by Lisa Gardner
If I go downstairs, submit myself to police questioning like a good girl? There will be no right now. There will be talking and explaining, followed by outrage and heated exchanges. Then heaven help me if Lotham arrives and we have to start the conversation all over again.
In the end, it’s not much of a decision at all. Angelique. I am here to find Angelique. To save a girl.
To redeem a sin I can never change.
And maybe to chase a bullet I dodged ten years ago.
I turn left, down the end of the hall to the fire escape. Then, I vanish into the dark.
* * *
—
I hit the bottom of the fire escape. I drop onto a patch of dirt, exit the rickety chain-link fence behind the triple-decker, and pray I don’t get shot by a paranoid neighbor. I’ve landed in a narrow alley running behind the row of town houses. I need light and a secure space where I can quickly sort my way through Emmanuel’s notes to find the decoded numbers he’d rattled off by phone. First question, do I head left or right?
I strike out right. Then promptly hear a noise behind me.
I whirl instantly, hands up in a pugilistic stance. I only know what I learned during self-defense at the Y. I refuse to be an easy mark, though. Bad guys want me, they’re gonna have to work for it.
No forms materialize in the dark. Instead I hear the sounds again. A low moan, a hissing sigh. The clatter of someone trying to walk but doing a poor job of it.
I slip into the darkness rimming the edge of the alley and creep toward the sound. What I discover leaves me shocked beyond words.
Deke Alarie, leaning heavily against a lowered fire escape, arm gripping his side. I don’t have to look closer to see he’s been grievously wounded, his shirt covered in blood. So he was the one shot in the van. Not Emmanuel. But Deke.
He goes to take a staggering step forward, only to collapse.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hang on.” Smart or not, I sprint to his side. His breathing is shallow. In the reflected light of a distant streetlamp, I can see sweat dotting his brow.
The sight threatens to send me spiraling, to another time, another place, another man on the ground, bleeding out.
Deke grabs my shoulder, gripping painfully. I wince, grateful for the distraction, as he tries to use me as a human crutch. Unfortunately, he’s too big and I’m too little. Both of us go careening to the ground. He grunts painfully. I scramble to get my feet back beneath me, assume the offensive.
“Gun,” I demand. “Where’s the gun?”
“Don’t . . . have . . .”
“Who the hell shot Emmanuel? Where’s Angelique?” Fired up on adrenaline, I lean over him and scream my questions into his face.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. His eyes are closed. His skin graying.
Another time, another place. Me, rocking back on forth on my heels. “No, no, no. Stay with me. Please, Paul, stay with me stay with me stay with me. I need you.”
“Your family’s dead, you know that, right? Your half brother, your half sister. Both of them. Murdered.”
He shakes his head, drawing another painful, rattling breath. “No one was supposed to . . . get hurt.”
“What a bunch of horseshit. Where’s Angelique?”
I try to step back, but he grabs my ankle. I glance around. There’s no one in this alley. Just him and me. Just me and a dying man.
Paul, on the ground, his head on my lap, while his hands grip his stomach, trying to keep his insides from leaking out. “Well, that didn’t go as planned.”
Me, screaming. Screaming, screaming, screaming.
Paul. “Shhh. It’ll be okay. I love you.”
Me, screaming some more.
“I didn’t want them hurt,” Deke is rasping out now. “No need. This is . . . supposed to be . . . upmarket stuff . . . Just wanted to see my family again. Mom wouldn’t take my calls . . . Johnson hated . . . me. Found Livia. Little Livia. She said hey. We started talking.”
I close my eyes. “You poor stupid son of bitch.”
“Yeah.”
I think he’s smiling. It’s hard to tell as he coughs and blood sprays from his mouth. He’s not going to make it. I know the signs too well. Deke Alarie, my lead candidate for all things evil, is about to die.
I take a seat beside him. I smooth back the fuzz on his forehead. He is both sweaty and cold to the touch. It won’t be long now. We both know it.
