by Ben Sanders
Stokes held the joint in two fingers, the tip tracing little circles, like he was coming up with something nuanced. He said, “Yeah. But this is like one of those what-do-you-call-it. Sunk costs.” He leaned in a fraction, like it would help the argument: “Like, I can’t unsniff the coke, so I gotta intervene.”
Miles thought about that, watching the lawyer’s place. It was two-story, rectangular in plan, a garage on the left and a portico midway down. He’d used the county’s architectural drawings to memorize the internal layout. Right now, there was a black Range Rover Sport parked out front, which he knew was the property of a Mr. Edward Rhys, an associate at a security firm called Hayman Coates. As far as Miles could tell, there were only three of them in the house: Covey, Rhys, and Covey’s wife, Marilyn. Marilyn had actually proved herself quite useful. The Division of Corporations listed her as a director at an accounting firm based in Queens. Miles had visited last week, broken into her car, and used an RF detector to tell him the frequency of her garage-door opener. One of Wynn’s guys had programmed another unit to the required signal, and now, in theory, Miles had keyless entry to the house.
He said, “Walter?”
“Mm-hm?”
“My experience, the answer to the problem is never ‘more drugs.’”
Stokes didn’t answer.
Miles said, “Great way to get noticed, too, lighting a match in a dark car.”
Stokes said, “They gonna see my teeth anyway,” and grinned to prove it, a faint gleam in the dark. But he put the joint away in his little joint pouch, whatever it was, and said, “Funny, you’re not really what I pictured.”
Miles didn’t answer, waited to hear what he was supposed to look like.
Stokes said, “Wynn told me you’re Mr. Meticulous, so I thought you’d be like, three back and sides and a clenched jaw.”
Miles said, “I got a clenched jaw, you just can’t see it with the beard.”
Stokes liked that. He laughed and said, “Yeah. You’re all right, man.”
Miles said, “That’s good.”
They’d been quiet the first twenty minutes, but now Stokes was warming up. He said, “You do this much?”
Miles said, “Every now and then.”
Stokes said, “I figured you must be like a pro or something, Wynn kind of said all the intel came through you, which was different. I mean, he normally coordinates, so sorta made me wonder what your background is…”
Miles said, “I’m a pro, but I’m not a regular, put it that way.”
Stokes turned his lip out and nodded. “That’s cool.” He smiled again. “Maybe the next guy wants to inhale a bit of the Mary Jane, you could let him know it’s off limits before he rolls the whole thing, know’m saying?”
Miles said, “Yeah. But my way was more memorable, right? Next time you want to light up on a job, you might have second thoughts.”
Stokes laughed again. “You lucky I’m not having second thoughts now.” He went quiet a moment and then said, “You know what I did before this?”
Miles did, but he shook his head anyway.
Stokes said, “I was with the cops, up in New Paltz? We used to go along to B-and-Es, not that often we actually solved one, you know? Hardly ever. So after a while, I just thought, Fuck it, I’m on the wrong side of the line.”
“You’re on the right side of it tonight.”
“Yeah? How’s that?”
Miles didn’t answer.
Stokes said, “I had this long-term goal when I was PD, I was gonna be Secret Service one day, guard the White House? Went down to D.C. this one time, see them in action, and get this: they make them go round on bicycles. Like, ballistics gear and assault rifles and shit, and they’re on a bike with pedals.”
“So you canned that idea.”
“Yeah, well, like. It’d piss you off, join the Secret Service thinking you’re gonna be the king of cool, and then they make you ride a fucking bicycle.”
Miles didn’t answer. He could see headlights on the cross street, coming up to Covey’s place.
Stokes said, “Mm, Audi. I had a spare hundred grand, I’d have me a bit of that. This isn’t actually the real rich area, you know? Gotta head about ten minutes that way”—he hiked a thumb—“gets real nice. Like, offshore trusts, butlers called Jenkins and shit.”
The car was a sedan, maybe an A8 model, Miles thought. It turned in to the lawyer’s driveway and idled for a moment, headlights bright as a UFO landing. Then the door rose and the car eased inside, into the vacant space beside Covey’s black Lexus.
