A body, warm, wrapped me up from behind, breath across my ear, and then not—then again, my being swallowed in darkness. I thought to whisper Antoinette. I moaned instead.
Vienna Rhodes, startled, untangled. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” My unsteady feet found the floor. “I’m naked.”
“You dropped your clothes over—”
“I kind of remember. Last time I was that tired, four boys raped me.”
“And you curled up next to me.”
“I shrugged.”
“I noticed. It’s not that dark.”
“How do you feel? I mean that as an evaluation.”
“I could throw the likes of Adler over the balcony railing, if that’s what you mean. What can I do for you?”
“How much detail do you require?”
“I just returned your shrug. I’m a self-starter. Independent. Matter of fact, I don’t care much about having details managed.”
“Big man. Stage a suicide. I have a script for the note he needs to write.”
“Name. Address would be helpful. Photograph.”
Soft light filled the space, my dress from the night before finding a home in the closet.
“Silk,” Rhodes said. “My first and only true love.”
“We have much in common.”
“Those coveralls, too.”
“Right. You own a farm.”
“Dressed like that, you’d fit right in.”
“Lawn service. Across the river. I have work today.”
She came to her feet, struggled with the blanket, abandoned the effort, and stood naked ten paces from me.
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. “How can you look my age—almost—and still be twenty-eight?”
“Clean living and I drink the blood of my victims.” She winced, the fluffy white robe wrapping around her. “I’d been wondering how you can look my age when you’re all dolled up.”
“Are you sure you’re ready?”
“Pain lets me know I’m still alive.”
“I understand more than you can know.”
She picked up the phone. “Breakfast?”
“I have to run.”
“Yes. The usual.” She replaced the receiver. “Who?”
“Developing. I like to plan ahead. Align resources. Would you like a little color?”
“Sure.”
“I’m getting married a week from Friday.”
“Oh, congratulations.”
“Thank you. There’s this asshole who sank a knife into Pamala’s chest.”
She blinked twice fast. “Pamala is not doing well.”
“My god. You can read me.”
“Not well and not all the time. Watching you work the marks at the poker table helps. I told you. You fascinate me. Pamala—”
“The man—"
“Big man.”
“Yes, the man was hired to kill Pamala—bottom line—because she’s gay.”
“Asshole is right. What plans do you have in the works for the person who did the hiring?”
I smirked. “I hired the asshole to kill them.”
“When the bodies drop, so must the witness. Brilliant, diabolical.”
“I’m going to get you some help, backup.”
“I don’t need—”
“If you were one hundred percent—”
“That woman friend of ours who needs to learn to handle firearms.”
“You haven’t met her yet.”
“You have fewer than six friends. You’re incredibly selective. Any friend of yours is a friend of mine.”
I shook my head. “I’m so not used to someone being able to read me so accurately.”
A handgun and handwritten note appeared from my red suede bag. “You’ll love this so much, you’ll want to marry it. The bullet that hit you came from this gun. The gun is traceable back to Hightower’s nephew.”
“He used a traceable gun?”
“Amateurs. We said that already.”
She eyed the note, reading my birth name in a whisper.
“You may take all the literary license you wish with the note you have him write. The deepest apologies to Pamala Edwards and October are important. I’m sending a message from beyond the grave.”
She squinted at the scribbles. “I was following the story. I’m glad I have the opportunity to meet you.”
“Welcome to my inner circle.”
Shawn stood across the table, newspaper tucked in her folded arms. “Sorry. I mean, I owe you an apology.” She turned to Ellen Viceroy. “Good morning. The Toby special.”
I set my newspaper aside. “I can’t imagine what in the world for.”
“That gallivanting crack. I think I was as mad at Michael as you were. I took it out on you.”
“Not required, but apology accepted.”
She dropped to a chair. “He’s been getting grabby. He thinks playfully. I think annoying.”
“You shouldn’t have fucked him.”
She rolled her eyes. “Though I’ve stated clearly otherwise, he takes that as an open invitation, which is why I’ve avoided the apartment when you’re not there and why the dishes piled up.”
“Newton Avenue.”
“With bells on. I do know what it means to live with people who don’t like me.” She narrowed her eyes. “I wish you’d get a TV or at least listen to the radio.”
“Whatever for?”
“The news.”
My hand dropped on top my newspaper.
“That’s the Herald Post.”
“I’m partial to the Post. I used to deliver it after school.”
“That, Toby, is the point. That’s yesterday’s news.”
“I’m good with that, though I’ll be adding the Philadelphia Courier to my daily reading list.”
“Today would be a good day to start.” She placed a newspaper next to my coffee.
I drank the lede, presenting the front page to Shawn. “He looks evil.”
“I thought the same.”
“Shame we’ll never have a chance to meet him.”
“Shame.” Shawn sat back, thanking Ellen for her breakfast. “How’s Donna holding up?”
Ellen snapped to attention. “I just met her, so I don’t know her.”
“Feel free,” I invited.
She glanced behind her, then leaned toward us. “All the tears are crocodile tears. I don’t think she even liked him. Older boy, you know. Mr. Weber is relieved.” She leaned closer. “I think Mark was hitting her.” She straightened.
“Just met her.” Shawn rolled her eyes.
“Dad says I’ve got that kind of face people want to talk to. People.” She rolled her eyes back at Shawn. “Love to gossip.”
“Let’s keep a close eye on this one,” I said to Shawn as Ellen hurried off. “She has a valuable skill.”
“Eavesdropping?”
“Delivering a report.”
“Read the story.”
Opening the paper to page four, I did. “Wow, above the fold, two more photos. I’ll never not be amazed at how thoroughly a house can burn.”
“George certainly takes his work seriously.”
“I didn’t expect this collateral damage.”
Shawn shrugged. “That bothers you?”
“No. It doesn’t. I wish it did.”
“I understand without that wishing it did shit.”
“Okay. I have a job for you today.”
“I’m kind of full up.”
“Make a list. I’ll cover.”
“I guess I can rearrange things.”
I glanced my naked wrist, then dug in my red suede bag. “Fancy dress. Take a limo.”
“All but two of our clients are back. Bat says he’ll talk to them.”
“Wow. I’m impressed.”
“I’m guessing for all his bragging and bluster, Falcon’s all smoky mirrors, popular for being popular. Of the nine people I’d met with yesterday, only two were Falcon loyalists. Two of the others I had to bribe. Cheap. The other five fell over themselves to see things my way. Bat delivered his list, I believe, much to his satisfaction, sticking it to Falcon.”
“I like when someone is passionate about their work.”
“You were saying? About today?”
“See George at work. He should be just getting there when you do. Praise the job he did. Tell him we have a special bonus for him. Give him this envelope. He’s to go right to The Lincoln in Center City. Take room 807. I’m sure it’ll be available.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Then, you go to The Commodore.”
“Room 2204.”
“Where you’ll introduce yourself to Vienna Rhodes.”
