Kill Me (28 page)

“We are?”

“Yeah, we are.”

“I’ll do the other thing first. Then I’ll get you the lowdown on Dmitri, so we can set up that trust.”

“You’re a doll.”

“I am that. Lord knows I am that,” she said. “The man who gets to crawl into bed after I warm the sheets … now that is one fortunate, fortunate man. Mmm, mmm, mmm.”

The bathroom door opened. Lizzie stood in the doorway. This time she had a caramel-colored towel wrapped around her body. Her exposed flesh glowed slightly pink and glistened softly, as though she were illuminated from within by the light of a dying candle.

“Who’s a doll?”

“Thea,” I said, without even a hint of hesitation. I killed the call.

“Oh yes,” she said. “The wife. I remember her.”

FIFTY-FOUR

I used the microwave to reheat some of the coffee that I’d bought earlier that morning and gave Lizzie a cup. She sat beside me in the kitchen and cradled it in both hands, but didn’t bring the mug near her face.

I remembered from my intrusion into her flat that she drank tea, not coffee. “You prefer tea,” I said. “Sorry.”

She said, “This is fine.” But she still didn’t drink from the mug.

I decided to share the suspicions that had been growing since I’d cowered in her safe room the previous afternoon, seen the medical supplies, and read the files. “Those two guys in your apartment? They weren’t looking for me, were they? They were looking for you.”

“Yes, they were looking for me,” she said. It was a simple declaration on her part, but I could tell she wasn’t planning to go any further with the disclosure.

I mimicked my shrink. “Go on.”

To my surprise, she complied. She said, “They’d been trying to reach me … to discuss some things. My loyalty, I think. I wasn’t responding to their messages. I’m sure that they didn’t know you were in there. If they thought you were …”

I waited for her to finish that thought. She didn’t. I asked, “Were they there to … kill you?”

“Maybe. Could have been that, but probably not. Unless all other remedies have failed, home ground is sacred, remember? Maybe they wanted to protect me — insulate me — because you’d managed to penetrate my security. But the odds are they wanted to take me elsewhere, probably to stage something convincing. I didn’t especially want to find out exactly what they wanted, which is why I left after I reported the contact with you.”

“Why did you report the contact?”

“I had to assume they were tailing you, that they saw us talking. If I wanted some time, I had no choice.”

“Your breast cancer has relapsed, I take it? Those files in the closet? Those are all your aliases?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. I didn’t know what the shrug meant.

“You’re treating yourself?”

“I have some outside help, consultants, but yes. For now.”

“The other Death Angels? They don’t know about it?”

“They know about the diagnosis, of course, and they know all about the first round of treatment I went through. I found the lump over three years ago. The initial treatment — lumpectomy, chemo, radiation — was successful and the disease had been in remission for almost two years. Until yesterday, I was thinking they didn’t know about the relapse or about how far the disease had spread. Now? I’m not so sure. I’ve been careful. I know how they collect medical data about clients. Information about the progress of my disease is not available through any of those channels.”

“You’re a … client?”

“All of the employees are clients. It’s … required.”

“The man in your apartment. The one who thought something was missing? He was looking for meds, wasn’t he? He was surprised that there weren’t pill bottles, or … what?”

“Probably,” Lizzie said.

“What if they know about your aliases?” I was thinking about the medical files I’d read while hiding in the safe room in her closet.

“They don’t.”

I didn’t think she sounded totally confident.

“Do they know you’re here?” I asked. “With me? Right now?”

She inhaled some of the steam that was rising from her mug and shook her head. “I don’t think so. They lost track of me the night before when I left the apartment after you’d showed up outside. I can’t think of a single reason for them to suspect I’m with you.”

“I hope you’re right,” I said.

She raised those implanted eyebrows. “Me, too.”

I went to the refrigerator and returned with a carton of plain yogurt and some washed raspberries. The yogurt wasn’t part of my morning grocery run; it belonged to my host. I checked the expiration date before I set it in front of her, along with a spoon. “The berries are organic,” I said. “How many of you are there? I’ve met six, altogether.”

“Thank you.” She dropped a few berries into the yogurt. “That’s unusual. A typical client will meet only three or four at the most. Six is a lot.”

“I suspect that I’m more annoying than the typical client. That probably accounts for the higher number.”

“That’s true, you are.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“You’ve met less than a third of the group.” She paused. “I think I’ve only ever met half. We compartmentalize.”

“Wow. That’s a lot more manpower than I thought there would be. Much more than I expected. I thought you guys would be lean.”

