by Cate Holahan
“How much?”
“Um . . . twenty thousand. She’s not his. She’ll get the money and my aunt in New York will get custody. If he thinks I died, I can be with her and we’ll have enough to start over.” The lies poured out like water from a tap. “You can pick me up from the water and take me to Bimini this evening. I’ll make sure that, when the policy pays, you’ll get a bonus.”
The captain stood straight. His thick tongue licked the fur above his mouth. Nerves vibrated my whole body. I held on to the boat’s metal side and closed my eyes, trying to make the world stop spinning, to steady myself enough to stand.
My head snapped back. The captain’s hand was in my hair. Steel pressed against my throat. Sunglasses and the thick blond mustache filled my vision. “I will wait out in the water to meet you at eight. And if you are not swimming toward me, then I’ll make sure you are floating facedown later. We have people on every boat.”
I feared speaking would cause the knife to nick my jugular. I blinked twice.
He lowered the blade and released my hair. “I’m not waiting around for any bonus. Forget the straw bag.” He pointed at me with the steel tip. “You, my lady, seem like a real shopper. You’re going to return with a suitcase.”
33
December 1
That was never the plan.
The words echoed in Ryan’s head along with a litany of questions. What had been the plan? Who had done the planning? Why would the man tell Ana that something had changed before killing her?
Ryan tried to imagine the words emerging from a hit man’s mouth. Perhaps Michael’s hired killer had initially told Ana that, if she just stopped blackmailing her boss, he’d leave her alone. Then when she’d calmed down, he’d thrown her overboard, making it clear that he’d always intended to kill her.
Whatever the reason for the words, Ryan had to tell Vivienne. Ana had been murdered. There could be no doubt now.
He shuffled behind halting tourists, stuck behind their starry-eyed slowness as they admired New York City in all her holiday finery. Of course, his old precinct had to be located just blocks from where a crystal-encrusted snowflake sparkled over Fifth Avenue, calling shoppers to store windows like that ancient light over Bethlehem. Capitalism, the new Catholicism.
A woman scowled as he walked in front of her mugging for a photo. He pretended not to notice. Wasn’t there a rule about giving a cripple a break during the holidays? When he got to the corner, he cut left, freeing himself from the crowds. He limped faster. Vivienne needed to know what the actor had heard. The case wasn’t about ISI anymore. A woman had been murdered. He needed justice done.
Ryan hobbled through the precinct entrance to a waiting metal detector. The contents of his pockets fell into a plastic bucket. A baby-faced young man at the information desk asked his name. Ryan didn’t recognize the officer, but it didn’t surprise him. New recruits got desk duty. He picked out his PI badge from the bucket and dropped Vivienne’s name.
The kid directed him to a line of gray, plastic chairs. He sat and people watched, eyeballing the boys in blue as they strode past him to the elevators, their heavy belts weighing on their hips, causing them to walk with a wider stance than most people. Ryan had never belonged with the gun-carrying crowd, though he and Vivienne had clicked. She’d been different.
She came down after a few minutes wearing a black blazer, opened to reveal dark jeggings and a tucked-in tank. Her badge was clipped to her belt. Ryan could see her gun holster peaking from beneath her jacket. He looked over her shoulder. Fortunately, David didn’t follow her. Ryan liked working with his partner alone.
“I fear you’re going to be disappointed in me.” Vivienne’s heeled boots struck the linoleum floor. “I haven’t called because I don’t have anything good.”
“Maybe I can cheer you up, then.”
They walked south on Third Avenue. A sandwich shop on the corner of Fiftieth made a decent cup of coffee and a much-missed pastrami on rye. They’d always eaten there. He hadn’t since quitting the force.
Vivienne buttoned her blazer as she walked beside him. His slow pace made the act fluid, undoubtedly as easy as if she had stood still. The fabric pulled tight over her small breasts. Ryan tried not to notice.
“Don’t keep me in suspense. What do you have?”
“The guest in the stateroom next to the Bacons heard Ana talking with a man right before she fell. The guy said something about things not going according to plan.”