“She is?”
“Our new friend.”
“Our friend? That happened quick.”
“Avoid looking directly at her. She’s a siren.”
“I can't wait.”
“Tell her where George can be found. She has my instructions. You’ll be backing her up.”
She slid from the chair. “Anything else?”
“Thanks for the newspaper.”
“You're welcome. Pamala.”
“Yes?”
“Went to see her last night. What’s she not saying?”
“Not for me to say.”
“She’s dying.”
I held her eyes, taking a long draw on my coffee.
“Killing George won’t fix anything, but it’s something.”
“Yes, Shawn. It’s something.”
“I’d been told Hugo Flannagan was a notable person,” I said aloud to the Philadelphia Courier, giving the story a careful review. The local FBI comment about not commenting on open investigations suggested I should have warned Shawn she was racing the FBI.
She had enough on her mind. The FBI would cross their t’s and dot their i's, getting warrants in place.
Jessica’s too-red lips touched my cheek as she sat next to me. “You know I love you no matter what.”
“I do, and I’ve become too predictable.”
“I took a chance you’d be here. I’ve been driving around half the night.”
“You went out to where you’re building the house.”
“Breaking ground July fourth. Coming?”
“I’ll be on the front loader.”
“I sat on the grass, watching the stars, wishing you were there dancing for me. Dreams are called dreams for a reason.”
“I’m not opposed to dropping bodies if anyone gets in my way.”
“Just coffee,” Jessica said to Ellen. “And, Ellen?”
“Eh, Miss Flores?”
“I wish to offer you a blanket apology for anything my family has done to hurt you or embarrass you.”
Ellen blushed, looking at her feet. “Thank you. You have no idea how meaningful that is.”
“Come the fall, I’m opening—”
“Not now, Jessica.”
Ellen got three strides off before she skipped twice.
“I got a panic call from Mr. Stenholm last night. Said you were canceling the project.”
“I don’t know the details. I canceled his involvement in the project.”
“That’s what I thought. Butch was livid.”
“My offer was more generous than I had to be.”
“I thought so, too. He was offended.”
“Petty. Yanked all the limousine business.”
“I did not know that.”
“I took that as a foretelling he and Stenholm were going to take me for everything they could, even if that meant throwing you under the bus. Falcon and Stenholm should take their winnings and leave the table. Things are about to get real ugly.”
“With what Stenholm knows—”
“Stenholm has wild tales to tell, which will sound more like myth and madness. He’s grossly underestimated me. He has no idea the fire that’s coming. Another man who can’t keep his dick in his pants. Waiting on details. Seems a woman has her hooks in him, which is why he’s milking Archetype like his private cow. As for Falcon, well, it was all I could do to keep Mr. Peters from having a talk with him. Mr. Peters is a skilled conversationalist.”
“You scare me a little.”
“I’d like my money back, the money Falcon stole, but I’m willing to let that go. I’m not going to bother with what Stenholm stole. All they have to do is walk away. Their problem is they’re big, burly men who think they have the inherent right to stand over me.
“There shouldn’t be, but if there’s a logjam paying any of our contractors, assure them they’ll get paid.”
“There’s the problem of the riverfront property ownership.”
“That should be resolved by this afternoon. The way Stenholm set up Archetype, behind all the smoky mirrors, I’m the sole owner to shield him from liability should things go sideways. However, he established himself as a cosigner so he could steal my money. Not my first rodeo, Jessica. Compared to the Locke and Borrows Show, Stenholm is amateur hour.”
“Things were simpler, even magical, when this was just me and Fantasy Girl. Sorry.”
“For?”
“Bringing Stenholm and Falcon in.”
“You didn’t know any better. I should have.”
After corralling Ellen twelve paces in the door, Bartholomew Peters took the chair to my right, his back to the kitchen. “Toby, Miss Flores.”
We returned greetings.
“Small world,” he mused to no one. “I know her father.”
“Your lawyer?” I asked.
“A client.”
My smirk should have blinded everyone in the room. “As this small world spins round and round, a partner of Mr. Viceroy may be giving you a call concerning me.”
“Oh, Toby, I look forward to that.”
“Thanks for helping out with the limos.”
“Pleasure to serve. I could have dropped dimes, but I wanted to look people in the eye. Let them know how serious I was and that Falcon’s not.”
Ellen delivered Peters’ breakfast, gathering dishes, blushing.
“I’d think you’d have breakfast each morning with your lovely wife, Marge, and daughter, Lisa.”
He laughed. “Who says I don’t? I have a question, more like a request, maybe permission.”
I turned to Jessica. “Did you have anything else?”
“Eh, no. I’m just soaking up the atmosphere.”
I took her hand. “Soak away.
“Mr. Peters, request away.”
“Red Corvette.”
“Oh, he follows me around all the time.”
“What, if I may ask, is your concern?”
“Jake Simone’s presence on the planet annoys me.”
“How’d you know his name?” Jessica asked with her own helping of annoyance. “Toby?”
“Not me.”
“I ran his tags. I want to know whether it’s okay with you if I have a conversation with him.”
“Why?” Jessica asked.
Not without bluster, Peters answered, “This is my territory. He’s been hanging around. I have not only the right but also the obligation to inquire about his business.”
“Your territory?”
“Many of the businesses pay me to watch after their interests.”
I chuckled. “If you didn’t do any actual protecting, it’d be extortion.”
“Yes, Toby, it would.”
“Mr. Peters.”
“Toby?”
“Have you ever heard of the Cambridge Rapists?”
He leaned back, both palms flat on the table, watching me for an eternity, maybe two. “Not by that name—the title fits, making clear of whom you speak. The most important thing I know about that group is you don’t fuck with them.”
He glanced toward the front of the store as if he could see the man across the street in a cliché trench coat and hat.
“They’re about to be fucked with, Mr. Peters. I’d prefer they not see me coming.”
He stood taller than he could have, peeling bills off his wad. His right eye twitched. “In this moment, I understand more deeply than I ever have, and, in this moment, I understand I don’t understand anything.”
“Trust the magic, Bat.”
A tattered gray suitcase fell heavily to the sidewalk behind me. “You don’t believe in witches,” Dasey Longardner greeted.
I straightened, leaning on the rotary edger, turning. “Probably not the way you do, Miss Longardner.”
“You are such a willful child,” she scolded.
“That I see the world differently from the way you do does not make me a willful child.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Is there something particular? I have work to do.”
She surveyed the property. “Yes, there is something particular.” Again, she glanced the yard. “I thought this would take days.”
“I have good associates. We’ll be wrapping up by the afternoon.”
“I have your check, though obviously you’re getting overpaid. I could think you took advantage of an elderly woman.”
I chuckled.
“What’s amusing?”
“Mrs. Stiles is fucking with you from the grave. I had nothing to do with the agreement.”
She sucked hard on the air, a hand to her chest. “Child! Language!”
