by Ben Sanders
He put his face in his hands, trying to think, but even basic questions had trouble getting through. He took a breath and said, “Where are they taking her?”
Stanton said, “No idea. Hey, where’s your toilet paper? You got some spare?”
Miles didn’t answer. He opened his eyes and noticed that DeSean’s gaming console was gone, but there were still chip packets and used plates on the floor. He turned the TV to CNN and killed the volume.
Stanton said, “Actually don’t worry, I got some.”
Street riots somewhere. Kansas. He watched a harried reporter being jostled by a crowd.
He called, “Is Lucy okay?”
“Yeah, far as I know.”
A bird’s-eye view of Canal Street, flashing lights along a two-block stretch.
“So what did they say? They didn’t just come in and keep quiet the whole time.”
“What?”
Miles heard the toilet flush. He closed his eyes and rubbed his face. He opened his eyes and saw his own photograph on TV. His driver’s-license photo, and then an image from the hotel lobby: Miles with his gun up. He snatched the remote and hit the volume.
“—in Kings Point last night. Three people are dead, and police say tens of thousands of dollars were taken.”
He was sitting down, but he felt himself dropping, like he was bleeding out the bottom of the chair. He said, “Shit. I’m wanted.”
He’d known it at some level, but now it was official. Petrov must have woken up and fingered him for the robbery. Not to mention abduction.
Stanton said, “What?”
“Come and see this.”
The photo disappeared, but it was back again by the time Stanton entered the room.
He said, “Oh. That’s you.”
“Yeah. I believe it is.”
“Oh, God.” Stanton sat down in the kitchen chair, curls of duct tape still hanging off it. “This is getting too heavy, man.”
Miles said, “Don’t faint on me.”
“Look, I’m just the agent—I’m just the facilitator. I don’t want to be this close to everything, you know?”
Miles stood up. He said, “They know I did the Covey job.”
“Who does?”
“Nina Stone. And her friend in the hat.”
Stanton stood up, fingers raking the last of his hair, forehead creaseless with the tension. “Look, if you’re wanted, I can’t be part of this. I gotta have distance. If I’m too close, I’m compromised, and then I’m no good to anyone.”
Miles didn’t move. “Sit down. Stop acting like this is your first rodeo.”
“It is my first fucking rodeo.”
He couldn’t afford a walkout. He needed backup.
Miles said, “Wynn, you owe me. That Stokes guy—”
“Yeah, yeah, you told me: he tried to roll you, but shit happens.”
Miles shook his head. “No, it’s more than that: He went back for extras, and killed three people in the process. And now I’m neck-high in shit for it.”
It wasn’t quite true. He was in trouble because he abducted the undercover cop who witnessed the job, but at least Stanton was quiet now, and keeping still. Miles brought the Colt out of his belt again.
“Hey, whoa—”
“Relax. This is Stokes’s gun. He went back to the Covey place this morning and killed them for a bigger take.”
“What? How do you know?”
“Kings Point PD said the wife’s car was missing. I said to him last night we could have taken the cars, made another three hundred grand. I figured he went back for it, and then fenced it for extra profit.”
“What, he told you all this?”
Miles shook his head. “He loaded up on heroin to celebrate, overdid it slightly. So it’s either a real sad loss, or a just outcome.” He held the gun up. “Ballistics will tell us one way or the other.”
Stanton closed his eyes and sat up straight in the chair, let his breath out his nose. He looked serene, as if with focused wishing he could erase all setbacks. He opened his eyes and there was Miles still in his chair, still looking at him.
Stanton said, “Shit.”
Miles said, “So what I’m getting at is I need help, and you owe me.”
Stanton didn’t answer.
Miles said, “Eventually, the phone’s going to ring, and they’re going to tell me we’re swapping Lucy for the Covey money.”
“And what do I have to do?”
“I’m still thinking about it. At the very least you can answer the phone.”
“Why, what are you doing?”