Vivienne stopped walking to gape at him. “The Bahamian police were sitting on this?”
“Nah. The witness is a celebrity. Daniel Matthew? He didn’t come forward before. Afraid of bad press.”
Vivienne’s face opened with recognition. “He’s the guy dating that pop star, what’s her name? Millie, Mala?”
“You follow that crap?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” She flushed. “Don’t judge me. You can’t buy eggs without seeing his face.”
“Yeah, well, I guess since he was out of his room when Ana fell, the Maritime Authority didn’t bother really grilling him. And he didn’t want to volunteer what he’d heard for fear that it would damage his image to be associated with a dead woman.”
“Real chivalrous guy.”
“At least he feels guilty. He said he’d testify.”
They passed a Santa Claus ringing a Salvation Army bell at the corner. His alms call was a familiar sound of the season, like commercials to see the Rockettes. Amazing how the Salvation Army managed to get so many folks in red velvet each year when they didn’t pay or, at best, offered minimum wage.
He waited until they escaped the ringing to speak again. “How’s it going with Michael?”
Vivienne grimaced. “According to the lawyer, wifey will swear that she was with him the whole time and that they only left the boat for a couple hours to go shopping in Grand Bahama before heading to Paradise Island. They gave us a list of shopkeepers that they visited. Calls checked out. But Michael has the money to make sure they would.”
“What about Pinder?”
“Nothing promising. Though his bank account is based in the Bahamas, most of the withdrawals are made here. My colleagues in the human trafficking unit say he runs a high-end escort service. Best guess? That twenty thousand was to pay for Michael’s date night companions. The bartender said he brought in pros every week or so, right?”
“Shit.”
“I know. If I can’t find a financial link, I’m going to have to drop the case or, given what you got with this actor guy, hand it back to the FBI, I guess.” She threw up a hand. “Not that the bureau showed much interest before.”
They reached the restaurant. Ryan pulled back the frosted glass door and held it wide for Vivienne. She strode through without acknowledging his politeness. A woman like her would be used to doors opening.
She got in line to order. He shuffled beside her a moment later, passing the stocky fellow that had managed to reach the queue ahead of him, even though Ryan had been first through the door. As many eateries as there were in Manhattan, the good places always got packed around noon.
He noticed the man looking at him, wondering if he’d cut ahead. Ryan leaned toward his old partner. “So, anything else suspicious in Michael’s expenditures?”
“No big withdrawals. But he’s a smart guy. He could have been hoarding a few thousand from each ATM visit until he had enough to pay someone. And he probably had cash in his house.”
“That’s a lot of planning.”
“He had a week from when Ana shook him down.” She took a step toward the register. “I could go for an iced latte. You want the pastrami, right?”
He was pleased that she remembered his favorite order. “And iced tea. Diet.” He patted his stomach, which had rounded since the leg injury. He wasn’t fat, but he’d once been built like a brick wall. The leg made exercise difficult.
Vivienne wrinkled her nose. “They make those diet drinks with the fake, cancer-causing sugar, you k
now?”
“Still better than diabetes.”
Vivienne placed their order. They stepped to the side of the counter, allowing the next person to order his lunch choices. Ryan watched his sandwich slide onto a panini press behind the coffee maker. The scent of sizzling deli meat filled the air.
“You given any thought to what I said about the husband?”
Vivienne’s half-moon eyes pulled his attention away from lunch. He scratched behind his ear, uncomfortable that he would have to disagree with his partner’s instincts. “I know you don’t like him, Viv. I didn’t at first either. But he’s got an alibi. Three people saw him.”
“You talk to them?”
“Called them all. Left messages. They’re on my agenda for today.”
She sucked her teeth. “He’s too cool for someone who just lost his wife.”
Ryan watched the barista/cashier make Vivienne’s coffee. “It seems things weren’t going that well for them before. The neighbor’s pretty sure that Tom was cheating with a woman from a local wine store. She has a picture that doesn’t prove it, but probably would have pissed off his wife. And that girl that is always over helping him out, Eve. Seems to have a major crush. He might be sleeping with her now. She was jealous when I asked her if she knew about the wine store clerk.”
