Hell to Pay

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “What is it?” he asks wearily.

  Poor Jeremy. He’s so rattled by Miguel’s death.

  But it’s not as if he’s going to wind up a suspect in the murder just because he was with the kid right before it happened. At least he agreed that Lucy was right about that.

  Case closed, it seems, for the time being.

  “I just thought you should know about something that happened today.” Not about her new symptoms, though. She’s feeling fine now and he doesn’t need one more thing to worry about. There’s no need to tell him the truth unless the cramping starts up again. Lucy chooses to believe that it won’t.

  But he should know what Carl Soto told her about the strange woman who bribed him to get them out of their apartment.

  Quickly, she explains the situation.

  “What does that mean?” he asks, looking troubled.

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing—to us, anyway.”

  “I don’t like it. I want to talk to Carl about it.”

  “I talked to him. He told me everything he knows.”

  Jeremy is already dialing his cell phone. “Maybe he remembered something else after he left. Or maybe he’s heard back from her today.”

  “I’m sure he would have called if—”

  Jeremy holds up a finger, shushing her. The landlord must have picked up on the first ring.

  “Hi, Carl, this is Jeremy Cavalon. My wife told me what happened with the apartment, and I’d appreciate it if you’d call us back here as soon as possible. I have a couple of questions for you.”

  “Voice mail?” Lucy asks as he hangs up after leaving both his cell number and the phone number for the apartment.

  “Yeah—the call went right into it.”

  “I really am sure it’s nothing, Jeremy.”

  He shrugs, examines his phone. “I need to charge this. The battery is low.”

  “Do you want me to plug it in for you?” She holds out a hand.

  “No!” He puts the phone back into his pocket. “I’ll do it. Later.”

  Lucy studies him for a moment as he picks up the sandwich and takes a bite. He chews and swallows with all the pleasure of a child taking pink penicillin.

  Lucy wants to tell him he doesn’t have to force himself to eat, but realizes he can make that decision for himself. Obviously, he doesn’t have the patience today for his wife’s controlling tendencies, and frankly, she doesn’t blame him.

  “I think I’m going to go lie down in the bedroom for awhile, okay?”

  Jeremy nods, not bothering to ask why. If he had, she’d have given him a vague answer about needing a nap.

  About to leave the room, she turns back. “Maybe we can get some takeout for dinner later—I’m in the mood for udon.”

  She waits for him to say, So it shall be, but he doesn’t.

  “Sure. Fine. Whatever. I’m going to go into the den with my laptop and work on that grant I’m writing.”

  She isn’t quite sure she believes him. Grant writing on a Saturday evening, after the kind of day he’s had today?

  Maybe he’s going to look up the details of Miguel’s murder in the press. Or maybe it’s not about that at all. It’s possible he’s doing some last minute online Christmas shopping—though that doesn’t seem likely in his current frame of mind.

  Whatever the case, she can tell he needs some alone time, and she respects that . . . even though she’s personally had much too much alone time today.

  But . . . doctor’s orders.

  Back in the bedroom, she leans back against the pillows and picks up her book again. She forgot to mark the page she was on when Jeremy came home—and after searching through the first two chapters, realizes she can’t even find it.

  Frustrated, she tosses the book aside, realizing she isn’t in the mood to read, or even to pretend to read.

  Maybe she can find something to watch on television. An old movie like The Homecoming or A Christmas Story would take her mind off everything. When she was a little girl, she and Ryan used to curl up between their parents in the living room lit only by the glow of tree lights and watch the holiday classics on TV.

  Then their parents separated, and Daddy died, and nothing was ever the same—especially the Christmas season.

  Maybe that’s why I try so hard with my own Christmas Eve tradition. And now we don’t have a tree or any decorations other than that pathetic grocery store poinsettia, and Ryan isn’t even sure he’ll come . . .

  She sighs, picks up the remote, and aims it at the cable box, pressing the power button.