Paul: “Promise me you won’t blame yourself for this. Promise me you won’t use it as a reason to drink. Come on, Frankie. Promise me!”
“I liked Livia,” Deke murmurs now. “So fucking smart. Was I ever that smart?” A bloody smile. “She got all bent out of shape over fake licenses . . . bad merchandise. I told her she should fix it. She could do better. I could get her the equipment. I could get her whatever she wanted.”
“You set her up to manufacture fake IDs.”
“Rough start . . . these new state licenses. Not as easy as they look.”
I nod, stroking his damp cheek. His eyes are closed. His breathing rougher.
Paul: “I’m glad you called tonight, Frankie.”
Me, crying hysterically.
“I’m happy you still trusted me that much.”
“Livia brought in a friend. After school. Worked on it together. Got to a point . . . Product wasn’t half bad. I brought the fakes to my suppliers . . . went into business. But soon . . . not enough. These guys, real counterfeiting pros . . . wanted Real IDs. Something bigger, better.”
Deke coughs wetly. More blood, dribbling from the corners of his mouth.
Paul: “I’m thirsty. So thirsty. Do you have any water, Frankie? Can you get me some water?”
“What happened, Deke?” I stroke his cheek.
“They demanded a meeting . . . with my source. But Livia, too scared. Angelique showed up in her place. She had . . . a new plan . . . not Real ID. Couldn’t”—he breaks off, coughing again—“be done. Visas. Student visas.”
“Angelique figured out,” I provide for him, “that forging a visa would be just as difficult as a Real ID. However, she could create an entire fictional college that would issue the application documents needed for a real visa.”
Short nod.
“Why a college for student visas, versus green cards?”
“Student visas . . . less scrutiny. And so many colleges. Easier place . . . to start. Plus, Angelique’s idea. She wanted. For herself. Her brother.”
“So this was the initial offer. Get these documents right and not only make huge sums of money now but set the stage for larger money later. Except they didn’t let Angelique come home from that initial meeting, though, did they?” This much Lotham and I had already figured out. “Angelique’s grand idea put more at stake. So big bad associate guys decided to protect their investment by keeping her. Which also provided leverage to force Livia to engage.”
Faint nod. Deke’s breathing is ragged. I can hear the beginnings of a rattle.
Paul: “Hold my hand, Frankie? Please. Just hold my hand.”
Me: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“I know. And I love you anyway. I’ve always loved you anyway.”
“But progress wasn’t happening fast enough?” I push now. “So they grabbed Livia anyway. Forced her and Angelique to work day and night?”
“Livia wasn’t doing . . . so good. The pressure . . . They got nervous. Worried she’d tell. Took her, too. Stuck ’em both in an abandoned building. One leaves . . . The other suffers . . . Couple of guys standing watch. I tried . . . when I could. Give them some breathing room. Let Angelique out . . . but she had to come back. She always came back.”
“For Livia,” I supply.
“She . . . she loves Livia.”
So he knew, then. How much Angelique and Livia meant to each other.
“What happened?” I asked, stroking his cheek. Not much longer now.
“I thought I could keep Livia and Angel safe. I thought . . .”
“You could control the situation?”
“Couldn’t. Everything harder than it looked. Guys, panicking. Girls, freaking out. Month . . . into month . . . into month. Took so long. Livia . . . poor Livia. Then you came. Rocking the boat. So I tried to . . . scare you off. Stop questions.”
“You shot at me, outside J.J. and Roseline Samdi’s house.”
“Thought better . . . if you gone.”
“But I didn’t leave,” I murmur. “And it didn’t get better.”
“Angelique thought, if they cooperated, everything’d be . . . okay. She got college website, registry documents . . . done. Had our first trial.”
“And it worked, didn’t it?” I fill in for him. “Heaven help you all. Angelique’s master plan succeeded, meaning suddenly, they didn’t need any of you anymore. Not Livia, not Angelique, not even you?”