Vivienne folded her arms across her chest. “You’re going to the wine store, right?”
“It’s on the list.”
“I’ll go with you. Sometimes women can get a better sense about these things.”
“What do you mean?”
“Love triangles, sleeping around.”
“You don’t think I can tell when someone’s sleeping around?”
She raised both her eyebrows. “Why did you get divorced?”
The blood rushed to Ryan’s head, so fast he felt woozy. “Hey, Leslie wasn’t fucking anyone else. She just didn’t want to be my nursemaid.” Vivienne winced. She swore all the time, but Ryan knew that f-bombs sounded harder coming from him. He watched his language, but when he cursed, he meant it.
Vivienne raised both hands in surrender. “I don’t know what Les was or wasn’t doing. I’d like to go to the wine store. That’s all I’m saying.”
He stared at her, hating that they were such good friends that she felt entitled to get personal in a professional conversation, hating that she was probably right. Leslie had hooked up with a new man within a month of moving. It had been too convenient, him being from New Jersey and also needing to relocate to California.
“Like I said, I don’t know anything.” Vivienne turned her attention to the counter. Her coffee was there. She grabbed for it.
The sandwich arrived in a paper bag. Viv pushed a twenty onto the table. Ryan no longer felt hungry. He had an urge to call Leslie and pick a fight. Not over sleeping with someone—you couldn’t accuse an ex of that unless you had some serious proof. Maybe over Angie. Leslie hadn’t been getting her to return calls.
He took the paper bag and his iced tea. “Thanks. I’ll let you get back to it.”
Vivienne pouted at him. “I shouldn’t have implied anything. Your ex just gave me a bored housewife vibe before you got shot.” She touched his shoulder. He shrugged off her hand. “It was probably me being jealous. Les took so much of your attention. I didn’t think she was appreciative.”
Jealous? Ryan had never considered that Vivienne might have had a thing for him when he was married. He pushed away his surprise with more anger. He didn’t have any desire to sit across from his ex-partner right now. Again, he gestured with the sandwich bag. “I’ll call you about the wine store. Plan on Wednesday.”
Vivienne frowned. “Okay. I’ll see you then.”
*
Despite the cold stiffening his bad leg, Ryan needed to walk. He went east, toward First Avenue and the river. There was a park there, one of those green spaces that popped up in gentrified neighborhoods along with luxury high-rises. The water would be calming.
He entered the esplanade on Fifty-First Street and descended the stairs to a cobblestone boardwalk. Trees sprouted from brick circles within the walkway. Iron benches lined a wall, facing the water. The cold metal seemed to pierce his suit pants as he sat, slicing into his thighs. He leaned on one butt cheek and stretched his injured leg out in front of him, letting the air numb the pain.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Ryan checked the screen, half expecting Vivienne’s number. He didn’t recognize the digits, though the area code was Long Island. He answered with his name and full title for ISI.
“Yeah, I’m returning your call. Ben Harris, one of the guys who saw the husband of the woman who fell.”
Ryan covered the receiver with his palm, blocking the wind ricocheting off the water. He thanked Ben for returning the message, buying time to locate his notepad in his pants pocket and the pen in his jacket.
“I got Todd here too, on speaker. We were vacationing together. He’s the other witness.”
“Not together together,” Todd clarified, with a bit of a surfer dude accent. “Bros weekend. Looking for a college-girls-gone-wild type of thing.”
“Got it.” Ryan had his pen ready now. “So you told authorities that you saw Tom Bacon on the pool deck around seven thirty PM when his wife fell overboard?”
“Yeah. We saw him. Light-brown hair, sunglasses. Medium build. Tight douchebag shorts.”
“Old. Probably forty.”
Forty? Tom was thirty-four, but he didn’t look older than thirty. Did he seem ancient to these guys because they were barely out of college?
“Wouldn’t have necessarily noticed him, but he was talking to this fine redhead.”
“Fa-oin. Huge rack.”