Miles said, “I’m going to take a shower and decide what to do.”
THIRTY-FIVE
KINGS POINT, NY
Bobby Deen
He said, “How did you come up with Officer Maddie Rogan?”
It didn’t sound like a Bobby question, but being around Nina had turned him into a talker. He was coming out with idle stuff he wouldn’t normally say, or even think of. Maybe her attitude was rubbing off on him, making him more pleasant.
Nina said, “I was at elementary school with her. Good name for a cop, don’t you think? The Maddie part’s friendly and feminine, and then the Rogan toughens it up, makes you sound like competent law enforcement.”
He got the impression her whole life was well thought out—ask her about anything, and there’d be some astute basis for it. He thought what he’d like to do, he’d like to just sit there for a day looking at her and asking questions.
He had the Sig in his right hand propped in his lap, aiming at the woman. She didn’t look worried, but she was sitting there without saying a word, kind of prim and with no expression, like some lawbreaking celebrity being driven to court. He preferred it when they wouldn’t shut up. Folks who sit quietly are the toughest to read. Hard to know if they’re just resigned to what’s happening, or if they’re thinking about how to turn things around.
They were in the realms of crazy wealth now, though: massive houses that looked like European castles—even a few with those fancy brick parapets. The hedges were impressive, too: rich people loved a good, dense hedge. And those driveways made out of white shells seemed to be in vogue as well.
Nina said, “You want a made-up police name, too? Or do you want to be Detective Bobby Deen?”
Bobby said, “Maybe Detective Robert Deen. That sounds pretty official.”
Nina clicked her tongue. “Beautiful. It just screams trustworthy, doesn’t it? This is us up here.”
There was no gate, which meant the front door would be the only hurdle. Nina turned in at a polite and responsible speed, and they went popping and crunching along the stone driveway. At the end of it was a Greek-looking statue—maybe Cupid—standing on a plinth in a pool at the center of a turnaround. The house was just beyond it: a horrible two-story place done in white plaster, and separated into three wings, each of them with a pointy terra-cotta roof. It looked like a witch’s house that had been bleached.
Nina said, “Funny how some of them are discreet, some of them don’t even bother having trees—want you to drive past and have no doubt that they’re dripping money.”
Bobby said, “We’re going to have to make some hard decisions. Are we going to be discreet rich, or flashy rich?”
Nina said, “I think we should be ostentatious for a while, just so we know what it’s like.”
The entrance had full-height glass around the door, and he could see a kind of atrium area with a chandelier and a staircase at the rear curving to the upper level. Nina stopped the car and picked her gun up from the footwell and slipped it in a little holster on her hip.
She said, “I’ll give you a wave in a minute. And I’ll borrow your wallet if you’ve got one.”
Bobby passed it across the seat, watched her get out and walk to the door holding the wallet up and open, like a plainclothes cop with an ID holder. She rang the bell and stepped across so she was visible through the window, smiling patiently and holding the wallet open
against the glass.
The door opened.
Nina stepped in, and moved out of sight.
Ten seconds later she appeared at the window, the gun hanging by her side in one hand, and the other beckoning to Bobby.
The girl wasn’t even watching—still just looking out her window. Bobby pulled her across the seat and out of the car by the arm, over to Nina as she opened the door for him.
* * *
He wondered if she was resigned to the fact that something like this would happen eventually. Married to a cop, and then married to a banker, it must have crossed her mind that she could get caught up in revenge or robbery at some stage. She was very pale, but pretty composed really, sitting there thin-lipped and rigid on the living-room sofa with her hands clasped white-knuckled in her lap.
He’d done a circuit of the house, but it was obvious she was home alone. He found one wineglass, one dinner plate, one set of cutlery. The guest bedrooms—all five of them—were as spotless as a hotel commercial. There was a study in the ground floor of the bedroom wing, looking out at the fountain, but everything was squared away, and when he lifted the laptop on the desk the wood beneath was cool.