“I tried to warn Livia . . . wanted to get her out. But . . . caught us. He killed her. Right in front of me. What happens if you try to run.”
“You got away. You came to Stoney’s bar. I saw you, outside my window.”
“Wanted to talk to you . . . But then . . . saw the cop arrive. Didn’t know who I could trust.”
“Where is Angelique, Deke? Tell me. I’ll protect her for you. I’ll save her, and I’ll be sure she knows it was because of you.”
Deke’s breathing is definitely ragged now. Suddenly, his body convulses. He winces, grabs his stomach, then heaves sideways just in time to vomit up blood.
“Please, Paul, just hang in there. Help is coming. Paul, Paul. Please God. Paul!”
“Housecleaning now,” Deke whispers. “No loose ends. I gave Angelique my phone. Told her to warn her brother. They knew . . . about her messages to him. But her call . . . not in time. They grabbed him. Threw him . . . in the van. I went for the gun. Enough . . . is enough.”
And there it is, the final death rattle I know all too well.
Me, clutching Paul’s hand. Keening, keening, keening.
Sirens in the background, still way too far away. They won’t be able to save him. No one can save him.
Paul, eyes fluttering open. “You are so beautiful. First time I saw you . . . I knew you were the one. So many, I tried to fix. But you . . . You healed me. I love you, Amy. Forever and always. I love you, for loving me.”
Me, keening, keening, keening.
As her name goes on and on. Amy Amy Amy. The woman he truly loved. The woman who loved him.
The woman I could never be.
There are no sirens now. No final declarations of love. A long, shuddery sigh.
“Livia,” he whispers.
Then I watch the life expel out of Deke Alarie. I feel his hand go limp in mine.
I bend over long enough to close his eyelids. I brush a soft kiss over his forehead. I thank him for trying to save Emmanuel and Angelique. I bless him for having the fortitude to tell me what I need to know.
Where I must go next.
When I finally rise to standing, I’m coated in blood and tears. And once more, that night, so long ago.
“I love you, Amy . . .”
I accept the pain as my due.
Then I grab Emmanuel’s backpack and I start to run. There’s not much time anymore. But finally, I know exactly where to find Angelique, as well as her brother.
I know how to get this one right.
CHAPTER 36
I dial 911 as I race toward the wide boulevard, then track north. I rant about a gunshot victim in a back alley. I tell the confused dispatch operator it’s Deke Alarie and he’s already dead and Officer O’Shaughnessy is in the vicinity and please let him know. And P.S., please tell a guy named Charlie that I’m sorry. Then I hang up before the operator can ask me any more questions.
Next I call Lotham’s cell. He answers instantly this time, already on high alert.
“Where are you?”
“They have Angelique and Emmanuel. Deke tried to stop them. He’s dead.” I tell him where I’m going, then warn, “Lights off, sirens quiet. If they know the police are there . . .”
Lotham doesn’t require further explanation. I think of his broad face, his mangled ear. I think he’s a good man, an excellent detective, and if anyone can get this done . . . I think, if I get shot next, he’s the one I would like to hold my hand.
He’s not speaking. I hear his thoughts instead. His quiet desperation for me to go home, be safe. His relentless need to save Angelique, to protect me.
But maybe I am growing on him, because he doesn’t say the words out loud anymore. He doesn’t tell me to do things we both know I won’t do. I hang up the phone. I keep running.
Toward where it all began two summers ago. Where it will end tonight.
The rec center.
And its kindly director, Frédéric Lagudu.
* * *
—
I come upon the van first. It is parked out front, the back doors slung open, the inside empty. I don’t dare use my pocket flashlight to examine it more closely. I sniff instead, catching the unmistakable scent of blood. From Deke, before they dumped him? Or am I already too late?
I refuse to believe that Emmanuel is dead, if only because I can’t bear the thought. All of my other cases, I’ve pursued my target from a distance, never having met the missing person in question. But Emmanuel, I’ve talked to him, comforted him. He’s just a boy. He doesn’t deserve this.