“Most of the time the numbers are unnecessary. During peak times? We need everybody. But there’s no natural flow to this work. Nothing’s predictable. There’s no Christmas rush we can count on. No Augusts off. And, let’s face it — we can’t just recruit temps to help us through the inevitable rush. The business is lucrative, but the expenses, especially the staff expenses, and the intelligence costs, are high. Collegial trust takes on a whole different meaning when the work you do every day constitutes a capital offense.”

I stood up and turned my back so she couldn’t see my face. “Your offices on Park Avenue were cleared out.”

She waited until I turned toward her before she responded. “You knew about those? We suspected you might — I thought you might. You
are
good. Bravo.” She feigned some applause and blew me a kiss before she ate a few spoonfuls. Each spoon was graced with a solitary raspberry. “It means nothing that we moved out. And it means little that you know we were there. At the first whisper of any indication that our cover has been blown, we’re able to vacate a location in twenty minutes. Less even. As long as it’s large enough, we can use space in just about any configuration. Uptown, Downtown — doesn’t matter. We either rent furnished or rent the furniture through a shell. We don’t keep any paper records. None. Not an address, not an appointment. Our phones are all cellular. Our computers are all notebooks that run on wireless networks or Wi-Fi. The password protection is state-of-the-art. Our financial records are offshore and are indecipherable without access codes. Client medical records are deleted when they’re no longer needed. If anybody tampers with anything in one of our machines, all the data gets bleached beyond NSA standards. Backup files are encrypted and completely hidden.”

“I don’t know what that means. Bleached.” I thought,
Adam would know. Adam could tell me.

“It means we’re good. And we’re careful.”

I wasn’t surprised.

She went on. “The entire company fits in the trunk of a Town Car with room to spare.”

“If you don’t count the employees.”

“Yeah, cramming all of us in, that would be tight.”

I nodded at the yogurt. “Want something else to eat?”

“You went out this morning, didn’t you, to get this food?”

“I went out, yes. Coffee and raspberries. The yogurt? It spent the night.”

“Don’t do that again; don’t go out alone, without me. If it turns out that they do know where we are, and if they do know we’re together, they’ll hesitate before they kill us in the same place at the same time.”

“Why is that?”

“Appearances. The company philosophy is to arrange deaths that draw no suspicions about foul play, that cast no aspersions on the reputation of our clients, and that leave no recognizable connections back to the firm. If they were to kill us together, they would run the risk of embarrassing your memory with your family by killing you in the company of a strange woman who is not your wife, and they would run the risk that someone could tie me — and thus you — back to them. I guarantee that they would prefer not to kill us when we’re …”

The last word seemed to be difficult for her to say. “We have to stay together? Really?” I said. I wondered why I bailed her out.

“Yes.”

“Thea might have some objections. I need this time with her. And with the girls.”

“Noted.”

“Noted?”

She reached across the table and touched me the same way she’d touched me that day in Papaya King. “Thea’s about to be a widow. She’s preparing herself for that. She knows how much you want to find your son. You’ll have to convince her that’s the most important thing right now. I suspect she’ll have some feelings, but she’ll understand. You picked a tough, resilient woman. It’s one of the most attractive things about you.”

I did marry a strong woman. I said, “Okay,” feeling dutiful, and not liking feeling dutiful.

“She doesn’t have to know we’re … working on something. I’m not going to tell her,” Lizzie said.

“I’d like to talk to Dr. Gregory once more,” I said. “Is that risky?”

“You never know. That’s the whole point. Can you call him? Talk to him on the phone? We’ll get a fresh cell.”

“I don’t know.”

“Does he know about us? The pact you’ve entered?”

“I’ve alluded to it. But no.” The first sentence was the truth. The second? Almost the truth.

“He knows about Adam?”

“Everything.”

She pulled the robe tight and covered the triangle of flesh on her chest below her neck. “Why do you want to find him so badly? Adam?”

“To tell him I love him, I guess. To tell him that if there was any way I could extend my life to be with him, I would. I can’t let you guys kill me before I get a chance to let him know that.”

“He doesn’t want to hear it?”

“I think he does want to hear it. I’m not sure he’s able to believe it. He’s been wounded. He needs to hear it from me.”

“Where is he? Right now?” she asked.

“I wish I knew. I have detectives out looking. They can’t find him. He’s left no trace since his last night at Brown.”

She narrowed her eyes, then looked away. Almost casually, she asked, “What does your gut tell you? Where do you think he is?”