Stokes said, “Where’s Mrs. Lawyer’s car?”
“Must’ve moved it.”
Stokes said, “What you listening to?”
Miles had a speaker bud in one ear, wired through his collar to the iPod in his pocket. He said, “Audiobook. The Luminaries. Eleanor Catton.”
“You keep it playing while you’re on the job?”
Miles said, “Depends on the job.”
“Dude I know, he’s a PI? Does that on stakeouts, listens to audiobooks on YouTube. Reckons he’s got through all of David Foster Wallace, just sitting in his car, waiting for shit to happen.”
The house’s ground-floor lights were on, but the blinds were down. Miles checked his pockets. He had the iPod, his hacked garage-door opener, and a slim fold of cash clipped to his hotel keycard. The Sig was on his belt, and he had a backup clip and lockpicks in his coat. He reached behind him to the backseat and felt around for his ski mask and tugged it on.
Stokes said, “That’s not bad, what is that?”
“Merino wool.”
“Yeah, I like it. Looks real light.”
Miles tugged the speaker from his ear and let it dangle at his collar, reached in his pocket to pause the iPod. The garage door was coming up now, a red tinge inside from the Audi’s brake lights. The drop was done, and now they were getting out of there.
Stokes said, “They don’t mess around, do they?”
Miles said, “You got a gun?”
Stokes patted his right hip. “Colt .45. America’s finest.”
“You know how to drive a car?”
Stokes scoffed. “Yeah, that’s the one thing I just never got around to learning.”
Miles looked at him, waiting.
Stokes said, “Yeah, Christ, I know how to drive a car.”
“Good. When you see me come out of the house, come on over and pick me up.”
“What, you going in solo?”
“I am now.”
“Yeah? Why’s that? ’Cause you found out I’m black?”
Miles said, “No, ’cause I found out you’re high. You’re lucky I trust you enough to take the wheel.”
“Yeah, whatever, I don’t give a shit.” He nodded at the house “What about the Range Rover guy?”
“I’ll be okay.”
“You give it thirty minutes, he might be gone.”
“Yeah, or I give it thirty minutes, and someone else’ll show up for their cut.”
The cabin light was off, so there was no giveaway glow as he opened his door. It was a cold evening, and it smelled like squared-away suburbia: cut grass, and a hint of fresh paint from somewhere. The only traffic noise was from the disappearing Audi, a smooth V-8 howl fading off into the night. He drew the Sig from its holster and walked up the street in the middle of the lane with the pistol in one hand and his garage-door opener in the other.
There was a light on upstairs at Covey’s now, and Miles figured that was where the money was headed—probably to a safe in the walk-in closet in the master bedroom. He reached the curb and pressed the button on his pirated remote, and the motor kicked in with its dull hum. He walked down past the garage and made a right, headed along the rear of the house. There was a swimming pool lit arctic blue by underwater lights, and a patio area with an outdoor grill.
A pair of French doors accessed the kitchen. Miles liked the décor: blond timber floors, and polished concrete countertops. By the sink were two used
plates and some cutlery, and a baking dish crusted with what might’ve been lasagna. He held the pistol under his arm and took the torsion wrench and the half-diamond pick from their loops in his inner coat pocket.
The French doors had a Schlage deadbolt, too high-end to be rake-picked. He had to set each pin in turn. He worked back to front, the plastic earbuds at his collar swinging and tapping with each small motion.
Time obeys a different scale for break-ins, so slow it’s like each second is drawn out through the barrel of the lock. He had that impression every time. You have to open the door to regain normal speed.
It took him ninety seconds.
The last pin finally sat up on the shear line, and the barrel made its solid click and turn. He nudged the door back quietly and saw the night reflections pan across the glass. He put away his tools and held the gun in both hands. He could smell the lasagna now, and hear a television off to his left, in the main living room.