I shrugged. “What was with you and Mrs. Stiles, anyway? You obviously didn’t like her, yet here you were giving her my flyer. Why the flyer? Was that a clean up your yard dig?”
“Well, the property—”
“I’m betting it’s over the gay thing.”
“Gay thing? You mean the lesbian thing.”
“You say potato, I say I’m gay.”
“It wasn’t that.”
“You said witches hate gays.”
“That’s not what I said. I said witchcraft is about life, thus—”
I waved her off with all the dismissiveness I could pack into my right hand. “Mrs. Longardner. I don’t care what your opinion of me, of Harriet Stiles, of witches, and of lesbians is.”
“You are such a willful child.”
“Of those people who like me, that’s what they like most about me.”
Longardner closed her eyes for a slow count of ten. “You have it all wrong, Toby. The family, including me, didn’t turn our backs on her. She withdrew from us, became a recluse. Got married and wanted nothing to do with anyone else. Some thirty years give or take now.”
“I don’t care what family dramas you had going on. I’m not a gossip. I really don’t understand why you irritate me so much, but you do.”
Now, she chuckled. “That’s just what Harriet used to say to me.”
“Work, Miss Longardner.”
“You broke Cassandra’s heart, you know.”
I intentionally rolled my eyes. “Shawn is her own person. I didn’t steal her away.”
She blinked at me. “She reached out to you years ago. In the church. Now, you do this.”
“She told me that story. The dance class she taught on Friday night. And the lost waif she saved from the dark clutches of whatever. I reminded her of that girl. I let her believe I was her so she could feel good about herself.”
I presented my right arm. “That girl she spoke of is dead. The story was in all the papers. Want to take my pulse?”
She pursed her lips, holding my eyes.
“Okay. My mistake. I let her believe what I was not. I should have known better. There’s this man in town. Jack Blanc. His daughter died. He said I look so much like her, I could come live with the family and pretend to be her.”
“Oh, my.”
“That’s the thing. If I were to pretend to be her, I would fail Mr. Blanc and his family. I should have known better. I failed Cassandra pretending to be what I’m not.”
“You have a troubled past with many challenges coming your way.”
“Don’t.” I put my traffic cop palm in her face. “Don’t spiritualize me. I find it annoying.” Turning, I leaned on the rotary edger. “I have work, Miss Longardner.”
“This suitcase,” she said to my back. “Harriet wanted you to have it. I mean, that’s in her will.”
I pushed the edger hard three times, straightening, then turning. “Codicil, no doubt. Handwritten, calligraphy.”
“Notarized.”
“The missing money?”
“Eh, no. There was never any money. That was just a story they told around town about that old witch.”
“One of many stories.”
“People like their stories.”
“And gossip.”
She sighed. “You don’t believe in witches.”
“Not the way you do.”
“This.” She indicated the suitcase. “May change your mind.”
“What? My very own black pointy hat and black robes?”
“If we’re speaking in metaphors, you may be more right than you are not.”
I snickered. “We talked about this. Who Mrs. Stiles passes the heritage to. Witchcraft, her witchcraft, is a lineage system. From everything I’ve read, her heir has to be in her bloodline.”
Longardner’s smirk gave me a chill. “Toby, please accept this suitcase; rather, please accept willingly and without reservation the contents of this suitcase.”
A pig in a poke.
In a ritual I sensed dated back thousands of years, with a sincere slight bow, I said, “Dasey Longardner, I willingly and without reservation accept the contents of this suitcase.”
Her eyes dropped. “You must take it.”
I did, moving the suitcase to the sidewalk next to me.
“Thank you. With that out of the way, I wanted to talk to you about work inside the house. We’ve had an inspection.”
“Shawn.”
“What?”
“Talk to Shawn. She does all that. Shawn has found it best to keep me far from any customer interactions, you know, me being a willful child and all.”
“Shawn is wise beyond her years.”
With the tattered gray suitcase stowed carelessly on the front seat of my Ford pickup, I almost reached the end of the inner side of the sidewalk with the edger when a black Impala screeched to a stop, releasing an angry Inspector Joe Bradley waving a newspaper.
“What?” I asked, facing him. “You were in the room.”
“This!” He indicated the paper. “This whole thing is a mess!”
I shrugged. “Things get messy. I warned you.”
He lowered his voice, leaning toward me. “Davis knows who we are or at least can identify us. You saw him in the box. He’ll give us up in two seconds.”
“I didn’t expect him to be so sloppy. Not only multiple witnesses, but he used the church van. Anyone who knows George reading the story will know it’s him.”
“I can’t get in the room.”
“With Hugo Flannagan the headliner, I can see why not. Five victims. One other is Tammy.”
“Sister Lisa, her husband, Sam, and daughter, Maria. Five years old!”
“I keep saying that lightning has to strike.”
“What?”
“They were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m sure George wanted the fire to look like an accident, but he’s an idiot.”
“He killed them before setting the fire.”
“I thought you couldn’t get in the room.”
“People talk to me.”
“They’re set on George.”
“Yes. For now. Until he squeals.”
“He acted alone?”
“Uh, yes.”
“I thought as much. When George hit me, his partner, Harry Hayes, cried like a baby. Pamala said Hayes yelled at George for stabbing her. If Hayes steps in front of my truck, I’ll run over him. I won’t go out of my way to kill him, though.”
“Toby.” Bradley looked up and down the street. “The FBI could roll up on us any second.”
I consulted my wrist. “I feel that problem has been solved by now.”
“What?”
“Trust the magic, Joe. You should, acting on a tip, go to The Lincoln in Center City. Inquire at the desk which room George Davis is in. It’ll be 807.”
“807? That’s the room—”
“Sure. I like the irony. Take Jackeline Curran with you. She’ll appreciate the road trip. No hurry. He’s not going anywhere. You’ll appreciate his note.”
“I should have known.”
“In addition to eliminating the great evil that was the Flannagan father-daughter team, I’ve given you or some other governmental agency that gives a fuck access to the church records and books. Something many people are interested in. You’re welcome.”
“Eh, you’re sure.”
“That George Davis is dead? Yes. Wrapped up in a neat package. It’d explain to you why he killed them all. I don’t wish to ruin the surprise.”
“You know Jacks?”
“Of course.”
He pursed his lips.
I narrowed my eyes. “Have you ever heard of the Fiji Islands?”
“Huh? What?”
“National Geographic. I never miss an issue. Never been. Seems nice. Sit on the beach and stare at the ocean.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Six months? Take a hiatus like Mathers. I’m not sure you have the stomach for what’s coming.”
“My stomach is just fine.”
I winked. “I’ll hold your hair back.”
He shook his head. “I have the Wilkins files for you. It’s pretty gruesome.”
“Joe. You’re just fucking with me now.”
“Not even a little bit.”