“He may be here. Colorado. Watching me from a distance. He may be someplace close to his mother. She’s in Cincinnati. He’s a brilliant kid. Street smart, too. Resourceful.”

“He could be anywhere?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t sound convinced that he’s here or in Ohio.”

“I guess I’m not.”

“Where else then?”

Without any hesitation, I said, “Maybe New Haven.”

I could hardly have been more surprised by my answer.

“New Haven?” she said. I could tell she wasn’t as surprised as I was.

“Adam got really attached to his uncle Connie before he died. That’s where Connie lived. That’s where they got tight. He felt comfortable there.”

“Connie’s the brother with ALS? Why would Adam go back?” Lizzie asked.

“I don’t know that he would. I don’t know why I said it, why I thought it. It just came out. You asked for a gut reaction. That was it.”

“We’ll go with it,” she said, leaning forward toward me. “What else are you thinking? Right now.”

“I’m thinking maybe I should find Felix,” I said. “My brother’s caretaker when he was ill, before he died. Felix. He’s from Guatemala. A Mayan. He’s a sweetheart of a guy. If Adam’s in New Haven, he’d be in touch with Felix.”

“You’re sure Felix is still in New Haven?”

“Just a guess.”

“New Haven’s not far from Brown, is it?” she asked.

“Right down I-95.” I allowed a moment for reality to settle. “I’m probably wrong about all this, you know.”

“Yes, you are probably wrong about all this. But right or wrong, you’re about to die. Today, probably not. Tomorrow, possibly. Within a few weeks, undoubtedly. Most likely you’re wrong about New Haven, but maybe you’re right. You know you’ll die more contented if you find out. There’s nothing to be gained by dying wondering.”

Our eyes locked. No challenge passed between us; the moment was more like the intimate connection that happens at special moments between lovers. I asked her, “What about you, Lizzie? What do you want to do before you die? What will leave you more contented?”

“This may come as a great surprise to you. But I’ve always wanted to see New Haven.”

FIFTY-FIVE

Alan Gregory told me on the phone that he could only fit me in for one session, not two. I didn’t have an appointment, so I felt fortunate to get even that amount of time from him.

Lizzie and I walked together up the Pearl Street Mall toward the mountains. I took her to The Kitchen, near Eleventh, told her I’d heard great things about the french toast, and that it would be a comfortable place to hang out. I’d be about forty-five minutes.

She chose, instead, to linger in my therapist’s waiting room.

I said, “You really think they would —”

She touched a finger to my lips. “It’s not what I think. It’s what I … know. Trust me when I talk about dying. I know about dying — capital
D
— like you know about living.”

The thought gave me a chill.

I didn’t want to waste time on pleasantries with Gregory. “Did you put anything about what I talked about last time into your notes? Anything? Anything at all? Tell me you didn’t.”

He could sense my tension. Okay, call it fear. He could sense my fear.

“Obtusely,” he said. He considered it for a moment before he added, “Probably something like ‘Patient discussed D.A. Expressed concerns.’ ”

D.A.
District Attorney.

Or Death Angels.

Lizzie knew that I called them the Death Angels. Did anyone else?

Probably.

“That’s it?” I said.

“Yes. I’m intentionally vague in my notes. I put just enough in them to trigger my memory. Facts, remember —”

“Are crap. I know. I’m concerned that you may not have been vague enough. Are the notes here in your office? Right now?”

He hesitated before he said, “Yes.”

“For your safety, I’d like you to destroy them. Right now.”

“For my safety?” he said. He swallowed visibly before he added, “Is that a threat?”

“Not from me,” I said, laughing uncomfortably at the irony. “From … some determined people with lots of resources who already seem to have pretty easy access to your records.”

He swallowed again. I expected him to argue with me. He didn’t. He stood up, walked over to an oak file cabinet behind his desk, unlocked the bottom drawer, removed some yellow legal sheets from a red file folder, and fed the sheets two or three at a time into a confetti shredder. Task complete, he sat back down across from me.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said. “We’re both kind of vulnerable, I guess.”

He was much cooler than I thought he’d be. I manufactured a smile for him and said, “It’s part of intimacy, you know. Vulnerability.”

“That’s what I hear.”

I felt a surge of nausea and it took me most of a minute to swallow down the eruption of stomach contents that was oozing up into my throat. “I need to find Adam before they …”

I stumbled, I think because “Kill me” seemed like such an awkward way to end a sentence.

“Kill you?” my therapist said. Awkward was his forte.

“Yes. I’m going to be taking some risks to do what I want to do next. If you don’t hear from me again, keep your eyes on the obituaries.”

