Saturday 19 December, 6.15 P.M.
Showered, bandaged, and wearing clean clothes, he pulled into his own driveway and parked the SUV he’d taken from the fleet at the Fairfield garage. That he only bought black SUVs and kept them all spotless wasn’t an OCD quirk. It was by design. If one got wrecked – or bled on – he could easily change it out for another. No questions meant no denials. No denials meant no lies that he’d have to keep track of and remember later.
He got out of the SUV, locked it, then did a slow three-sixty, checking out the houses on his street with a smile. His neighbors had outdone themselves decorating, especially the Wainwrights next door. Every year Ike Wainwright’s lights were the nicest on the block.
‘Really nice!’ he called up to Ike, who was perched on a ladder, adjusting the star atop the nativity scene in his front yard. It was populated by the three kings, shepherds, and the holy family, all fashioned from wax.
Ike owned a string of funeral homes. How he’d come by his expertise with wax was not something most of their neighbors wanted to think about, but Ike made a good living making the dead presentable. This he knew because he found out about each of his neighbors, from their income to their tax bill to how often they had sex with their respective partners. Ike and Mrs Wainwright still got busy with regularity.
That meant the old man was happy and occupied and, most importantly, not a nosy neighbor. He didn’t like nosy neighbors.
‘Thank you!’ Ike called back. ‘I bet Dorsey that my house wins this year.’
He turned to study the Dorsey house at the center of the cul-de-sac, six houses down. The two always competed for best decorations. ‘I don’t know, Ike. Dorsey has that Santa’s workshop and he gives out candy canes.’ He looked back up at Ike on the ladder. ‘You gonna have the animals this year? Because that might tip the scales in your favor.’
Ike always had a menagerie around the nativity scene, but the homeowners’ association had balked last year when he’d added a camel to the sheep and goats.
Ike scowled. ‘Yeah. Had to get a special permit. Lousy bureaucrats. I have a barn erected for them in the backyard. It’s not like we’re bothering any neighbors back there.’
Because their houses sat at the edge of the community. Directly behind their back fences was another fifty feet of trees, then a ten-foot electric fence topped by razor wire, followed by a thirty-foot sheer drop to Columbia Parkway. They got night traffic noise, but it was worth it to have the buffer. Nobody was going to sneak up on his home from behind.
‘Sometimes I think the homeowners’ association sits around and makes up stuff to annoy us,’ he said and Ike nodded vigorously.
‘But it’ll be worth it, just to see the smiles on the kids’ faces when they pet the animals.’ The old man’s face creased in a smile. ‘Stop by.’
‘We will. Be careful getting down from that ladder,’ he cautioned. ‘Don’t want a repeat of five years ago.’ When Ike had fallen and broken a hip. Waving his goodbye, he made his way up the sidewalk, noting the icy patches. He’d have to salt.
Or use kitty litter. He kept forgetting that salt was now a neighborhood taboo. Either way, he didn’t want anyone falling on his property. One fall could trigger a lawsuit and his entire life would be on review. No, thank you.
He paused to pick up a toy truck and a mini soccer ball, then opened the door. ‘I’m h—’ A small body launched from the middle stair, sailing through the air into his arms.
‘Daddy!’
‘Oof!’ He bit back a curse at the pain radiating up both arms and hoped he hadn’t popped any stitches. Dropping the toys, he wrapped his arms around the small bundle and made himself smile. ‘I think you’ve gained about a hundred pounds since this morning.’
Tiny hands grasped his cheeks and big blue eyes stared into his. Like looking into a mirror, every single time. ‘Santa,’ Mikey pronounced seriously.
‘Me?’ It came out as a surprised squeak. Had he been outed already? He’d been enjoying playing Santa and hadn’t wanted it to end. Not yet.
‘No, Daddy.’ The oh-so-mature voice came from next to his elbow, and he turned his smile down into eyes as blue as Mikey’s. At seven years old, Ariel was on the cusp of figuring out the holiday myth. ‘Mama said we could see Santa tonight after church. Mikey’s excited, that’s all.’
Dammit. Church was not going to happen tonight. He had to get out there and find Linnea. He’d only come home to fetch his notebook. It was the only place he wrote anything down. It was old-fashioned paper and ink, unable to be hacked.
But he had a few minutes for his princess who was always too damn serious. ‘Only Mikey?’ he teased and was rewarded with Ariel’s shy grin. ‘You’re not excited at all?’
‘Well, maybe a little,’ she allowed. ‘You need to hurry. Mama says dinner’s ready.’
Still carrying Mikey, he followed Ariel to the kitchen where something smelled good. ‘I’m starving,’ he said, settling Mikey into his highchair. ‘What’s for supper?’
Rita turned from the stove with a smile. ‘You’re late. Is everything okay?’
He kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Never better.’
And though he might lie to the entire world, he did not lie to his wife. He dodged the truth like a boxer dodged a flurry of fists, but he did not lie. That way the police – or his enemies – would never be able to question her. She knew absolutely nothing.
So he would have to ensure that ‘never better’ was the truth.
He’d have to silence Linnea before she could turn him in. That meant finding her first, and he had no time to waste. He’d make her come to him.
Which he knew how to do because he made it his business to know everything about everyone with whom he did business, including where they’d had dinner reservations. Except that hadn’t ended so well and Fallon and her companion still breathed. He’d be fixing that too. First priority, however, was Linnea.
‘Good,’ Rita said. ‘Sit down and eat before it gets cold. We have to be at church early tonight. For the cantata. You missed choir practice this morning, so you need to be there early tonight for a dress rehearsal.’
Christ. The fucking Christmas musical. He’d nearly forgotten. He’d been planning to ditch the service tonight, but he couldn’t very well do that, could he? It would look bad. Too many people would know that he wasn’t in a place he was supposed to be.
Always have an alibi was his motto, and it had worked for his entire life. So he’d go and he’d sing and then he’d make Linnea show herself.
‘Right.’ He smiled at his family. ‘I have one small thing to do and I’ll be right back.’ He waited until he was locked in his home office before texting Butch. Busy tonight. Unavoidable. Keep looking for the girl.
Will do. U ok?
Yes. Hold for instructions. Moving a portrait of Rita, he uncovered his wall safe, twisted the dial, then retrieved his notebook. He locked the safe before moving to his desk. He never left the safe open. An open safe was an invitation into his deepest secrets.
The notebook itself would be useless to anyone other than himself. Every entry was written in code and the key was locked away in his brain. He flipped pages until he found the one titled ‘Linnea Holmes.’ Twenty years old, she’d grown up in the Indiana foster care system, her best friends Andy Gold – born Jason Coltrain – and Shane Baird. Andy had been the most useful leverage against her, but he was useless now. Shane, on the other hand . . .
Shane Baird, he texted. Lamarr Hall. Kiesler Univ, Chicago. ASAP. Bring him to me. Alive.
He waited thirty seonds for Buton’s reply: Will take me 5 hrs to drive. ASAP enuf?
No, that was not ASAP enough, not if Linnea had contacted Shane already. Shane might run and his best leverage would disappear. Mike knows a pilot, he texted back. Can get you there in 90 min out of Lunken. Call him. The guy owned his own small jet. He’s flown with him a few times and he’d always been discreet.