I opened the door without invitation, Jennifer Reeves a step behind me. “Out,” I said to the man in the chair in front of the desk. “We won’t be long. Smoke 'em if you got 'em.”
“Well, I never!”
“I’m sure you have. Out.”
He hurried from the room.
“Mr. Bancroft,” I greeted, accepting a folder from Reeves. “Simple title transfer.”
The folder landed on the desk. Bancroft half stood, face twisted in anger. He may have growled. “You can’t just barge in here!”
I dropped a bundle of bills next to the file. “Simple title transfer.”
He returned to the chair, opening the folder. “Simple enough.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Artemis Grimes?”
“Sure.”
“Eh.” He went to work scribbling on the documents, then turned the folder to face me.
I signed in four places, then handed the pen to Reeves.
Bancroft sat back cautiously—as much as such an action can be called cautious. “Artemis Grimes,” he repeated. “I heard stories.”
I chuckled dismissively. “People, Mr. Bancroft. People tend to get all wide-eyed, telling wild tales.”
“Then it’s not true?”
I winked playfully. “There were only two.”
“If you two are done gossiping.”
Bancroft scrambled to his feet. “Miss Grimes—”
“Toby’s fine.”
“Toby.” He offered a respectful bow, saying more than any words could. “On that other business.”
“Cameron Hightower.”
“Details?”
I answered with a shrug. “Not necessary.”
“You’ll be—”
“Lauren, Mr. Bancroft. I repeat: hit her again, and I’ll kill you. Matter of fact, see she gets a raise.”
“That’s not in my purview.”
“Oh, when the good old boys get together in the backroom with cigars and brandy, I’m sure you can make it your purview.”
“Toby,” Reeves said on the sidewalk in front of the bank.
“Miss Reeves?”
“I am your legal counsel. I’m also bound by rules.”
“Not to split hairs. Sure, you’re my legal counsel, but you’re not a lawyer, so you’re not sworn.”
She pursed her lips. “You should take up law. Anyway, you need to take care what you say in front of me.”
“You can always pull the I do not recall. As my legal counsel, I’m also accepting you as my confidant. You told me never to blindside you in the room. You have to know what I know.”
“I did say that.”
“Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I won’t kill Bancroft if he hits Lauren again. I’ll say outrageous things to read how people react. I have compromising photos of Bancroft with Lauren.”
“I recall from the meeting where you blindsided me.”
“He’s concerned the photos would embarrass him, so not much of a hold over him. When I first told him I’d kill him if he hit Lauren again, he didn’t believe me. Now, he does.”
“I’ve watched you play a room.”
“Loyalty, Jennifer. I have people around me, like you, who have looked at me and made their judgments. Based on that determination alone, they choose to be loyal, and I trust that loyalty unconditionally.
“On the other hand, we have assholes like Bancroft who are only loyal to the money. I don’t blame them. For most people, that’s what makes the world go round.”
“Butch Falcon.”
“Another good example.”
“You knew. About Falcon and Stenholm.”
“I did and I didn’t. I love Jessica.”
“I understand.”
“That will not happen again.”
“I’m going to write that up, have you sign it, drag it out, and put it in your face when it happens again.”
“Christeen French.”
“Oh, Chris is a true believer.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“I should have a complete report, with diagrams and charts, by Friday night.”
“Bottom line it for me. Is she going to be taking a header out the twentieth-floor window?”
“You dropped into her life at the last possible minute. I’ve cut off all access to her assets. She’s solvent enough. That means—”
“She can pay her bills.”
She stared at me for a long breath. “I’m thinking now we can carefully file suits to recover much of the stolen money.”
“Carefully, because much of her business is illegal.”
“Exactly that.”
“We have a breakfast meeting with Hightower Saturday morning to discuss his retribution.”
“Restitution is the word you’re looking for.”
“Not the way I’m going to bring the hammer down.”
“Are you going to blindside me again?”
“No. However, this meeting may serve as a template for how to recover Mrs. French’s money. Quicker and cleaner than lawsuits. She’s solvent. We don’t need the money; however, we do need to make a point.”
I glanced east and then west. “Men get all testy when they’re told they’re wrong. Like with Falcon, men often retaliate when asked to give back what they stole. That’s why I flamboyantly murdered the Smith brothers instead of simply disarming them at the door, smacking their butts, and shooing them down the road.”
Again, the long pause. “That’s true. The story?”
“Not without irony, Mark and Steve, Hightower’s nephews, assaulted Jane Wilkins, putting her in the hospital with a brain bleed.”
“Taxi Jane? The woman on crutches?”
“Yes.”
“How is Hightower still alive to take a meeting?”
“I want his assets. I’m sure you have his number. He can’t raise anywhere near that amount of cash. The meeting is going to be like playing Monopoly with title deed cards hitting the table. Trust me. We’re going to have fun.”
She rolled her eyes.
I melted.
“Stenholm fired me.”
“Did you give him the you can’t fire me; I quit?”
“Eh, no. He screamed at me all the way across the office, right out the door. He’s filing injunctions.”
I smirked.
“This isn’t funny.”
“Mr. Stenholm, thinking me just a child, is asshole-deep in the illegal dealings too. He can’t withstand discovery. He’s fucked himself, and as we know, there’s no fucking like the fucking you give yourself.
“I’m sure in his rant he said he’ll see to it you never work in law again. Grimes LLC will front you in your own law office.”
“How—”
“I don’t know yet. We’ll figure it out. Mr. Stenholm, being a man and having fucked himself, is going to make the huge mistake of lashing out at me. He’ll ask Mr. Viceroy for his fixer, who happens to work for me. A true believer because, Jennifer, that’s just the way the universe works sometimes.”
“I should be taking notes.”
“I know you don’t need to. April Mathers.”
“There’s a dark blotch on that one’s soul.”
“I never expected you to say anything as poetic as that.”
“I have no other way to put it. She’s driven.”
“Jody Demarko.”
“Eh, yes and no. Jody is the name she hangs on her quest.”
“She did say a long time ago she followed up on that file every week.”
“Insatiable. Driven by hunger.”
“The dark blotch on her soul.”
“She’s loyal to her quest, not you.”
“April will hitch her wagon to my star as long as our goals align. She’ll take my hand and jump down this dark rabbit hole because she’s too terrified to jump alone.”
“That’s a good way to put it.”
“Is she up to the task of playing her role?”
“Mrs. French’s number one? Yes. She’s perfect in that role.”
“We’re going to hug, aren’t we?”
“If for no other reason than to remind ourselves for a few moments at least that we’re just human beings clutching onto each other.”
The creak of the door and singing from the bell announced Shawn’s arrival. She plopped down on the chair closest to the desk. “I wanted to catch up on the books.”
Leaning back in the chair with my feet up on the desk, file folder open, I said, “The books aren’t behind.”
“You know you shouldn’t sit like—”
“Yes, I know.”
“1 Bread is my anchor. I make a point to stop in at least once a day and catch up on the books.”