  The TV is still tuned to the local news channel, where a meteorologist is standing in front of a map of the tri-state area.

  “ . . . and I think we’re talking heap big snow here, folks,” he’s saying.

  Heap big snow? Seriously?

  Lucy rolls her eyes.

  “Areas north and west of the city could see over two feet of accumulation by Tuesday morning. In the city itself and on south, if this other system merges as we think it may, we’re looking at about thirty inches with considerable blowing and drifting.”

  Okay, that is a heap big snow. Especially considering that the city tends to come to a standstill for six inches.

  If the forecast is correct, she and Jeremy aren’t going to be driving to Connecticut on Wednesday for Christmas. Ryan might not make it here even if he wants to. The commuter line usually runs like clockwork, but if enough snow falls on the tracks, the trains can be paralyzed.

  “Bottom line,” the meteorologist says, “is that you’d better watch out, and you’d better not pout, because we’re going to have one heck of a white Christmas here in the tri-state area. Katie, back to you.”

  As the scene shifts back to the news desk, Lucy mutes the sound and reaches for the phone. Better give Ryan a heads-up, in case he doesn’t know what’s going on. Sometimes, he seems to dwell in a media-free bubble.

  He answers right away. “Hey—I was just going to call you.”

  “Really? About what?”

  “Christmas.”

  “Great minds think alike. That’s why I’m calling you. Did you hear about the snowstorm?”

  “What snowstorm?”

  She sighs and explains the situation. “So listen, why don’t you come here and stay after work on Monday night so you won’t have to try to get back down to the city on Tuesday for Christmas Eve—you are planning to be here, right?” she adds, and waits for him to tell her he’ll have to let her know.

  “I’ll be there. With Phoenix.”

  Lucy’s jaw drops. That was too easy.

  “What’s up with you guys, Ry?”

  “What do you mean?” he sounds defensive.

  “I mean you were worried, and . . . I take it everything’s going well now?”

  “I just told you she’s coming for Christmas Eve, didn’t I?”

  “Yes. You did. But . . .”

  “We’re not engaged, if that’s what you’re wondering, and we didn’t break up, either. Okay?”

  “Okay.” She gives up. Obviously, he doesn’t want to talk about it.

  That’s all right. Neither does she. She’s had enough conflict for one day.

  Sitting at an antique desk in the small den off the hall, Jeremy waits impatiently for his laptop to boot up.

  As he waits, he finds himself glancing repeatedly at the wall behind him, and wonders why. It’s not as though someone’s going to be there, looking over his shoulder. Lucy’s down the hall in the bedroom. Her door is closed, and so is the door to the den.

  The lyrics of an old Kinks song run through Jeremy’s mind, and he shakes his head.

  Yeah, paranoia. It’s a self-destroyer all right.

  Between Miguel’s death and what Lucy just told him about the woman who paid off their landlord to get them out
of their apartment . . .

  Why would anyone do that?

  Sentimental reasons, my ass.

  Maybe if it were a charming old house like the one where Lucy grew up, or even a nice apartment in a historic building that has some character, or right across from the train station or bus stop . . .

  Or maybe, Jeremy thinks, if the woman had actually moved in after he and Lucy moved out . . .

  Granted, it’s only been a few days. But according to the secondhand information from Carl Soto, it was some kind of scam and she’s gone.

  Where does that leave us?

  Here in the Ansonia—for no apparent reason.

  Jeremy pushes the thought aside as his laptop finally opens to the home screen. He opens a search engine and quickly types in his own name, something he hasn’t done in years.

  He wants to see exactly what the cops are going to see when they do the same.

  Predictably, there are thousands of hits. Scrolling through them, he sees that—aside from a few that have to do with his work at the Bruckner home—they’re all links to press related to his kidnapping and his connection to the Quinns and La La Montgomery.

