“And where’s Brian?”
“I don’t know,” she said and then, rushing, as Ned raised his gun, “but I have an idea.”
“An idea?”
“He has a boat. Nobody knows about it.”
“What’s the name of it, and where is it moored?”
She’d never seen the name. She’d never thought to look. She said, “It’s moored—”
The doorbell rang.
They all looked at the door, then at one another, then back at the door.
“Who would that be?” Ned asked.
“I haven’t a clue.”
“Your husband?”
“He wouldn’t ring the bell.”
The bell rang again. Followed by a knock on the door. “Mrs. Delacroix, it’s Detective Kessler.”
“Detective Kessler.” Ned tried the words out. “Huh.”
“I forgot my hat, ma’am.”
Ned and Rachel both looked down at the half-fedora Rachel had placed on the table.
Another knock, insistent, the knock of a man used to knocking on doors whether the people on the other side wanted him to come in or not. “Mrs. Delacroix?”
“Coming!” Rachel called.
Ned shot her a look.
Rachel shot him a look back: What did you want me to do?
Ned and Lars looked at each other. Whatever telepathic language they spoke, they arrived at a decision. Ned handed her the hat. He raised his palm in front of her face. “You see the width of my hand?”
“Yes.”
“That’s how far you open the door. And then you give him his hat and you close it.”
She started to step away from him, but he grabbed her arm at the elbow and turned her to face Caleb. The blood curtain on his face was darkening. If this were Haiti, his head would be covered with flies.
“If you deviate from my instructions one iota, I do that to you.”
She started to shake and he spun her toward the door.
“Stop shaking,” he whispered.
“How?” Her teeth chattered.
He slapped her hard on the ass. She looked back at him and he gave her a small smile because the shakes had stopped. “Now you’ve learned a new trick.”
She took the hat and crossed her apartment. To the left of the door, on a hook, was her bag, a mini shoulder bag, brown leather, a Christmas gift from Brian. She put her hand on the doorknob and decided what she was going to do as she was doing it, not giving herself time to think, not giving them time to think. She opened the door past the recommended two to three inches, opened it so that Detective Trayvon Kessler had a clear angle past her left shoulder, could see the hallway that led to the bedrooms, the half-bathroom door, the kitchen bar. She pulled her bag off the hook, crossed the threshold, and handed him his hat, pretty much all in the same motion.
The bullet entered her back, cut her spine in half, spewed the bone chips into her bloodstream as she collapsed into Detective Kessler. The fall kept him from clearing his own gun. Ned kept firing, shot Kessler in the head and the shoulder and the arm. He fell with Rachel. They landed in a heap on the marble floor, and Ned and Lars straddled their bodies. They looked down on them with nothing in their faces and fired into their bodies until their corpses jumped . . .
“Detective.” She closed the door behind her. “I’d been wondering if you’d come back for that. I was about to call your cell.”
He fell into step behind her as she walked to the elevators. “Heading out?”
She looked back over her left shoulder at him. Brian, Sebastian, and two ex-boyfriends had all told it was her sexiest look. She could see it scored with Trayvon Kessler by the way he blinked at it, as if to deflect it from landing. “Just trying to walk off the buzz.”
“Isn’t sleep for that?”
“Can I come clean on something? A secret?”
“I love secrets. Why I’m a cop.”
They reached the elevator bank. She pressed down and risked a glance back up the corridor to her apartment door. What would she do if the door opened? Run for the stairs?
They’d just kill her in the stairwell.
“I’m a closet smoker,” she said. “And I ran out.”
“Ah.” He nodded several times. “I bet he knows.”
“Hmm?”
“Your husband. I bet he knows you smoke but he chooses not to let on. Where’s Mr. Perloff?”
“Passed out on the living room couch.”
“I’m sure your husband’s cool with that too, another man sleeping over. He’s progressive that way, your husband. Nothing ‘antiquated’ about ol’ Brian.”
She looked at the numbers above the left elevator and saw the car was stalled on three. Looked at the numbers on the right elevator and saw nothing was lit up. They’d shut it down for the night. It was probably on a timer to save energy costs.
Fucking timers, she thought, and looked back at her door.
“You expect it to move?” Trayvon Kessler asked.
“What’s that?”
“Your door. You keep looking back at it.”
If Ned and Lars walked out now, guns drawn, they’d have the drop on Kessler. But if she told him—told him they were in there, told them what they’d done—he’d pull his gun, shield her with his body, and call for the cavalry. And this nightmare would be over.
All she had to do was tell him. And prepare herself for jail.
“Do I? I’m not myself right now.”
“Why’s that?”
“Learning my husband is living a double life could have affected me a bit.”
“There’s that.” He looked above the elevator. “Should we take the stairs?”
She didn’t give it a thought. “Sure.”
“No, wait. It’s moving.”
The elevator car crawled from three to four and then picked up speed and shot from four to five to six to seven to eight to nine.
And stopped.
She looked at Kessler.
He gave her a “Sue me” shrug.
She said, “I’m taking the stairs,” and turned toward them.
“It’s moving again.”
The red light jumped from nine to ten, and then zipped from eleven to fourteen. And stopped again. She could hear laughter from the shaft, the people getting off on fourteen sounding Saturday-night drunk on a Tuesday.
Trayvon Kessler had his back to the corridor when Ned stepped out of her apartment. She thought of screaming. She thought of running for the stairs, the red EXIT sign beckoning like the hand of God. By the time Kessler followed her gaze and turned, Ned had strolled up the corridor to them, his hands free, the gun probably tucked at the small of his back, hidden by the hem of his Members Only jacket.
“Rachel,” he said. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Ned.” She watched a quick flare of confusion in his eyes. “Been staying home mostly, ordering in.”
Ned turned to Detective Kessler. “Ned Hemple.” He stuck out his hand.
“Trayvon Kessler.”
“What brings the Providence police to Boston?”
Kessler looked confused for a moment, until he glanced down at his own belt, saw the gold badge clipped there.
“Checking out a few leads.”
The elevator dinged as the car arrived and the doors opened. They got in. Kessler pressed L.
26
MOUTHPIECE