Fallen Angels 01 - Covet (25 page)

“I saw...a gun go off.”

Jim's head slowly swiveled around. “Who was hit? You or her?”

“I don't know. I'm assuming her.”

“You ever been wrong?”

“No.”

The guy's hands cranked on the steering wheel. “Well. There you go.”

“Sounds like we have more to talk about.”

“Yup.”

Instead, they didn't say another thing: They sat side by side in the car, and Vin couldn't ignore the metaphor, the two of them belted in on some kind of ride, with God only knew what outcome waiting for them.

As he looked into the rearview mirror again, he prayed that Marie-Terese wasn't the one who got hurt. Better him. Much better.

When they finally got to the Commodore, they pulled into the garage, and as Marie-Terese waited in front, Vin thought maybe that was a good thing: He'd just end up trying to say good-bye to her again, and enough was enough.

“I'm spot number eleven over there.”

After the M6 was parked, Vin got out of the car, took the key from his new buddy, and they went their separate ways, with Jim heading over to the stairwell that would lead him up to the street.

Vin walked off in the opposite direction to the elevator, and when its doors opened wide for him, he stepped in and turned around. Jim was almost to the exit, his stride closing the distance quickly.

Vin blocked the elevator doors from shutting and called out, “I'm going to break up with Devina.”

Jim stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Good. But go easy on her.

She's in love with you.”

“She certainly makes it appear that way.” But underneath all that

“loving” exterior, there was something hollow about her—and it had been part of the reason he'd wanted her around: He'd rather have dealt with the calculation, because self-interest he trusted more than love.

Not anymore. Shifts were occurring in him, shifts he could no more control than he could stop the imposition of those visions. On a usual day, he was ninety-nine percent about business. In the past twenty-four hours? He was pulling a fifty percent, if that: His mind had been consumed with other, more important things...things that had a lot to do with Marie-Terese.

“I'll keep you posted,” he told Jim.

“You do that.”

Vin let the doors close, and hit the button for his floor. He had to talk to Devina, and he needed to get that conversation over with. It wasn't only the fair thing to do...he had some sense of urgency about it that had nothing to do with the fact that he wasn't looking forward to hurting her.

That horrible dream was still with him...like it had stained his brain permanently.

On the twenty-eighth floor, the elevator let out a discreet
bing,
and he stepped out and went up to his door. As he opened the way into the duplex, Devina rushed down the stairs, a huge smile on her face.

“Look what I found while I was tidying your study.” She extended her open palms, holding out the Reinhardt's box. “Oh, Vin! It's perfect!”

She rushed forward and threw her arms around his neck, her perfume choking him even more than her hold did. As she went on about how she shouldn't have opened it but couldn't help herself, and how it even fit her finger, Vin closed his eyes and saw echoes of the nightmare he'd had.

A conviction lit off in the center of his chest, one that was as undeniable as his own reflection in a mirror.

She was not who she said she was.

When Jim got into the green Camry, he leaned over and extended his hand. “Jim Heron. Figured we might as well introduce ourselves.”

“Marie-Terese.”

The woman's smile was slight, but warm, and as he waited for a last name, he had a feeling one wasn't coming.

“Thanks for the ride back,” he said. “Not a problem. How's Vin doing?”

“For a guy who just trouted it in a parking lot, he seems all right.” Jim looked over at her as he did up his seat belt. “You holding up okay?

Talking to the cops is not a party.”

“Did Vin tell you? You know about the security tapes and...”

“Yeah, he did, and thanks.”

“You're welcome.” She put on her directional signal, checked her mirrors, and pulled out after an SUV went by. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“How long have you been sleeping with his girlfriend?”

Jim tightened his shoulders and narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“The night before last, I saw you leave with his girlfriend after she'd spent about an hour staring at you. Same thing last evening. No offense, but I've been watching people do stuff like that for a while now, so I doubt there was only a lot of hand-holding going on in the parking lot.”

Well, well, well...she was smart. This Marie-Terese was smart.