  A few of the articles refer to the fact that he was “rescued” by a rumored pedophile who raised him in seclusion in California. But since there was never any proof of the abuse, and Papa was never charged with anything, and wasn’t alive to defend himself, his name was kept out of the press.

  Nowhere is there any mention of how he died, or when, or where. For all anyone knows, reading the articles, he passed in his sleep of old age.

  But what if the police want to know more? If they ask Jeremy what happened to Papa, and he tells them—not the whole truth, of course—will they sense that he has something to hide?

  Maybe he should call a lawyer.

  No. You can’t afford one, remember? You can’t even afford to get your wife a Christmas gift.

  Irritated, he closes out of the screen and wonders how long it would take—and cost—to buy something online. Something special. The kind of gift that Lucy deserves.

  Is it too late?

  Jeremy swallows hard over a sudden lump in his throat. He loves her so much it actually hurts.

  But that’s okay. He’ll take the pain.

  Better me than Lucy.

  Meade’s vision is starting to blur and his shoulder blades are on fire as he sits typing up his notes on the case. This is exactly how he felt last night when he sat down in his chair at home. Then Alden called and he had to get right back up and on the case.

  This is crazy. He’s got to go home and get some sleep or he’s going to crash and burn right here at his desk.

  Not only has he been up for almost forty-eight hours, but in that period of time he hasn’t ingested anything other than gallons of coffee, a rest stop microwave burrito, cold week-old Chinese food, and a couple of dirty-water dogs.

  Brandewyne is in pretty much the same boat, if you add a couple of packs of Marlboros. Apparently, they’re her secret weapon, because at this particular moment, Meade’s feeling a lot worse than she’s looking. Seated at her own desk across from his, she’s talking on the phone—presumably, still trying to track down Chaplain Gideon.

  Brandewyne sees Meade looking in her direction, grins, and gives him a big thumbs-up. Does that mean she’s found him?

  Too burned out to do much more than give her a nod, he returns to his keyboard, making one typo after another and not bothering to correct them.

  A minute later, she’s off the phone and standing over his desk. “Found him, Meade.”

  “Where?”

  “Pretty close by. He’s living in Jersey. Want to take a road trip?”

  “Where in Jersey?” Parts of it, like Hoboken, are closer to the precinct, even, than Meade’s Queens apartment. But South Jersey—Cape May, Atlantic City—is a few hours away.

  “He’s down near Trenton. And he goes to a ten o’clock church service on Broad Street every Sunday morning without fail.”

  Meade nods thoughtfully. “Good. We’ll be waiting for him when he comes out tomorrow morning.”

  “Think we should let him know we’re coming?”

  “Not if he’s involved in this.”

  “You think he is?”

  Meade leans back, stretching his aching shoulders. “I’m not convinced that he isn’t. Not with the connection to Garvey Quinn.”

  He’s done some reading up on the crooked politician today.

  He remembers the case, of course, though he didn’t work on it.

  Back then, he was just a young cop—a newlywed, with a pregnant wife and a loyal best friend. Johnny had been Meade’s best man and was soon to be godfather to his only son. Meade never dreamed he’d become Dante’s stepfather as well.

  “Do you think we should warn the Quinns?”

  His thoughts spin back to the case—nothing like someone else’s misery to make you forget your own. Maybe that’s why he’s so good at this job—and why he sucks at his personal life.

  “There’s not much family left around here to tell. Quinn’s widow went to Europe a few years back. Lives over there like a recluse, according to what I read. I’m one step ahead of you, though—been trying to track someone down to get in touch with her.”

  “What about the son and his wife?”

  “Them, too. Jeremy Cavalon, and—get this—he’s married to Lucy Walsh—she’s the one whose father Quinn killed. He had her kidnapped, too, with her brother and sister. Luckily, there was a happy ending.”

  “We don’t see enough of those. Where do they live now?”

  “Up in White Plains. I called, got their voice mail, left them a message.”