So now the four of them were in the main living room: the cop’s ex-wife, Caitlyn, sitting stiff and speechless; Lucy next to her, more relaxed but still silent; and Nina and Bobby opposite them on another sofa. The TV was paused on Netflix—a close-up of Kevin Spacey as the president.
Finally the woman said, “What do you want?”
Bobby didn’t answer, waited for Nina to fill her in while he sat thinking that this looked exactly like a house for rich folks. Splotchy artwork on the walls that looked like one of those psychiatric exams—a Rorschach test—little busts of naked people in the corner, even this dumb gold statue of a bag of golf clubs standing by the door. Charles Stone would love it.
Nina said, “Well, rest assured, it’s nothing to do with you.”
“And yet here we all are.”
“We’ll be gone before you know it. All I ask is one favor: you’re going to call Mr. Keller, tell him that you have some guests, and that they’ll be peacefully on their way once he’s arrived here with the Covey money.”
“The what?”
Nina said, “The Covey money. He’ll know what you mean.”
The ex-wife was shaking her head, gaze on Nina. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”
“That’s all right, you don’t need to.”
The ex-wife tried a derisive sniff, but it came out too high. She said, “And you think Miles will just show up here as he’s told, and won’t bother calling nine-one-one?”
Nina said, “You haven’t been watching the news, have you?”
The ex-wife didn’t answer.
Nina said, “The police want to talk to him about a robbery-homicide up here—”
“Up here? What, in Kings Point?”
Nina said, “Yeah, apparently he robbed some lawyer and then killed him.”
Murdered lawyers must have rung a bell: the ex-wife was shaking her head, eyes closed. “No, there’s no way. That’s ridiculous.…”
But she sounded more incredulous than certain.
Nina gave her a moment to wrap her head around the information, and said, “If they’ve caught him or he’s turned himself in, then I guess we’re out of luck. But he’s a resourceful sort of guy, so I imagine we’re still in play.” She nodded at the TV. “We can check the news if you like.”
The woman didn’t answer. Her gaze was on the floor now, like Nina and the new reality were too much to take in. Her eyes were moving, though, trying to find a safe way out.
Nina said, “Okay. We’ll assume we’re good to go.”
The ex-wife’s gaze roved a moment longer, and then she hit on something, looking up at Nina again and sounding confident. She said, “If he’s smart, he’ll just call the police, never even come here.”
Nina shook her head. “He’s not going to do that. He’s not going to trust both your lives to other people.”
“But you think he’s going to trust you with his?”
Smart lady: even pressure like this hadn’t turned her brain off.
But Nina just smiled. She said, “I’m not an idiot. I’ve thought about what happens if the wrong people show up. And rest assured it doesn’t offer you a great outcome.”
The ex-wife didn’t answer. She was a clever lady. But there were clever ladies, and then there was Nina. She’d always have a comeback you could take to the bank.
She said to the ex-wife, “So the sooner you call, the sooner everyone goes back to their happy lives.”
The ex-wife was looking at Lucy though, like she’d just discovered she wasn’t alone on the couch. She said, “Jesus, I know you. What, he stopped sleeping with you, so now you’re getting even?”
Nina said, “Don’t burn your bridges. She’s on your side. The clue is, she doesn’t have a gun.”
No answer.
Nina said to Caitlyn, “Let me guess: Miles cheated on you with her, so you ran off with a banker?”
No answer. The ex-wife just sat there, waiting for it to end.
Nina said, “Well, it worked out well for me. I robbed a banker once, and Miles let me get away with it. Probably his way of getting even with your new man.”
No reaction, but Nina pushed on. She said, “Explains why he’s been up to no good in Kings Point, too.” She shrugged. “Kill a lawyer, take some money, probably feels like revenge on your zip code.” She looked around: the art, the stupid golf-club statue, the boardroom-table-size TV. “Anyway. If you’d stayed together, things would’ve been better. I’d be in prison, and none of this would be happening.”