“What do you think of Vin?” he asked.

“Not going to answer me? I don't blame you.”

“What's your last name?” He smiled grimly as silence reigned. “Not going to answer me? I don't blame you.”

As she flushed, he eased off with a curse. “Look, I'm sorry. Been a rough couple of days.” She nodded. “And it's none of my business, actually.” He wasn't so sure about that.

“Just out of curiosity, what do you think of him?” As Jim waited for her to answer, he thought, Jesus, since when had he turned into a modern-day, dick-swinging Ann Landers? Next thing he knew, he'd be getting facials and ironing his clothes.

Or...cleaning his clothes.

Whatever.

“Well, anyway,” he said, aware she hadn't replied, “I don't know him all that much, but Vin's a good guy.”

She glanced over. “How long have you known him?”

“I work for him. He's into construction and I have a hammer. Match made in Heaven.” Jim thought of the Four Lads and rolled his eyes.

“Literally.”

As they came up to a stoplight, she said, “I'm not looking for him. For anyone.”

Jim glanced up at the sky through its frame of skyscrapers. “You don't have to be searching to find what you need.”

“I'm not going to be with him, so...yeah. That's it.”

Great. One step forward. Two steps back. Vin appeared to be on board; Marie-Terese was not interested—in spite of the fact that she was clearly attracted to the guy
and
that she cared about him enough to worry how he was going to make it back home safely.

As they went along with the traffic, they passed by a couple who were walking side by side, their hands linked. They weren't young lovers, though; they were old. Very old.

But only in the skin, not in the heart.

“You ever been in love, Marie-Terese?” Jim asked softly.

“Hell of a question to ask a prostitute.”

“I haven't. Been in love, that is. Just wondered if you had.” He touched the glass, and the old woman caught the gesture and clearly thought he'd waved at her. As she lifted her free hand, he wondered if maybe he had.

He smiled at her a little and she smiled back and then they resumed their separate ways.

“Why is that relevant,” Marie-Terese said.

He thought of Vin in that cold, beautiful duplex, surrounded by inanimate beautiful objects.

And then he thought of Vin, looking at Marie-Terese in the sunlight.

The guy's soul had been fed at that moment. He had been transformed. He had been truly alive. “It's relevant because I'm beginning to think,” Jim murmured, “love might be everything.”

“I used to believe that,” Marie-Terese said hoarsely. “But then I married the man I did, and that whole fantasy stuff got blown out the window.”

“Maybe that wasn't love.”

Her choked laugh told him he was on the right track with that one.

“Yeah, maybe.” They pulled into the parking lot of the diner and headed over to his Harley. “Thanks again for the ride,” he said. “I'm happy to help.”

He got out of the car, closed the door and watched her turn around. As she took off, he memorized her license plate.

When he was sure she was gone, he put on his helmet, started his bike, and took off. Considering his list of crimes, an unregistered Harley wasn't even a blip on his radar.

Besides, the stiff wind on his chest and arms peeled off some of the stress and blew his brain more clear—although what was revealed made him ill. It was pretty obvious what he needed to do next, and though he hated it, sometimes you had to suck shit up: He had a woman he needed to keep alive, Vin's vision of a gunshot, and two obnoxious college boys who were now dead, thanks to having been popped. What the situation required was information, and there was only one way he knew to get it.

He didn't like whoring himself out, but you had to do what you had to do...and he was willing to bet that mantra was something Marie-Terese knew all about, too.

As soon as he pulled into his studio's gravel drive, Dog came out from under the truck and limped with joy over to the bike, all wags as he escorted the way into the garage. After Jim took off his helmet, he leaned down for a proper hello and Dog's tail got going so fast, it was a damn miracle the little guy could stay on his paws.

Odd to have someone to welcome him home.

Jim picked the dog up, hooked him over his arm, and went up the stairs to unlock the door. Inside, he did the petting thing while he found his cell phone in the messy bed.