“The alone time is good, too.”
“Catch my breath. Make sure I’ve not missed anything.”
“Balls in the air.”
“I did that once. Balls in the air. Sixth grade. Baggy clown outfit, big shoes, orange wig. Clown face.”
“Did you lose a bet?”
“Huh? Oh, no. Talent show. I was okay with three balls in the air, hit-or-miss with four. I knew I should have stuck with three. Maybe twisted a few more balloon cats instead.”
“But you just had to go for four.”
“I did. Balls everywhere. All the kids laughed.”
“People are supposed to laugh at clowns.”
“I suppose so.”
“Vienna Rhodes.”
“Yes. Vienna Rhodes. Thanks for the warning. It’s not so much the way she looks—”
“It’s the way she looks coupled with how she carries herself.”
“Exactly. Just like you when you step up. Like in the box and at the bank.” She paused. “George.”
“Observations, comments, questions, criticisms?”
“Killing a man is not so difficult.”
“It is for most people.”
“Which makes us special.”
“Different. Not special. That you can do the flapper dance and I can’t doesn’t make you special.”
“Different.”
I placed the page I was reading upside down on the pile on the desk. “I asked if she’d teach you to handle guns.”
“She said. We spent a couple hours going over the basics. I may have learned a thing or two when not distracted.”
“I like her enthusiasm.”
“New file?”
“New to us. The complete, unredacted Jane Wilkins police reports and files, with original notes.”
“With photos?”
“Gruesome is the word Bradley used. I’d say explicit, though I’m sure just a cursory glance would give most people nightmares for weeks.”
Shawn stood, her thighs against the desk, gathering the stack of eight-by-ten black-and-white photos. “Nothing in color?” She paged through the collection, presenting a photo. “This caught her good side.”
“I really do love you,” I said with a chuckle. Reaching, I retrieved a three-by-five wire-bound notebook from the desk, offering it to Shawn.
“Toby. What the actual fuck?” she asked rhetorically, narrowing her eyes at the open page.
“That was my reaction, though I slammed the notebook on the desk.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I was being dramatic.”
She waved the notebook. “If they knew who did it, why—”
“Best I can tell so far, they never bothered to put any of the named participants in the box or even stop by with a casual Howdy. Were you involved in the gang rape of Jane Wilkins?”
“Nothing corroborating Jane’s statement?”
“Art major,” I scoffed.
“Well, logic and common sense.”
“There’s something missing. I want to avoid doing so, but it looks like I’m going to have a conversation with Jane. Every news story writes it up as a random act. Woman in the wrong place at the wrong time. Even in this file: random act. Not worth pursuing.”
“What do you think?”
“I hate conjecture. Too often, a guess is treated like truth. Theory hardens into conclusion, blinding us to facts—even when those facts kick the door off its hinges and scream at us.”
“I can see that.”
I dropped my feet to the floor, placing the file on the desk. “This wasn’t a fun-and-games gang rape like in the school bathroom. This was a hit. Look at the photos. They meant to kill her. Rape was just a bonus.”
“I’ll go over the file. See if I agree.”
“Now you’re thinking like my number one. I’m going to put Rich on their stink.”
“Gather more facts.”
“1 Bread.”
“I’ve got everything lined up with Allen. Twenty-eight dinners. We’re launching next week.”
“I’d thought you’d be pomping and circumstancing all weekend with Pamala’s graduation parties.”
Shawn dropped back to a chair, deflated. “There’ll be no parties. I have a plan to steal her as she leaves the stage. We’ll be getting to the church around seven.”
I nodded.
“That’s Friday. Seven o’clock.”
“My calendar is already marked with a big red circle.”
“I think I’ve inherited your if something can go wrong, it will.”
“That’s just the way the universe works.”
“You sure you’re not going to be at the graduation?”
“Mrs. Edwards is on the warpath. Even in a clever disguise like a custodian—glasses, big nose, mustache—I don’t want to take the slightest chance of her making a scene, ruining Pamala’s moment.”
“She doesn’t want Pam going.”
“I’ll bet that was a scene.”
“Dr. Kerney intervened. Told Edwards that yelling at her was bad. Emotional stress, and all.”
“People are stupid. Life is about our moments. Pamala has so few moments left. Her, on the stage, receiving the diploma, her body unable to contain all the happy. Her mother thinks lying in bed staring at the ceiling would be better.”
“They put a TV in her bedroom.”
“Even worse.”
I struggled to my feet, my body stiff from sitting in an awkward position so long. “Into a nearby phone booth—”
Shawn chuckled. “I can drop you at the apartment.”
“I can walk. Besides, I know you wish to go over this file.”
“Chomping at the bit. You know me so well.”
“Type up a summary?”
“Only if you promise to proofread it.”
With a nod, I indicated the hallway. “It’s not to leave the office. Serling gets the summary to take home, not the file.”
“Aye. I’ll bring my typewriter here.”
I stacked pages and photos, closing files as once again the creak of the door and bell announced a visitor.
“Shawn!” Rachel Paige greeted as they hugged.
She stepped back, a hand indicating behind her. “This is Roman. Roman, Shawn, Toby.” Roman was a lanky boy in tattered blue jeans, untied high-top sneakers, a blue sweatshirt stained with who-knows-what, dark eyes, and ratty brown hair to his shoulders.
I nodded to Roman, Rachel coming around the desk.
We hugged forever.
“Don't make me clear my throat,” Shawn threatened.
Ignoring her, Rachel whispered in my ear, “Got the report.”
“That was quick.” Stepping back, I kept her hands, holding her eyes. “How are you doing?”
“Much better, thanks. I didn’t want to ask Roman to wait in the car.”
I gathered the stack of files, winking at Shawn. “We won’t be long.
With the door secured behind us, I turned to Rachel.
She clocked the room. “My gosh. What’s all this?
“Focus, Rachel. You’re now the fourth person to be in this room.”
She closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath. “As I was trying to figure out a way to meet Molly without it being obvious, I happened to see her go into the girls’ room between classes. Not that I was stalking her—it just happened.” She opened her eyes.
“That’s the way the universe works sometimes.”
“Yeah, it is. I put on the tears, rushing in behind her. The universe. We were alone. She asked if I was all right. I gushed a version of what really happened to me.”
“She just had to tell you her story.”
“It was just like that!” She produced a folded sheet of paper from her back pocket. “I wrote it all down.”
I glanced the handwritten report.
“Joseph Rose,” I said softly.
“Three years older. The note’s there. Graduates this year.”
I narrowed my eyes. “He’s been sneaking into her bedroom at night for this long?”
“That’s what Molly says.”
“My question was rhetorical.”
“Oh. That shocked me, too.”
“She didn’t mention her father?”
“Her father—what?”
“Beating on her when he gets angry.”
“Eh, no. But we only talked twice. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Are you okay?”
“Huh?”