He closed the door behind him and turned right through the kitchen, headed along the corridor toward the garage. No photographs on the walls, but there was artwork that seemed to have a Catskill theme: moody oil paintings of pine-covered hills, a tableau of two kids kneeling by a forest stream. He could hear the garage-door motor again, a quiet, meditative hum, and then a faint boom preceding the quiet.
He made a left just before the garage, and went into the guest living room. It was a comfortable-looking space: A full-height bookcase in dark timber against one wall, with an alcove for the television—currently set to CNN. A sofa opposite the TV, with a coffee table between them, and a straight-back chair by the door. Two leather recliners on either side of the window that faced the front yard.
Miles took the chair by the door, sat with an ankle across his knee, and the pistol raised in one hand. He knew it would give the right impression. No one wants a cool intruder. If you make yourself at home, it always unsettles them. They’ve lost their sense of possession and control.
He could hear footsteps in the garage, cautious and measured, Eddie Rhys no doubt giving the place a once-over. Miles kept the gun raised, the sights chest-high on the oblique slice of doorway. Footsteps again, a brisk rhythm as the guy crossed the garage.
Miles let his breath out, watched the muzzle move slightly with his heartbeat. A tiny waver on a slow rhythm. He heard the snap of the light switch, and then softer footsteps on the carpeted hallway. He tracked the guy with the gun as he entered the room, and it wasn’t until Rhys was seated on the sofa that he noticed Miles in the corner: the quiet visitor with his black suit and black mask and black gun.
To the man’s credit, he hid his shock well: just a quick jolt like he’d touched something hot, and then he closed his eyes and let his breath out his nose.
Miles said, “You security?”
The guy didn’t answer. He had the short-back-and-sides look that Stokes was obviously fond of.
Miles took silence to mean yes. He said, “Nice job.”
“What do you want?”
Miles heard faint laughter at the other end of the house, and then glasses clinking. He said, “Just the money.”
“There isn’t any.”
“So what are you doing here? Just a sleepover?”
Rhys didn’t answer.
Miles said, “They give you some lasagna?”
Rhys didn’t answer. He was a thickset man in his forties, probably ex-military or police, probably thinking retirement was meant to be easier than this.
Miles said, “Nice you get your own living room. Spread your arms along the back of the chair for me, tuck your hands down the cushions.”
Rhys complied. He had a big wingspan. Miles saw a pistol in a holster on his right hip. He said, “Covey’s just the middleman. So when’s the pickup?”
He saw the guy glance away and then back, some kind of calculation going on. Rhys said, “Any minute.”
Miles doubted that. The drop was only ten minutes ago, and Covey wouldn’t want an overlap. But he said, “All right. We better make it fast. Tell the criminal attorney his TV’s on the fritz.”
Rhys looked at him and drew a breath and called, “Hey, Lane? The picture in here’s gone all splotchy.”
Miles nodded. “Nice. I like that.” He tilted his head to listen and said, “Try again. It’s a big house.”
Rhys drew another breath and shouted, “Hey, Lane? Can you take a look at this?”
Silence for a few seconds, but then he heard feet in the hallway, and then Lane Covey was in the room. Seeing a masked visitor gave him a shock—the same little jump Rhys had done—but he recovered fast. He looked down at Miles with disdain and said, “The fuck is this?”
Not impressed, and not intimidated, either. He was a tall man in his midsixties, longish gray hair and features that were starting to age, eyes going dark and hollow under his brow. He had some spine though, and he smiled lopsidedly, trying to seem bored as he said, “This is the wrong fucking jackpot to be ripping off, pal.”
Putting some Boston into an accent that had been plainer a moment ago, wanting to sound like he meant it: wrong fucken jackpawt.
Miles said, “Well, at least we know there’s a jackpot.”
No one answered.
Miles said, “Let’s get Mrs. Covey in here too, shall we? Don’t startle her.”
Lane Covey smiled, like this was a game he’d go along with for now. Then he closed his eyes and turned his head to the door and called, “Sweetheart. Can you give me a hand with this, please?”
Miles said, “That’s a good way to put it.”