Sitting down on the mattress and feeling Dog's small, warm body curl up around his hip, Jim thought long and hard before dialing. It felt like a step backward, and the familiarity of it sickened him, which was kind of interesting.

Christ, had he been trying to make a fresh start of things here?

Looking around, he saw what Vin had seen: two piles of clothes, a twin bed that no one bigger than a twelve-year-old could be comfortable in, furniture that had Goodwill stamped all over it, and a single ceiling light with a crack through its cover.

Not exactly fresh-start material, but then again, compared to where he'd been and what he'd been doing, sleeping on a park bench would have counted.

As he stared at the phone, the ramifications of what would happen if that old, familiar voice came on the line were very clear.

Jim punched in the eleven digits and hit
send
anyway.

When the ringing stopped and there was no voice mail, he said one word: “Zacharias.” The reply was nothing but the laconic laugh of a man for whom life held no more surprises. “Well, well, well...never thought I'd get that name again.”

“I need some information.”

“Do you.”

Jim's grip cranked down hard on the cell. “It's just a license plate trace and an identity search. You could do it in your fucking sleep, you piece of shit.”

“Yes, clearly that is the way to get me to do anything for you.

Absolutely. You always were such a diplomat.”

“Fuck you. You owe me.”

“Do I.”

“Yes.”

There was a long silence, but Jim knew damn well that the call hadn't gotten dropped: The kind of satellites that the government used for people like his former boss were powerful enough to beam a signal down into the center of the frickin' Earth.

That low laugh came again. “Sorry, my old friend. There's a statute of limitations on obligation and yours has passed. Don't ever call me again.”

The phone went dead.

Jim stared at the thing for a moment, then tossed it back on the bed.

“Guess that's a deadend, Dog.”

Christ, what if Marie-Terese was some kind of con artist and Vin was just getting snowed?

Stretching out on the rumpled sheets, he arranged Dog on his chest before reaching over to the little table and snagging the TV remote.

As he stroked Dog's rough coat, he pointed the thing at the tiny TV

across from the head of the bed, his thumb hovering over the red button marked POWER.

I could use some help, lads,
he thought.
Which way am I supposed to
be going with all this?

He pushed down and the picture came forward, summoned out of the glass screen, blooming into a clear image. A woman in a long red gown was being led by a guy in a tuxedo from a limousine to a jet airplane. He didn't recognize the movie, but considering he'd spent the last twenty years of his life in the hard-core military, there hadn't been a lot of time for going to the damn pictures.

When he hit
info,
Jim had to laugh.
Pretty Woman
was evidently about a prostitute and a businessman falling in love. He glanced up at the ceiling. “Guess I got it wrong the first time, huh, boys.”

***

As she passed by the chapels of the saints, heading for the confessionals, she paused at the fourth bay in. The life-sized figure of a pious Mary Magdalene had been removed from its pedestal, the white marble statue no doubt having been taken to be cleaned of dust and incense residue.

The empty space made her realize that she'd decided to leave Caldwell.

It was all getting to be too much. She just was not in a place in her life where she could afford to get emotionally attached to a man, and that was happening with Vin already. Those dead college boys aside, more time around him was not going to help her, and she was a free agent, able to hit the road at any moment—

The creaking of a door behind her pricked her nerves, but when she looked over her shoulder, no one was close by. As usual, the church and all of its pews were essentially empty, with just two women in black veils praying up front and a man wearing a Red Sox baseball cap settling on his knees in the far back.

As she continued down the aisle, the weight of her decision to pull out of town exhausted her. Where would she go? And how much would it cost to think up another identity? And work. What would she do about that? Trez was unique in the business, and the Iron Mask was the only place she could imagine doing what she did.

Except how would she cover the bills?

At the pair of confessionals, there were a couple of people before her, so she waited with them, smiling once in greeting and then keeping her eyes elsewhere, as they did. Which was always the way it went.

The guilty tended not to want to make conversation when they were about to unload, and she wondered if the others were practicing what they would say, just as she was.