“I mean, in doing this. Spying.”
“Oh, sure. It’s your work, and your work is good work.” She closed her eyes again. “Molly wants to tell her stories. She has no one to tell to. We have plans to go to the mall next week. See a movie. You think she lied to me? About her brother?”
“You lied to her.”
“Oh, I get that. I have no problem being her friend.”
“We have a place to look now. Try to corroborate her story.”
“You want to be sure you have all the facts straight before you bring God’s wrath down on someone’s head.”
“Roman Yeger,” Shawn said after the door closed. “Good kid. Interested in a summer job—and Molly Rose.”
“Did you hire him?”
“Not yet. I have his number, though.”
“Don’t.”
“Eh?”
“He kissed your ass to ingratiate himself to Molly. He has no interest in a summer job.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “By the same magic you knew Ted was one of the good guys, even after he tried to kill you.”
She stood. We hung onto each other.
With an almost sob, she breathed in my ear, “I thought we’d have more time.”
“I know.”
When the high-speed train station came into view, the gang of boys I’d seen often did, too. They were a cliché, all leaning in different poses against the stone wall, eyeing people as they passed, often making jokes and crude remarks.
“Hi, Toby,” Officer Martin greeted as he rolled up behind me in his police car. “Or—dressed like this—should I say, Artemis?”
“I see more sensational stories about me abound.”
“Chief Meyer tells a tale, which most people think is wild. Me. Well, I’m a believer.”
“I bet he tells it third person.”
“Huh?”
“He knows someone who told him the tale.”
“He does exactly that.”
“Meyer was in the room.”
Martin whistled. “Now, doesn’t that put a spin on things?”
“It does, indeed.”
“So, it’s true?”
I chin-bobbed toward the train station. “Those five. Aren’t there any amusement parks open?”
“Huh?” he asked again.
“Seems they are fond of riding the train. I’ve seen them up three stops, here, and in Philly.”
Martin twisted his face. “They don’t do anything illegal. Clown around.”
“Boys will be boys.”
“Like that.”
“You say clown around. I say harass.”
“Eh, Toby—”
“Two of those assholes said they wanted to rape me. Clown around? I don’t see the amusement in that. Clowns are supposed to be funny.”
“If you’d like to file a complaint—”
“Would it do any good?”
“No.”
“You may wish to drop down to Collings Nook. Get a donut and coffee. I just may be in the mood to put a couple of these assholes on Jackeline Curran’s slab.”
“Toby—”
“It’s not that I haven’t done it before.” I looked at the concrete. “Right where I’m standing.”
Martin swallowed hard. “I’ll chase them off.”
“I’ll have another opportunity, I’m sure.”
Sister Rebecca slipped in just as the elevator doors closed. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Hi, Sister Rebecca.”
“Oh. Hello, Toby.”
“You mean I’m not allowed in Pamela’s room.”
“Yes. That’s what I mean.”
“Then get off on a different floor.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “That other business?”
“My point exactly.”
“Your point?”
“You look the other way when it suits your conscience. You’ll look the other way when it suits mine.”
She let out a sigh heavy enough to drop the elevator an inch. “The girl?”
“Fact-finding. People rarely tell the truth—not to a priest, not to a doctor in a medical file. To solve a problem, I need to know what the problem actually is.”
“You want to verify her story.”
“Molly Rose is a child in trouble, screaming for help without knowing how. She doesn’t even know help exists.” The elevator doors opened with a clunk and a whoosh. “Thanks for hearing her, Sister.”
“I’m so glad you came by,” Pamala greeted me, propped up in the bed.
I kissed her forehead. “Scoot over.”
Lying next to her, I opened The Complete Grimm.
“I told you I don’t want you reading to me.”
“This isn’t a magazine.”
“We need to talk—”
“You need to snuggle into my shoulder and close your eyes.”
As she obeyed, I read the story of Cinderella.
“That’s way different from the movie.”
“It is.”
“I like it better.”
“More realistic. That is if we can say fairy tales can be realistic.”
“I know what you mean. Thank you. I get your point.”
“I wasn’t going for a point. I was just reading a story.”
“Though they won’t allow me newspapers—”
“Too much stress in the news.”
“There really is.”
“People talk.”
“One of those people being your mother, all gleeful about Tammy dying, even overshadowing her son’s death. Waving the newspaper around, telling me your father left her for Tammy, and now Tammy got what was coming to her.”
“All unaware that Tammy hired George to kill you so that you’d get what was coming to you for being all gay and all.”
“I am not gleeful, Toby. I will accept that maybe Tammy got what was coming to her, like Cinderella’s stepsisters did.”
“I did not mean it that way.”
“I accept that, too. As you say, that’s just the way the universe works—even if you have to help the universe a little. Toby.”
“Pamala.”
“I do not feel better that Tammy is dead.”
“I didn’t believe you would.”
She snuggled in. “My father.”
“Yes. Top reason for seeing you today is because I want to. Second reason is your father.”
“He told me what happened.”
“In lurid detail?”
“I can’t imagine he left anything out. You’re not running off with him?”
I chuckled. “No. He’s not my flavor.”
“He didn’t really mean it. Oh, he did, and he didn’t. When he gets too much pressure—too much stress—he completely loses his mooring.”
“He fantasy boys himself.”
“That’s a great way to put it. He went crazy like this over Maria’s assault. He said he needs to apologize to you.”
“You can tell him I accept his apology. I understand. When I was under too much pressure—too much stress—I created a mind-ghost who is still with me.”
“You’ve decided Antoinette is just your imagination?”
“Only for this purpose. There’s been talk. In our tradition of never, ever presumptionating, if your parents decide to put you in a long-term facility, would you rather live with me?”
“My first thought would be I don’t wish to be a burden. I know if roles were reversed, you could never be a burden to me. My answer, then, is if my parents don’t want me, I’m all yours. Even if they do, I’m yours. I’ve seen what the burden of Maria has done to them.”
I climbed from the bed. “I promised Sister Rebecca I’d only be five minutes. It’s been an hour.”
“Three things.”
“Okay.”
“A hug, a kiss, and leave the book.”
The Philadelphia Courier lobby was dim and spacious—I thought someone had forgotten to lock the door. The room was a pale reflection of how I imagined the room would be in the daytime, busy with people and news. A chest-high barrier ran the length of the far side, with a telephone at the dozen stations.
“What do you want?” a deep male voice sang down from the high ceiling, echoing from the walls.
Beyond the partition, rows of cluttered desks marched off into the vague distance; eight people were scattered about. A man in his fifties—gray dress slacks, a white shirt heavy with a day’s wear, black tie pulled loose, black hair gray on the sides in a flat top—stood watching me from a nearby desk beyond the counter, telephone in his right hand. “Be quick about it, sister. I have four and a half minutes before I can’t yell stop the presses.”
Amused, I allowed the sister to pass. “Oh, I have nothing like that.”
