by Brad Parks
“All right,” I said.
And then, because I wasn’t ready to give up on a hundred and fifty grand without more of a fight, I said, “I’m going to tell my friend you need some time to think about it. That way the deal will stay open in case you change your mind.”
CHAPTER 41
The kids were out.
Charlie was at a friend’s house, blissfully stoning himself on video games. Claire had a dance rehearsal.
So it was just Natalie, which meant that after the “hellos” and the “how are yous,” Mitch could get right to the news:
“The FBI came at me today,” he said, like this was something as mundane as changing his socks.
“They came to the prison?”
“Not exactly. There’s this kid, Pete Goodrich. At least that’s what he says his name is. He’s an inmate. Allegedly. I’m pretty sure he works for the FBI. I think they sent him here.”
“Why?”
“To win me over, gain my trust.”
“What makes you think that?”
“He’s been trying to get close to me ever since he got here. Bobby Harrison told me he paid him to get into the poker game. Ten cans! Who pays ten cans to get into a penny-ante poker game?”
“Maybe he just likes poker,” Natalie suggested.
“That’s not all. I mentioned the cabin at one point, just telling a hunting story—”
“About the big fifty-seven-point buck you, the ultimate humanitarian, didn’t shoot?”
“Yeah, that one. He gave me this whole song and dance about an uncle who just so happened to have a hunting cabin in Chattahoochee. And where was my cabin? And, oh my goodness, what a coincidence, his uncle’s cabin was near Tallulah Falls, too. Because doesn’t everyone in the whole world have a cabin near Tallulah Falls, Georgia?”
“Well, it’s possible he—”
“Just wait. I wasn’t totally sure myself he was FBI at that point. But then, lo and behold, the moment I tell him about what I’m in here for, he just so happens to have a quote-unquote friend who is an FBI agent, and maybe, just maybe, he could broker a deal for me. Don’t get me wrong, the kid is good. Real good. Like I said, I didn’t suspect him for a while. But whatever.”
“So what’s the deal?”
“Time served. Plus WITSEC. Plus a million bucks.”
All he heard on the end of the line was a sharp intake of breath. Then a soft moan. Then: “Oh, Mitch, a million dollars.”
“The only thing I have to do is tell them where the documents are,” he said.
She had no response. There was no point in rehashing it.
“You haven’t changed my will, have you?” he asked.
“No. Why would I?”
“So it still has the same verbiage about how in the event of my death, no matter the circumstances, the SARs and the deposit slips get sent to the US Attorneys Office, with copies sent to The Washington Post.”
“Of course, dear,” Natalie assured him.
“Good. I’m going to hang up now. We might as well bank some minutes. Love you.”
CHAPTER 42
Amanda had picked out a gray cowl-neck sweater and black pants, the least sexy outfit she could find that was still appropriate for a restaurant.
She had spent the afternoon rehearsing lines designed to spare Brock’s feelings as much as possible, about how great a guy he was, about how lucky any woman would be to have him, about how much she loved him and cared about him as a friend.
All the while she knew how much those last three words would kill him. Ultimately, it didn’t matter that your heart was being shattered by a rubber mallet instead of an ice pick. Rejection was still rejection.
When Brock’s Mini Cooper pulled up to the curb, she walked quickly down the front steps, wanting to get the whole uncomfortable thing over with. He was wearing his usual jeans and blazer and met her with a quick peck on the cheek. Then he held the door for her, like usual.
On the way to the restaurant, they small-talked stiffly. The cruise had been great. He had gone scuba diving at every place the boat had stopped. He had done time on the treadmill so he could work off at least some of all the amazing food the ship served. She should really have come with him because he didn’t see a mosquito the whole time.
Amanda wasn’t going to push him on his agenda—it was his thing to tell, his thing to ask—and he didn’t mention anything until they were seated at the restaurant and he had a glass of wine in front of him.
He took a long gulp, then set down the glass and said, “Sorry for the mysterious text earlier.”
“Oh, right,” Amanda said, like she hadn’t been thinking about it. “What did you want to tell me, anyway?”
She braced herself. And then he came out with:
“I met someone on the cruise.”
“Oh,” she said, trying to sound more excited than surprised. “That’s great, Brock. Who is she?”
“His name is Jonathan.”
Amanda felt at once relieved and incredibly stupid. Of course Brock was gay. She should have known from the way he danced during those slow songs. The Mississippi girl’s gaydar had epic-failed once again.
“He lives in Baltimore, so I don’t know how much of a chance I’ll get to see him,” Brock continued. “But we had a really amazing time. He kind of reminds me of you, in that he’s quiet at first, but he can really talk once he trusts you. We didn’t hook up a lot—that sort of didn’t happen until the end. But when we did . . .”
“Baltimore isn’t that far away, you know,” Amanda said.
“I know, I know. Look, you can’t tell anyone, okay? My mom knows and doesn’t care. But my dad is just so old-school. His idea of manhood is three wives and five kids, and I don’t think he’s even considered that there’s any other way. He’s always on me about why I don’t find a nice girl and settle down. Sometimes I bring women like you around just to make him happy. I swear, I’ll come out after he dies. But for now . . . He just wouldn’t understand. Half the reason I travel so much is so I can be with guys without worrying about my father finding out.”
