, was not capable. Not directly. Not on his own. He would follow orders, or pay for it, but not get his hands dirty. Gideon was basically the same. He killed with a jury, though there was potential for murder in self-defense. Casey could not even kill by accident. But Paulo had been different. Paulo was violent, quick-tempered and sadistic. He reminded Frank of Silva’s son. The two of them could have been brothers: that dark, curly hair, the lean, muscular bodies. And the vanity, knowing they were beautiful, thinking their lovers undeserving. Silva’s son had been sadistic as well. He enjoyed beating up his young girlfriends just as Paulo liked brutalizing his older male lovers.

  Alan had a black eye and a broken wrist when they met. Paulo had threatened to kill him, likely more than once, and Alan had been a prime target for Charlie to demonstrate his problem-solving talents. Or rather, to demonstrate Frank’s talents. But Frank had learned all there was to know about Paulo within one afternoon of shadowing; following the Italian to his filthy apartment off Edgeware Road, the train going right outside the window, rats living in the cupboards. He had watched him get pissed at a seedy pub in the middle of the afternoo
n, then get into a fight with a man on the tube who mistakenly identified him as, and called him, a Paki.

  Out of curiosity Frank had decided to see what Charlie’s client was like, to watch him for a bit before chalking up the whole experience as one not worth the effort it would take to clean off his knife. Alan Barker had more than made up for Paulo’s insipidness. The man had books in his flat that Frank had not seen nor touched since he was a boy, some were even in French, well-worn and fragile just the way he preferred them. Alan had souvenirs as well and photographs of Paris, which Frank had not yet had the opportunity to visit.

  Alan did not seem disconcerted that his flat had been broken into by a man—boy, who had been paid to kill his lover. He had even flirted with him, not that Frank realized it at the time; being too naïve to fully understand what homosexuality meant, much less that the terms queen and camp had entirely different meanings when it came to men like Alan Barker.

  He had stayed in Alan’s flat all night, drinking tea to be polite although he detested it, and Alan gave him a fourth edition copy of Pride & Prejudice that had to be worth a fortune, simply because he caught him admiring it. Frank still had it in a safe deposit box, wrapped in a cloth, never opened. He looked at it from time to time. It still smelled like Alan’s flat. Like Earl Grey.

  Frank told Alan then that he would not kill his lover. He liked Alan and he did not want Alan to think of him that way. So he sat down with Paulo, a man twice his size and nearly twice his age, and suggested he leave the country. He suggested that Paulo’s family, his mother, two sisters, niece and nephew, would appreciate it if Frank did not have to send Paulo home in a series of small boxes. But Paulo was not very intelligent. Frank had known that about him from the beginning. It was unfortunate. Frank’s portion of the proceeds did not even cover the postage. “I would not tell Alan what happened to Paulo, why do you suppose I would tell you?”