“Good.” He slammed the phone down. “I was kidding anyway. Well, not really.” He came to the counter. “What’s your pleasure?”
I placed a copy of the Herald Post down. “I was just curious—”
“Curiosity killed the cat.”
I rolled my eyes so hard he should have burst into flames. “Are you one of these men who always must talk over a woman?”
“Eh, no, sister—”
“Satisfaction.”
“Eh, what?”
“Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought her back.”
“How do you know the cat was a girl?”
“It probably wasn’t—the story written by men.” My eyes dropped to the newspaper. “The Herald Post.”
“I see that.”
“Gangster hit. Front page above the fold.”
“Continued on page four, below the fold.”
“Ah, so you’re familiar.”
“We cut it out, taped it up on the wall in the break room. Really good for a laugh.”
“You didn’t carry the story—”
“Obviously, sister, you have no idea how the newspaper game works.”
“Obviously.”
“We got calls, you know.”
I glanced behind me. “I bet you could have heard the shots from here.”
He glanced behind him. “Not with all these typewriters going at once.”
I removed my dark glasses. “I’m not curious as to why you didn’t run some version of the story. That gangland shooting isn’t even the story anyway.”
“Damn. Now it is too late to stop the presses.”
“Do you even have any women working here?”
“Look, sister, this isn’t a Superman comic book.”
“Why, do you suppose, did the Herald Post run a story that didn’t happen?”
“I’d not thought of that.” He pulled on his chin while considering the high ceiling. His eyes came back to mine. “They had information beforehand.”
“Maybe they even wrote and polished the story well beforehand.”
“Waiting until the very last stop the presses minute.”
I cocked my right eyebrow.
He offered his right hand, which I took.
“Roscoe Frisk.”
“Artemis Grimes.”
“What exactly are you saying, Miss Grimes? Know this: we didn’t run with the story because we couldn’t confirm anything.”
“That, Mr. Frisk, is exactly how it’s supposed to work. The Herald Post was so sure of their facts that they ran the story. Men sat around in a circle and decided to run with the story. That is your story.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“We considered that. Well, not we. A young cub reporter made that suggestion. The Herald had to have the story before it happened.”
“Maybe the Herald was in on it? Maybe the Herald contracted the hit?”
“Why would they do that?”
“There, Mr. Frisk, is your Holy Grail. Look at their story. Look at who they say got hit.”
“Christeen French,” he said without looking. “We know her.”
“Since Mrs. French didn’t have a campaign against the Herald, the most logical other reason would be—”
“A hostile takeover. Do you have any evidence? Any proof?”
“I’m just a girl, and this isn’t a Superman comic book. What if I told you that I know a person who was in that meeting?”
“Which?”
I smirked. “The editorial staff meeting.”
“Who are you again?”
“I’m an associate of Richard Serling.” Casually, I slipped my large manila file folder onto the counter, flipping it open.
“Serling?” His dark eyes ran down the copy, flipping a page.
“The core writing is Chase Hastings’. The red chicken scratches are my suggestions.”
More flipped pages. “Hastings?”
“She works for—”
“I know. She’s a fluffer. Occasionally they give her a crack at something.”
“PTA meetings, road closures.”
“They keep her on the bench.” He paused his reading, showing me a sheet as proof. “Obviously a waste of talent.”
“I’m a fan.”
“Your edits?”
“Yes.”
“You, Miss Grimes, are an enigma.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“That was a compliment.”
“I know.”
He gathered the copy. “What do you want me to do with this?”
“I’d say I want your opinion, but really, I’m just showing off. Do you want it? The story?”
“Eh, that would be unethical.”
“Let me put it this way. When the Post passes on it, do you want it?”
“Clark!” he called, watching me, his voice echoing around the room.
“Mr. Frisk?” A young man appeared at Frisk’s right. He brought Joe to mind, my antagonist from school, and my rapist. His dark gray suit coat hung a size too big, hinting he had much to grow into. His steel-blue eyes took in Frisk, the manila folder, and me like a predator sizing up its prey. His short, dirty blond hair was meticulously groomed, though an obstinate floe violated his forehead, and a cowlick cursed his crown.
His black-rimmed eyeglasses were plain glass, not prescription, indicating he was playing the role of a clown rather than being a clown.
“This, Clark, is what journalism looks like. Type it out with the corrections. Proof it twice. Have it back here in ten minutes,” Frisk said without turning his attention from me.
“Yes, sir.”
“Chase Hastings is on staff. If she were a stringer, maybe. Steal a staff writer’s work? Our lawyer would beat me to within an inch of my life with a rolled-up copy of our Saturday edition.”
“She was in the room, Mr. Frisk. The only dissenting voice. Headhunt her. Then, you can be like a Superman comic book.”
“She’s a solid writer.”
“High praise.”
“Your proofing stings.”
“You’re just flirting with me now.”
“How about I offer you a job?”
“I don’t type, and I’m certainly not good at servitude. What about Chase?”
“What about her?”
“Do you want her?”
“I thought you were making a joke.”
“My jokes are funny.”
Roscoe accepted copy from behind him. “Stay, Clark.”
“That story’s really great—”
“We know,” Roscoe said.
I offered a hand, which Clark took. “Artemis Grimes.”
“Eh, LP Jordan. They call me Clark.”
“Eager cub reporter.”
“And fluffer. That’s—”
“I know what a fluffer is.”
Roscoe presented the corrected copy. “I’m going to hold onto this. Run it by legal. Maybe there’s a way we can publish it with Hastings’ byline, throw her a few bucks.”
He leaned toward me, keeping my eyes. “I’d like a meeting. Off the record.”
“Parking garage?”
“Set it up. Let me know where and when.”
“You don’t want to clear it with your boss?”
“Eh, Miss Grimes. Mr. Frisk is the boss,” Jordan said.
I twisted a grin, Jessica washing pots coming to mind. “Might Harry Spellman be here now?”
Roscoe chuckled. “Chained to a post in the basement.” He opened a drawer, closed it, then repeated. On the third drawer, he produced an identification tag, putting a black marker to it. “You worked on that copy. That makes you a stringer, almost on staff. Serling, huh? I’d have never taken you for an errand girl.”
I accepted the badge, clipping it on my dress, dismissing his bait.
“College, Mr. Frisk?”
“College? I started out as a newsboy. Not rain, nor snow—we didn’t work at night, but if we did, I’d have been there singing, extra, extra, read all about it in the gloom of night. Never missed a day. Caught the eye of the newspaper, brought in the building as a copyboy, trash can emptier, and toilet scrubber. They asked, I did.”
I nodded. “The American success story.”
“One of many.”
“Mr. Jordan. Same question.”
“Huh?”
“College?”
“I start Cambridge in the fall.”
Of course, you do.
The room smelled like the basement at Old Lady Marcy’s house, though the lighting was better—not by much, but better. Secrets were locked in the dim; stories, facts, and information were secret because they were forgotten and not by design.
