Rachel shook her head.
“Officer Mullen, please make note that Mrs. Delacroix declined our recommendation of PC.”
“Got it.” Mullen scribbled on a pad.
Kessler tapped a finger on the marble bar top, as if testing it, then looked at her again. “Will you be willing to come down to the precinct and talk about when you last saw your husband?”
“The last time I saw Brian was eight o’clock this morning when he drove himself to the airport.”
“He didn’t drive himself to the airport.”
“So you say. That doesn’t mean you’re right.”
He gave that a small shrug. “But I am.”
He exuded equal parts serenity and skepticism. The odd mixture made her feel as if he knew all her answers before they left her mouth, as if not only could he see into her, he could see into the future; he knew how this was going to end. It was all she could do to hold his mildly curious gaze and not fall to her knees and beg for mercy. If she ever went into an interview room with this man, the only way she’d exit would be in handcuffs.
“I’m tired, Detective. I’d like to get into bed and wait for my husband’s phone call from Moscow.”
He nodded and patted her hand. “Officer Mullen, please make a note that Mrs. Delacroix declined to join us at the precinct to answer further questions.” He reached into the inside pocket of his car coat and placed his business card on the bar between them. “My personal cell is on the back.”
“Thank you.”
He stood. “Mr. Perloff.” His voice was suddenly louder and sharper, though he kept his back to Caleb.
“Yes?”
“When’s the last time you saw Brian Delacroix?”
“Yesterday afternoon when he left work.”
Kessler turned to him. “You’re in the lumber business together, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you knew nothing about your business partner’s other life?”
“No.”
“Care to come to the precinct and speak about that at length?”
“I’m pretty tired too.”
Another short glance at the bar, followed by a slightly longer one at Rachel. “Of course you are.” Kessler handed Caleb one of his business cards.
“I’ll call you,” Caleb said.
“Yes, you will, Mr. Perloff. Yes, you will. Because, can I tell you something?”
“Sure.”
“If Brian Delacroix-slash-Alden is as dirty as I think he is?” He leaned into Caleb and spoke in a whisper loud enough for all of them to hear. “Then that means you’re fucking dirty, my man.” He slapped Caleb hard on the shoulder and laughed like they were old friends. “So you stay in plain sight now, hear?”
Officer Mullen jotted in her notepad as they headed for the door. Officer Garza moved her head on a slow swivel, as if everything she saw was transmitted to a central database. Detective Kessler paused at a Rothko reprint Brian had brought with him from his previous apartment. Kessler gave the painting a squint and then a soft smile, looked back at her and raised his eyebrows in approval of her taste. His smile broadened, and, man, she did not like what she saw there.
They let themselves out.
Caleb went straight to the bourbon. “Jesus,” he said. “Jesus.”
“Calm down.”
“We’ve got to run.”
“Are you nuts? You heard what he said.”
“All we’ve got to do is get to the money.”
“What money?”
“The money.” He drained his glass. “So much money these fucking guys, they’ll never catch us. Get the money, get to the safe house. Jesus. Shit. Fuck.” He opened his mouth to loose another expletive but then closed it. His eyes widened and welled. “Nicole. Not Nicole.”
She watched him. He pressed the heel of his hand to each of his lower eyelids and exhaled through pursed lips.
“Not Nicole,” he said again.
“So you knew her.”
He glared at her. “Of course I did.”
“Who was she?”
“She was . . .” Another long exhale. “She was my friend. She was a good person. And now she’s . . .” He shot her another heartless glare. “Fucking Brian. I told him not to wait. I told him you’d either catch up or you wouldn’t. We’d either send for you when it was safe or he’d forget about you.”
“Wait a minute,” she said. “Me? What were you waiting for me to—?”
The doorbell rang. She looked at the door and noticed Trayvon Kessler’s half-fedora sitting on the chair beside it. She crossed the condo and picked it up. Had it in her hand when she opened the door.
But it wasn’t Detective Kessler on the other side of the threshold.
It was two white men who looked like actuaries or mortgage brokers—middle-aged, bland, forgettable.
Except for the guns in their hands.
25
WHAT KEY
Each man held a 9mm Glock in front of his groin, their hands crossed at the wrists, barrels pointed at the ground. If anyone passed in the hall, they’d see only the men, not the guns.
“Mrs. Delacroix?” the one on the left said. “Good to see you. May we come in?” He flicked the gun barrel toward her and she stepped back.
They came into the apartment and shut the door behind them.
Caleb said, “Who the fuck are—?” and then saw the guns.
The shorter of the two, the one who’d spoken, pointed his at Rachel’s chest. The taller one pointed his at Caleb’s head. He used it to gesture toward the dining room table.
“Let’s all have a seat over there,” the shorter one said.
Rachel immediately saw the logic—of all the places in the apartment, the dining area was the farthest from any windows. The only way you could see it from the front door was to enter the apartment, close the door behind you, and then look to your left.
They sat at the table. Rachel placed Detective Kessler’s hat on the table in front of her because she had no idea what else to do with it. Her throat closed up. Fire ants scuttled along her bones and crawled over her scalp.
The shorter man had sad eyes and a sadder comb-over. He was about fifty-five and paunchy. Wore a fraying white polo shirt under a sky-blue Members Only jacket, the kind that had been ubiquitous when Rachel was in grade school but which she hadn’t seen much of since.
His partner was maybe five years younger. He had a full head of gray hair and fashionable gray stubble on his cheeks and chin. He wore a black T-shirt under a black sport coat that was a size too big for him and looked to be cheaply made. The shoulders spiked at the ends from spending too much time on wire hangers and in between the spikes and the corresponding lapels lay a poppy field of dandruff.
Both men gave off a whiff of curdled dreams and dead ambitions. That’s probably how they ended up here, Rachel thought, threatening ordinary citizens with guns. The one in the Members Only jacket, she decided, looked like a Ned. The one with the dandruff she dubbed Lars.