They all listened to her footsteps in the hall, and then Marilyn Covey was in the doorway. She was a similar age to her husband, but kind of prim and regal, Miles thought, the way she stood with her heels together and her wineglass in both hands, looking at him down her nose.
She said, “Oh.”
Miles said, “Don’t worry. I’ve just come for your loot.”
Marilyn Covey took a sip of wine and said, “You’ve come to the wrong house.”
“Your husband just told me there’s a jackpot.”
Marilyn looked over at Lane and then back to Miles. Their composure was interesting. He’d anticipated more tension. Maybe they were used to people showing up with guns. He put his elbow on the armrest and tilted his head to keep his eye line on the pistol sights. He said, “I’d thought you’d be more grateful. I could’ve come in here and shot all three of you.”
Marilyn Covey lifted an eyebrow and said, “But then how would you find the money?”
Miles said, “It’s in the safe in your walk-in closet upstairs.”
Marilyn held his gaze, but her husband ran a hand through his hair.
Miles said, “Look. Let’s get past the bit where you pretend there’s nothing for me to take. I know the drop just now was payment for the murder of a man named Carl Tobin. I know the Russian mafia was contracted for the hit, and I know the attorney here was the middleman. So you can bring me the money now, or tomorrow NYPD will come asking for it. I think my way’s easier. Police at your door, kind of unseemly in this zip code.”
No one moved.
Miles looked at Marilyn and said, “I was interested to see your reaction. Wasn’t sure if you were in on everything, or if it’d come as a bit of a shock. So it’s nice to know that you’re part of it. If I have to shoot you.”
She watched him over her glass as she had another sip of wine, and Miles looked back at Lane Covey to see him smiling now.
The lawyer said, “So now what? We all going upstairs to get the cash?”
He seemed trapped with this notion that things would end in his favor. Miles decided this wasn’t their first experience of pistol diplomacy. He said, “Lane, if I pull the trigger, your neighbors are going to call the police. You probably know more about it than me, but from what I understand, gunshot noise counts as probable cause, which means the cops can come in without a warrant. And I don’t think you want cops in your house, do you?”
N
o one answered. Marilyn Covey looked at the television—Wolf Blitzer, and a BREAKING NEWS banner—and he saw a muscle tighten in her jaw.
Miles said, “I can walk away and never think about any of this again. But I don’t think you’re in the same position. So you should bear that in mind. You’ve got more to lose than I do. You keep saying that under your breath, everyone’ll be fine.”
He had their attention now, and the disdain seemed to be fading. They seemed to realize he was taking this seriously, that he wasn’t just some guy in an outfit.
Miles said, “Mr. Rhys, use your left hand, take your phone out of your pocket for me.”
“It’s in my right pocket.”
Miles said, “I’m sure you’ll cope. Make sure you don’t touch that gun, though.”
The three of them watched while Rhys reached across himself awkwardly and removed an iPhone from his trouser pocket.
Miles said, “Throw it here.”
Rhys lobbed it underhand, and Miles caught it without shifting his gaze from the gunsights. He waited for Rhys to slip his hand down behind the cushion again.
Miles said, “What’s your code?”
“There isn’t one. You just swipe.”
Miles did as directed, and then navigated to the address book. He found Marilyn Covey under “C,” and pushed the icon for a video call. Silence—she didn’t have it on her. He scrolled down farther and found Oswald Lane Covey, and tried that number. Covey’s trouser pocket started singing. He glanced down as if baffled by the sound.
Miles said, “It’s for you, Lane.”
Covey took the phone from his pocket, flipped it on one axis and then another to get it upright, and then the screen in Miles’s hand showed a low-angle shot up Covey’s arm to a disapproving face.
Miles said, “Power of technology. This is going to be easy.”
No one answered, but he saw the digital Covey glance right, over to the window, and Miles looked up in time to see long blades of headlight glow panning through the blinds, and then he heard the sound of a car pull up outside. Rhys hadn’t lied after all: this must be the pickup.
Covey smiled down at him. “How’s your multitasking?”