Harry Spellman was a small man. He could have been Bobbie from English class in my old school forty years old, ears and all. His dark suit—not off the rack—was made for him, with a crisp white shirt and thin black tie. He projected a contradiction out of place amidst the clutter and disarray.
He stood from behind his desk off to my right as I entered, fastening the button of his jacket, his dark eyes made big by his thick, dark-rimmed glasses. “Miss Grimes,” he greeted with a subtle nod. “What may I do for you?” His voice was like that of a much younger man, yet left no doubt who was in charge of the room.
“I didn’t think anyone would call ahead.”
“Huh, oh, sorry. I recognize you from the story.”
A slight cock of my head queried further.
“The Commodore.”
“Ah.”
“Though all the stories carried were your name and two photos.” He pursed his lips, adding a subtle shake of his head as if silently admonishing himself. “Sorry.” He watched the faded green linoleum.
“For sounding creepy?” I brushed the conjecture aside.
“I have a good memory. A curse.”
“And a blessing.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“I often blurt out a bullet list of things I know about a person when I meet them.”
“I understand, then, why you’re holed up in the basement. I, too, am not a fan of people.”
He released a sigh, wilting, and his shoulders relaxed. I was sure his posture was rare in the presence of people.
I fished in my red swede bag. “Richard Serling and I are now working together. You need not drop the bullet list of what you know about Rich.”
He almost snickered. “Mr. Serling did mention he’d taken on an apprentice.” He quickly added, “His word, not mine.”
“We often wrestle about who works for whom.” Two paces brought me to the desk where I placed a bundle of bills.
As I did, he cocked his head to ask a question.
“I pay people what they’re worth. This is for your previous work.”
“I figured Mr. Serling didn’t have the money. What do you need today? I know Mr. Serling has a lot of irons in the fire.”
“We do, indeed. I think Mr. Serling has it covered for now.”
“Come on. Ask me anything. Give me a chance to show off.”
“Okay. I’d like to see Bruce Hanson’s obituary.” I’d not given Bill Locke’s story any thought, though Bruce Hanson, the man he said saved him from the boys’ home, hadn’t showed up in any of the background.
“Awl, I thought you’d give me something hard.”
I shrugged. “Like masons are renowned or something.”
“This you?” Vienna Rhodes greeted, pulling me from a daydream swallowed by the huge tub in my room at the Commodore.
I opened my eyes, Rhodes holding the news copy.
“Shawn mentioned the park project in passing.”
“Chase Hastings invited me to work on the story with her. I thought I’d bring it with me and give it another read or two.”
“Is she cute?”
I smirked. “That’s a rhetorical question.”
“It is now. Having met Shawn—”
“I got the impression you didn’t like girls—in that way.”
“I don’t like anyone—in that way.”
“A blessing. In that way-ing has led many a woman and man—mostly men—to do stupid shit.”
“Like lemmings off the cliff.” She dropped to the side of the tub, indicating the news copy. “What do you get out of this?”
“Chase Hastings is a reporter for a newspaper of record. Working with her on the stories I feed her cultivates camaraderie—trust. I can’t just gather the evidence and present that evidence to the legal machine. The machine favors boys being boys over violated laws. And I can’t pave a road from here to the horizon with bodies. Breaking the stories will chip away at that boys will be boys thing.”
“That, Toby, is a great answer, though I favor paving the road from here to the horizon, but that wasn’t my question. What do you get out of investing your time, money, and energy establishing a park that’s not even in your name?”
I held her sky blue eyes. “I’m fucking with people.”
“I’d rather just kill them.”
“I’m hoping we can learn a lot from each other.”
“I’m going to have you out to the farm. A weekend.”
“I was thinking Shawn. You teaching her how to handle firearms.”
“You first.”
“I have no desire nor do I feel the need to learn anything about firearms. Muscle memory is for mere mortals.”
She raised her right eyebrow, staying her response. “I’ll have Shawn out to the farm, but you first.”
“I’m tempted to dry off, get dressed, and hop in the car with you now. I could use a week away. I’ll settle for a weekend.”
“Dry off, get dressed.”
“I have Hightower to dismantle in a Saturday morning blitzkrieg—”
“Can I help?”
“Lurk in the shadows like you did before.”
“Done.”
“Then, Sunday, I have a must-attend fundraiser—”
“Indians? Public parks?”
“Orphan boys. A bread crumb taking me another step down the mob rabbit hole. I really need to know who to kill. I’m not comfortable with collateral damage, or else I’d consider burning the entire town to the ground.”
“I don’t mind collateral damage. I’ve killed seven to mask the murder of one.”
“Not comfortable does not mean not an option.”
“Speaking of Shawn. I did not need help with George Davis.”
“A docile teddy bear of a man. He muscled for Tammy Flannagan not for the money, but because he liked having women telling him what to do.”
“A pathetic but useful trait.”
“So?”
“I like your Shawn.”
“Bottom line it for me.”
“You’re going to have to keep a tight leash on her. She’s too eager. She’s going to get caught.”
“She told you about my brother.”
“Bragged. Thinking herself so smart.”
“She got lucky she wasn’t seen. She got lucky Mark was known for walking on that wall fucking around, and she got lucky Mark was drunk.”
“Everything pointed to just another accident by a careless teenager. If she had planned all that, I’d say she was brilliant.”
“I’d rather be lucky than good.”
“Meticulous planning is what makes you lucky.”
“I know.”
“Raymond Montgomery Schmit.”
“I need to have another talk with her about the understood confidentiality agreement.”
“Not her fault.”
“You became her new best friend. She wanted to impress you.”
“Your plan impressed me.”
“Hitting a man in the head with a rock, not so much?”
“Unlike your Mr. Serling, she’ll put a bullet in the back of anyone’s head you wish her to. That’s a rare talent.”
“If I can keep her restrained.”
“Think of Shawn like an addict. Do you know anything about addiction?”
“More than I want to.”
She sighed a sigh that should have blown all the lights out.
“What?”
“She’s not one of us. She never can be.”
I rose from the water, comfortable with my nakedness and comfortable with Vienna’s blue eyes sweeping my nakedness, working a plush white towel in my hair. “There’s not a us, Vienna. I said it before. We’re two Little Match Girls looking in different windows.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant. Human beings are social animals, I think, because they’re terrified to be alone in the dark. So, they shoehorn sameness, creating a false camaraderie, identity becoming the common suit they wear, the uniform of the group.”
Vienna watched me without seeing me for a geologic age of about ten seconds. “I used that exact tool to pry Shawn open, to fleece rich men. To get George Davis to happily put the gun under his chin and pull the trigger.”
“That is the gift, Vienna. To say those words to me. In a universe where you must always wear a mask, here, with me, you can tell the truth as you know it. That is where our sameness intersects. Our fingers on the windowsill.”