“Sorry,” Amanda said. “That has to be hard.”
“Oh, it’s fine. I think some people around Hackensack have probably figured it out. I’m pretty sure Ms. Jump knows.”
Which explained why her future mother-in-law had no compunction about setting them up on a quasi date and why she hadn’t objected to them spending so much time together since.
He continued: “I’ve gotten so used to living in the closet I practically have hangers imprinted in my back. I just, I felt strange not telling you. We’ve been spending so much time together and have gotten so close, not telling you felt like lying.”
“Well, I won’t tell anyone,” she said, reaching across the table and patting his hand. “And I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell me.”
“You’re welcome. And now that I’ve told you my truth, I’m hoping you can tell me yours.”
Amanda stiffened. What was he talking about?
“I was thinking about you while I was away, worrying about you, actually,” he said. “So I googled ‘Mamma Mia! touring company’ to see where Tommy was going to be around Christmas. I was thinking your Christmas present would be flying out to see him somewhere.”
She shifted her gaze down and was now staring at the tablecloth.
“Honey, there is no touring company of Mamma Mia! There hasn’t been for a few years now. It’s none of my business if you don’t want to tell me, but . . . what’s Tommy really up to?”
Amanda reached for a strawberry-blond curl near her shoulder and twisted it around her finger. What was she supposed to say? She had seen the nondisclosure agreement Tommy had signed. It was explicit about the consequences of Tommy’s arrangement with the FBI becoming public.
But Brock had plenty of practice ke
eping secrets. And who was he going to tell? So, after swearing him to silence, she gave him the brief rundown: how Tommy had been approached by Danny Ruiz to take an unusual kind of acting job for the FBI.
Brock listened, clearly puzzled.
“Danny Ruiz?” he said. “Like, our Danny Ruiz? The Danny Ruiz who grew up in Hackensack?”
“Yeah, why?”
“That . . . that doesn’t make sense.”
“Why not?”
“There’s no way Danny works for the FBI,” he said.
“What are you talking about?”
“As I understand it, he really ought to be in prison right now,” Brock said.
Amanda’s stomach lurched beyond even the usual bounds of morning sickness. She had to hold the sides of the table just to steady herself.
“Could you please start making sense?” she asked.
Brock leaned forward. “I was at a party in the city, maybe two, three years ago and I randomly bumped into this guy I hadn’t seen since graduation. His parents had moved out of town, so he never really had a reason to come back to the old neighborhood. Anyway, he had just graduated law school and was now clerking for a federal judge. I asked him if he kept in touch with anyone from high school, and he said, ‘You’ll never guess who was a defendant in my courtroom last month.’ And I was like, ‘Who?’ And he said, ‘You remember Danny Ruiz?’”
Amanda was too stunned to say anything. She was losing her grip on the table, on reality itself.
“I was like, ‘Yeah, of course I remember Danny. Danny Danger.’ And then he told me this whole big story. The feds had Danny nailed dead to rights for trafficking some huge amount of crystal meth. He wasn’t just the supplier. He was the supplier of the suppliers. And my buddy said he had obviously been doing pretty well with it, because he showed up in court with three lawyers in really, really nice suits. It was obvious to my buddy that Danny was guilty as hell, but he was just sitting there with this Cheshire cat smile the whole time. Sure enough, the lawyers got him off on some kind of technicality. They poked a hole in the search warrant or something like that, and it blew up the whole case. Danny just waltzed out of the courtroom, free as a bird.”
Amanda’s hand had gone over her mouth. She was shaking. Tears were pouring from her eyes, snot from her nose. It was every fear she had about this whole stupid thing, amplified, multiplied, and intensified.
“So Danny Ruiz is not working for the FBI,” Brock finished. “Sounds like he’s working for a cartel.”
ACT THREE
Death doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints.
—Aaron Burr, from Hamilton
CHAPTER 43
The gun was never far from her reach.
When Natalie Dupree went out, she snuck it in her purse. When she was at Fancy Pants, she stashed it on a shelf under the cash register. When she slept, it was nestled beneath a nearby pillow. Just let that Mexican guy try to come at her again.
And so, as she drove aimlessly that Saturday night, with the Kia making an ominous rattling sound somewhere near the transmission, it was not at all unusual that the Colt was in the Fendi handbag, which was in the passenger seat next to her—riding shotgun, so to speak.
She had gone out simply because she couldn’t sit around that dingy gray house anymore. Too depressing. Too empty.
Claire was at a sleepover. Charlie was at a movie with the same friend from before. It had left Natalie alone with her thoughts.
A million dollars.
One. Million. Dollars.
What would she do with that kind of money?
There was a time, before Mitch went away, when she barely gave a thought to sudden financial windfalls. Even when she passed one of those lottery billboards, announcing some obscene jackpot, all she’d think about is how the money wouldn’t change her life that much. She would have stayed in the same house—she loved that house—hung out with the same friends, sent the kids to the same schools, kept the same routine. Oh, maybe they’d take nicer vacations or buy new cars. But when it came down to what actually mattered? She was set.