One of them started laughing. “Dude, you know when they say someone has sweet melons? Well, she had cantaloupes.”
The other chuckled, a wheezing chortle that belonged on a cartoon character. “Only cantaloupe should start with a D. Because she definitely had double Ds.”
“Dude.”
Ryan heard hands slap. He cleared his throat, interrupting the useless banter. “You said the guy she was talking to was wearing sunglasses?”
“Yeah. The Bahamas are super sunny.”
They didn’t get where he was going with his line of questioning. The two probably couldn’t intuit much of anything at the moment. If he wasn’t mistaken, they’d called him while baked. The accent he’d heard wasn’t surfer dude. It was stoner. “But you were still able to recognize the guy as Tom, even though he wore sunglasses. How?”
“Well, it wasn’t that hard. I mean, the redhead said she was talking to him and she was staring at his face the whole time.”
“And we definitely saw her talking to some guy, for a really long time.”
“Girl liked old douches, I guess.”
Ryan cursed in his head. Witnesses like these were what was wrong with the criminal justice system. “When you two saw the girl and this guy in the sunglasses, were you sober?”
“What?”
Ryan pulled the phone away from his mouth and dropped an f-bomb in the wind. Harold and Kumar couldn’t have made a reliable identification. He took a breath and returned the speaker to his lips. “Had you been drinking?”
“Not much.”
“We had better stuff.”
“Yeah, boy.”
Ryan raised his voice. “Level with me. Would it be a stretch to say that your identification of Tom was mostly based on a hazy image of a beautiful woman speaking to a thirty- to fortysomething Caucasian man who may or may not have been Tom, and this woman’s insistence that it was that guy?”
“Well, yeah, but why would she lie?”
Ryan told them the police would need to formally interview them and hung up. He stared out at the river rushing past the walkway. The fast-moving current hid the garbage beneath, but it was there. Tires. Plastic bags. Maybe bodies. All lies waiting to surface.
Ryan didn’t know why the redhead would fabricate an alibi for Tom. But he was go
ing to find out.
34
August 29
I sat on the beach, pretending to admire the endless jewel-toned sea as I waited for my boat to reopen its door. Milky sand, warm as a baby’s bottle and soft as talcum powder, snuggled between my bare thighs and slipped into the crotch of my swimsuit. Warm wind tickled my neck. This was paradise.
I’d never felt so trapped. I’d gone to bed with the devil. Several devils: the captain, the New Jersey smugglers, Michael. And I’d done so because I was no angel. There had to be a way to secure my parents’ safety, my husband’s sanity, and Sophia’s future without sacrificing my life as I knew it. I hadn’t looked hard enough. In the wake of losing my job, I’d clung to Tom’s promise to make everything return to the way it was when we’d been rich.
Tom’s idea of us on easy street in some Brazilian beach house was an illusion. Once I went through with this, nothing would be simple again. I’d be an identity-less, fraud-perpetrating drug smuggler for the rest of my days. Wealth couldn’t really be worth life as an underground criminal.
There were alternatives. We could file for bankruptcy and start over on a smaller scale. Tom could switch careers. I could get a job as a business administrator for another firm, one located in a cheaper state, far from the reach of the Newark smugglers. My parents could sell their apartment back to the condo company and use that money to move away to someplace rural where they could live out their retirement on whatever they got for the place, plus whatever little I could afford to send back.
I returned to the boat at five thirty, resolved to call everything off. As dangerous as the captain had seemed with a knife to my throat, he couldn’t really hurt me on the ship, not as long as Tom was around as a witness, or as my muscular, six-foot-two bodyguard. And the cruise terminal was crawling with cops. Once I got back home, I’d be protected—at least for a little while. The smugglers didn’t even have my real name.
As I shuffled up the gangplank, pain pulsed in my lower abdomen, a wrenching menstrual ache, followed by wetness in my bikini bottom. My period had arrived. Its presence confirmed what I’d already decided; I couldn’t go overboard. Jumping into shark-infested waters while smelling of blood would be more insane than any of the crazy things I’d done up to this point.