THIRTY-SIX
NEW YORK, NY
Miles Keller
He found an old beard trimmer in a drawer in the bathroom, plugged it in to charge. There was a high chance the thing was on the fritz, which meant he had a correspondingly high chance of a breakdown midtask. He didn’t want to be stuck flaunting some eccentric portion of his current facial hair, but he needed to change his appearance, so the gauntlet would have to be run.
His suits were still all in his closet. They were the police standard: fine, but definitely off-the-rack. The only tailored suit he ever owned was his wedding tux, but he’d tossed it when Caitlyn left—part of a monthlong purge he’d undertaken, before he realized what she meant to him.
He showered and then put the trimmer to the test, cut his beard back to an even stubble without the motor giving out. He dug around in the cabinet drawer again and found a plastic attachment for trimming hair. He’d be quite the sight if it died on him now. He pulled his hair back with his free hand and leaned in to the mirror, as if building up to self-surgery, and then started in with the trimmer again.
He came downstairs a new man: gray suit, no beard, and his hair cut down to a half-inch. He could smell bacon cooking. He went into the kitchen and found Stanton sitting at the table, eating an omelet and a precooked sausage, a glass beside him holding a couple inches of Coke.
He saw Miles and said, “Oh my, don’t come any closer. You’re making my heart go all fluttery.”
The stove element was still heating up an empty pan. Miles turned it off. Stanton said, “You want food?”
“No thanks.”
His iPod was on the bench where he’d left it that morning. He picked it up and wrapped the earphone cord around the case and slipped it in his pocket.
Stanton said, “You look like a suicide bomber.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
Stanton tapped his jaw. “They always shave their beard off before they do it. Go into it pale-chinned. Clean face, clean conscience.”
Miles took a glass from a cupboard and poured himself some Coke and sat down at the table facing Stanton.
Stanton ate his egg and sausage. He said, “You didn’t tell me how it went with the Force Investigation dipshits.”
“Well, I got out of there. But I think I’ll be
in trouble if I go back.”
He didn’t want to run through it all, but Stanton was still looking at him, wanting more of a story.
Miles said, “They thought my shooting was pretty slick. I was telling them how Dad used to make us do drills, hit targets and stuff. Thirty years ago, probably, but I had to give them something.” He ran his hands through his hair, the new do feeling strange and bristly. “Imagine their faces if I said I robbed a bank when I was seventeen, perfect training for that hotel lobby.”
Stanton gulped egg. “Shit, you actually did one?”
Miles nodded. “My brother took me on a road trip. We robbed this place down in Kansas. That was my one and only time.”
Stanton smiled. “And then you went straight.”
“Yeah. Mostly.”
Stanton sat looking at him.
“Don’t think you can act quizzical and I’ll tell you more. ’Cause I won’t.”
Stanton shrugged, chased an egg gob with his fork. “I’m not. Just thinking most people are lucky they don’t have to do something that hard to know what road they’re meant to be on.”
Miles said, “Well, I’m on it now.”
Stanton’s phone was ringing—a chirpy jingle that went from annoying to deeply irritating when he brought it out of his pocket. He answered and said, “Stanton.” Pause. “Yeah, he’s here.”
He passed the phone to Miles, a tinny voice coming through the speaker before he even had it to his ear. Miles came in midsentence and heard Caitlyn say, “—have to do exactly as they say. You have to bring the Covey money, and then they’ll let us go. We’re at my house, and they have Lucy, too. If you bring the Covey money, they’ll let everybody go. You have to bring that phone with you, and call when you’re at the house.”
He shut his eyes and felt himself panting. How the hell had they found her—
She said, “What’s going on? What the fuck is going on—”
He said, “Caitlyn?” Just the one word to test his voice, check it was steady.
“Yeah?” It was amazing to talk with her, hear something more than “don’t call.” But he couldn’t dwell on it.