  “Guess you really are one step ahead of me.”

  “Guess so. Or maybe a few steps ahead of you.” Meade flashes her a fake-smug grin.

  “Do you think she might go after them?”

  So much for the grin—fake or not.

  “With someone like this, we can’t even guess what she’ll do next,” he tells Brandewyne grimly, thinking of the bloodbath in that hotel suite, “and I just pray to God we don’t have to see the results.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunday morning, Lucy wakes up early. Not early-early, though; once again, it��s past eight o’clock.

  But early enough to have a good, long debate with herself about the wisdom of attending Mass at Holy Trinity.

  Though it’s only a couple of blocks from here, she wouldn’t walk over. Not after what happened to her yesterday.

  She hasn’t had a pelvic twinge since, meaning she probably really was suffering from overexertion, or undigested Mexican food. Possibly both.

  She and Jeremy had a relaxing Saturday night eating takeout Japanese noodle soup from a place around the corner, then watching TV together in bed.

  She noticed that Jeremy seemed less anxious and more attentive than he had earlier. It was his idea that they watch a couple of DVDs from Sylvie’s vast collection.

  The two vintage French films sounded interesting from the descriptions, but Lucy lasted through only about five minutes of the first before dozing off.

  Looking at Jeremy, still sound asleep, she considers waking him to ask whether he thinks she should go to church.

  No. Let him sleep.

  Especially considering he still doesn’t know there’s a valid reason why she might want to avoid going out.

  Later—she’ll tell him later about the cramps she had and doesn’t have now.

  For the time being, she’s going to take a cab over to church. She could really use a dose of comfort and healing right about now.

  Meade wouldn’t call what he had last night a “good night’s sleep.” He had nightmares—gory ones. Occupational hazard. But it was sleep, more or less, and it was certainly night—one of the longest nights
of the year.

  Waking up to drive to Trenton with Brandewyne is almost as much fun as yesterday’s trip up to Massachusetts after no sleep at all. And he loves the Jersey Turnpike about as much as he loves the New England corridor of I–95 . . . but at least traffic is moving here at this hour on a Sunday morning.

  “Did you finish your Christmas shopping?” Brandewyne asks. She’s behind the wheel this time. So far, she’s pulled over for two smoke breaks, but who’s counting?

  “My kid just wants iTunes gift cards,” Meade tells her. “That, or a laptop, which I can’t afford.” He hopes Johnny can’t, either, and he hates himself for that. Hates that he wants to begrudge Dante a new computer just because he doesn’t want his stepfather to be the one who gives it to him.

  “No one else to shop for?”

  “My mother. I got her one of those vacuum cleaners without the bag.” Seeing Brandewyne’s eye roll, he says, “What? It’s what she wanted.”

  “You might want to rethink that. I don’t care what she told you, Omar. No woman really wants a vacuum cleaner for Christmas, with or without the bag.”

  “Yeah? How do you know?”

  “Gut instinct. It’s never wrong.”

  “Never?”

  “I’m a detective. And a woman.”

  Not the most womanly woman he’s ever met, that’s for damned sure. And yet—there’s an unusual hint of wistfulness in her tone, and in her expression as she looks out at the road ahead.

  “What do you want?” he asks her.

  “You really want to know?”

  “I asked you.”

  “I want my kids to spend Christmas with me this year. But one is somewhere in Afghanistan and the other one is God knows where—probably going with my ex and his third wife on a fabulous tropical vacation—no joke, I’m totally serious, last year they went to Cabo. So that’s not gonna happen.”

  Meade absorbs that, wondering if maybe he and Brandewyne might have more in common than he thought.

  She rarely talks about her personal life. Maybe because he doesn’t ask. All he knows is that she’s divorced with two grown sons, one on active duty, the other a slacker. And that she lives on the Lower East Side in a rent-controlled apartment. That’s it. Pretty much the same bare-bones details he’s shared about his own life.