I don’t need to win the lottery, she’d think. I’ve won it already.
It pained her to think of how much that had changed. And now here was Mitch, calling her and telling her the FBI had dangled a million bucks and his freedom in front of him and . . .
She cringed. She had passed one of her old haunts, an upscale restaurant in Buckhead where she and her girlfriends had gone to drink thirteen-dollar appletinis and share seventeen-dollar appetizers that contained no more than four bites of food. They’d run up a tab, slap down their credit cards, and never once worry if there’d be enough money at the end of the month to cover it.
What a life.
Natalie slowed further as she neared another favorite spot. It was packed with a Saturday night crowd full of women who didn’t have to work at Fancy Pants, who considered mani-pedis a basic human right, who thought drugstore hair dye was for sex workers and refugees.
She sped up again. For a moment, she swore she was being tailed. By Mexicans? By the government? She wasn’t going anywhere in particular, and she certainly wasn’t following a straight path to get there, yet this one pair of headlights seemed to be going everywhere she did.
Then they were gone, and she decided the only thing that had really been following her was her own paranoia.
Before she really knew what she was doing, she was gliding by her former house, gazing at it longingly, remembering all the wonderful times her family had there. The new owners hadn’t changed a thing. It really had been perfect.
Then she drove by that neoclassical eyesore with those stupid lions.
She went down a few houses more, turned around in a driveway, then came to a stop on the opposite side of the street from the Reiner residence. She killed the engine and hunkered down, as if lowering her profile made her invisible.
The neighborhood was quiet. The house was dark. The only nearby illumination came from the faux gaslights that lined the street.
And, really, she was just going to sit there, let herself fill with righteous anger, treat herself to her recurring revenge fantasy—the one that involved Thad Reiner’s shocked countenance shortly before his brain exploded out the back of his head—and leave it at that.
Five minutes passed. Natalie stewed on Reiner’s incredible mendacity, about that day when Mitch came home and said Reiner hadn’t been submitting those SARs, about how methodical Mitch had been as he considered the right way to proceed, about the shock when the FBI came with search warrants and tore apart her cherished home.
Ten minutes. She was really burning now. At how skillful Reiner had been pinning his crime on Mitch. At how Mitch had been presumed guilty by pretty much everyone. At how quickly people turned on him. And her. Even her parents, who never should have doubted Mitch, took her aside to ask if she knew for sure he hadn’t been working for the cartel. It was so infuriating.
And that’s where she was stuck—at infuriated—when a pair of headlights came her way. Not the same headlights as before. They were a different shape. Natalie slumped lower. The headlights slowed.
Then a BMW 5 Series turned into the Reiner driveway.
Thad Reiner drove a BMW 5 Series.
The vehicle stopped at the top of the driveway. A light set to a motion detector above the garage came on, so Natalie had a good view of Reiner getting out, then entering the front door of his house.
Alone.
Natalie’s face was flushed. This was as good an opportunity as she would ever have to do what she ached to do without any collateral damage. She could go in, shoot him, take some stuff to make it look like a robbery.
No, better: pull his pants down, staging it like some kind of lover’s tryst gone wrong, so Reiner’s family could experience some slice of the shame hers had.
Then sh
e would flee. No one would suspect the suburban housewife. And the gun was untraceable.
She reached into her handbag and felt its handle. She was certain it had a full cartridge, but she pulled it out anyway. Just to check.
Yes. Fully loaded. She shoved the cartridge back in, then felt the weight of the gun. It was heavier than it looked. In so many ways. She slid it back into her bag. She put the bag over her shoulder.
She would shoot him once. Maybe twice. Enough to get the job done. Not so much to make it look like the shooter had been filled with righteous rage.
One deep breath to steady herself. Another. She could do this.
She opened the car door and was soon outside. Now that she was going, there would be no stopping her.
The Reiner household had a slate walkway coming off the sidewalk. It was guarded by a decorative wrought-iron gate, painted a glistening black. Natalie reached around, unfastened the clasp that held it, and swung it open.
With one last glance over her shoulder, to make sure no one was driving past, she walked through it. Her low heels clicked on the stone path. She had no doubt Reiner would open the door for her. He undressed her with his eyes every time he looked at her.
What a pig. Still, that would be her way in. She would tell him she needed money. She would say she was desperate. She would hint she was willing to do anything.
And then?
Vengeance. Justice. Would it feel empty, or would it fulfill her the way she had always hoped? She looked forward to having the chance to find out.
Now nearing the front porch, she opened her jacket and undid one of the buttons on her blouse. Then another. She wasn’t wearing the right bra for maximum cleavage, but this would have to do.
She was ready. Maybe eight steps to go and she’d be knocking on the front door.
Then her phone bleeped.
She stopped.
The ringtone. It was the one she assigned to texts from Charlie. She was sure he was just messaging to say the movie was over and he needed to be picked up. He could wait a few extra minutes for her to finish this. She just had to get her legs moving again.