“What can I do to help?” he asked.

I smiled. “That’s how you started with me. You asked a question just like that the first day. How can you be of help.”

“Probably.”

“You have been. Helpful. I came in here feeling I needed to connect with my son before I died, but not clear if that was just another selfish thing I was doing.” I paused. “Thank you for helping me shed some light on that.”

“You’re welcome.”

“There is something you can do. Can I sign a release of some kind, something that allows you to talk to Adam? If he wants, I mean. After I’m gone.”

“About therapy?”

“About how I feel about him. About what I’ve done. Why I did it? The selfish parts.”

“The generous parts?”

“That, too.”

“Who you are?” he asked.

“I think he knows that already.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Yes, I can do that kind of release,” Gregory said. He stood and went to his desk, pulled a preprinted form from the file drawer, and scribbled on it for half a minute or so. “Adam’s last name?”

I told him. He filled out the form, brought it over to me, and handed me a pen.

“This releases you to do it, right?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“I want to go a step further. I want you to do it. Not just if he asks. I want you to find him if you have to. Offer to talk to him. You need to tell him everything.”

He hesitated.

“I’ll pay in advance.”

He looked insulted. “That’s not necessary.” He took the form back and scrawled a fresh couple of lines on the release. “That should do it,” he said, handing the form back to me. “Initial there, by my handwriting. Then just one signature at the bottom will do it. Don’t worry; I’ll take this home with me. I won’t leave it here.”

“No, not your home. Put it in the mail today as soon as I leave. Carry it to the post office. Send it to your lawyer, or something like that. Be safe, okay?”

“That’s really necessary?”

I thought about Dmitri in West Harlem. “These people? They know you have a daughter. And that your wife is ill.”

He blanched. “Holy shit.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t tell them. I didn’t even know. And I didn’t know they’d … I didn’t know a lot. I never would have …”

He nodded.

“One of them is out in the waiting room, right now. I told you about her. Lizzie? She’s either helping me, or she’s setting me up for something. I’m not at all sure which. But when I leave, I’m going to go out your back door and leave her waiting where she is. I need to get away from her so I can say good-bye to Thea and the girls. Lizzie can’t be part of that. I wouldn’t be surprised if she comes back here looking for me.”

“What would you like me to do if she does?”

“Tell her I just left.”

“Is she dangerous?”

“I wish I knew.” I stood to leave. “I don’t think she’ll hurt you,” I said.

He swallowed and glanced at the clock. “We still have twenty minutes,” he said.

“I know. In the running-for-your-life business, that’s called a head start,” I said. “Thanks for everything.”

He came forward and gave me a tight hug. He had tears in his eyes.

I did, too, as I walked out the french door that led from his office into the small yard behind the house.

I doubled back a block to the St. Julien Hotel at Ninth and Walnut and used a pay phone inside to call Mary. She didn’t answer, so I tried LaBelle to find out where the plane was. LaBelle sensed my impatience and skipped the usual banter. She told me that the plane and its pilots were at an airport at some city she’d never heard of in South Carolina.

“Good. Don’t tell me where,” I said. “If you hear from her, and she feels things are under control with her family, have her meet me in Telluride. Let me know if that’s a problem.”

“When?”

I didn’t know. I thought about all that I had to do first. Finally I said, “Tomorrow night.”

“And how are you getting to the mountains?”

“Back roads, LaBelle. Back roads. Not to worry. No sniper is going to get me. I drive too fast. You know me, faster than a speeding bullet.”

“You’re such a damn liar,” she said.

“About some things.”

Her voice told me she didn’t like the fact that she didn’t know what the hell was going on. She didn’t have to tell me.

I was relieved that Mary had managed to whisk her cousin out of harm’s way. That part was perfect.

I moved on to plan B. I walked to the front of the hotel and caught a cab to take me up the turnpike to the Jeffco airport. I retrieved the Prius from the parking lot of the FBO and headed toward Denver instead of toward Golden, which would have been my most direct route into the mountains. The side trip to get to my home in the southern metro area would cost me some time at the front end of my journey, but I knew that there would be significant advantage to trading the Prius for my old Porsche for the long ride over the Divide to Ridgway.

I left the keys inside the Prius in my garage, signed the title over to LaBelle, and stuck the square piece of paper in the glove compartment. When I died, LaBelle would discover that I’d set up an educational trust to take care of her three sons. She’d appreciate that much more than the Prius. The Prius was just the ribbon on the package.

But the Prius would make her smile. She’s such an environmental sap.