I creep my way around the giant metal building. I don’t see any trace of lights or detect any sounds of activity. But I know how immense the building is. Plenty of internal classrooms and smaller storage spaces that aren’t noticeable from the outside. What was it Mr. Riddenscail said? The operation could be as simple as a single computer and printer. Wouldn’t require much square footage at all.
Did that mean Livia and Angelique had been there every time I’d visited? And Frédéric, holed up in his office bright and early each morning, hadn’t been the diligent savior of at-risk teens I’d thought him to be?
In hindsight, the description of the driver who’d dumped Livia’s body, a tall, thin Black man, fit Frédéric as well as Deke; I’d simply never connected those dots before. Combine that with Deke’s comment that “they” had seen me talking to J.J.—that conversation had taken place outside the rec center. Again, all roads leading back to this one enormous building. Where Livia and Angelique had first met. Where someone in Frédéric’s position would have plenty of opportunity to scope out their talent. He’d probably been recruiting local kids for various enterprises for years. Well over a decade, if Deke knew him from his days before prison. So many things that now made sense, if only I’d paid attention sooner.
Now, I try to remember the name of the shorter, muscular man who’d been in the building the first time I’d visited. Dutch? Something like that. According to Deke, there were multiple other players. Certainly Dutch would make for excellent hired muscle. Though there could be criminal partners I’d never met before. One, two, half a dozen?
I still don’t know what I don’t know.
Which doesn’t stop me from creeping around to the rear entrance, slowly cracking open the heavy glass door.
I pause, listening intently. No alarms sound, no bodies materialize on the other side. I slide myself through, halting again to get my bearings.
I can just make out a light down the long corridor, near Frédéric’s office. Which presents me with my first obstacle. Discovered in that corridor, I’ll be a sitting duck. And these guys have real guns they’re not afraid to use. Unlike me, who is the proud owner of a red rape whistle.
I take a steadying breath and do what I do best. Think like a reprobate. Seventeen-year-old me, desperate for a drink
, confronted with the challenge of sneaking down a long, dark hallway unseen in order to score a bottle of booze, what would I do?
And just like that, it comes to me.
I dart sideways, hitting the checkout desk for outdoor equipment. Behind it, I feel around in the dark, making out the locked cabinets holding sporting goods. A touch to my hair, and I have my tactical hair clip in hand. Time to test it out.
It takes me a couple of tries—being in the dark doesn’t help—but then, with a click, the lock gives, the broad doors open up. I stick the hair clip back in my hair. Best four bucks I’ve ever spent.
Then I resume feeling around in the dark, identifying the texture of a basketball, the shape of a soccer ball, then baseball bats, mitts, balls.
I start with a baseball. Standing behind the desk, I wind up, then hurl it for all I’m worth at the glass doors. Nothing shatters, but there is a distinct clang as it ricochets off the metal doorframe, then careens around the space. I wait, poised and alert. When nothing happens, I follow with a basketball, then a soccer ball. More rattles and clangs.
Finally, from the end of the hallway. “Who’s there?”
In response, I bounce a basketball down the corridor.
“What the hell?”
I pound another basketball, followed by a second, third, fourth, fifth. Then, before I can think, before the person can think, I grab a bat and give chase, darting down the hall behind half a dozen bouncing balls and relying on them to mask my footsteps.
It’s Dutch. He has just enough time to look up. To register my form materializing out of the dark. His hand fumbles belatedly at his side.
Then I nail him in the middle with a baseball bat. As he folds over, I swing at the back of his head. I hold nothing back. He collapses and there’s blood. A lot of blood. Maybe I’ve killed him. In my adrenaline-fueled state, I have no idea.
I pause long enough to fumble around the body. I discover a radio clipped to his waist, as well as a handgun tucked in the back of his jeans. I help myself to both. Then I strip his sweatshirt half off his head and tie it up behind him, restricting his arms. Just in case he isn’t dead.
