The Amateurs (31 page)

But there wasn’t. What she had squandered was gone, and where she had ended up wasn’t where she wanted to be.

After a while, the tears slowed. She felt vaguely self-conscious as she wiped her face. Lying in a dark room, crying existential tears, it was sort of pathetic. She stood and washed her face in the bathroom. The cold water brought color to her cheeks, snapped her mind back to her body. Her head hurt, and she realized she was hungry. No food since breakfast, and it was after nine.

It was as she was walking back from the Thai place at the end of the block that the police arrived.

T
HE COP WAS A GOOD-LOOKING GUY, broad-shouldered and tall, his face ruddy and hair neat. “Ms. Lacie? I’m Detective Peter Bradley. Do you have a few minutes to answer some questions?”

Her heart went fluttery. She forced herself to stay calm. So this was it. This was how it would end. “About what?”

“Why don’t we talk inside?”

She nodded, stepped past him, led the way up the stairs to her apartment.

“Thanks for your time. This won’t take too long.”

“Uh, sure,” she said. Wondering what the hell he was talking about, how he thought it wouldn’t take long. Wouldn’t take the rest of her life. “Coffee?”

“I’m OK.” He followed her into the kitchen, watched as she set down the carryout bag. “Go ahead and eat if you like.”

“What’s this about?”

“It’s about a robbery. And a homicide.”

She was reaching in her cabinet as he spoke, and her hand fumbled. The glass she almost had slipped, hung for a long fraction of a second, and then fell. It burst against her countertop, glittering pieces flying in all directions. “
Shit
.”

“Are you OK?”

“I’m fine,” she said, feeling anything but. “Just clumsy.”

“There’s no reason to be nervous,” he said. Then he cocked one corner of his mouth up in a little smile. “Unless you have a lot of parking tickets I don’t know about.”

She shook her head, forced a smile over her shoulder as she began to collect the broken shards. Her mind felt like the one time she’d tried acid, like it was on a relentless slalom, racing in all directions with reckless, slippery speed. Mitch had begged her not to tell the police anything. But was he right?

“Why don’t we sit down?” The detective’s eyes roamed her kitchen with easy habit.

“I’d rather stand.”

He shrugged. “Well, what I wanted to talk to you about. You know a restaurant named Rossi’s?”

Here it comes.
“Sure.”

“This Tuesday, there was a robbery there. Several men broke in, tied up the owner and a bartender, and made off with some money from the safe.”

She started to say,
I know.
Then knew that she would have to follow that with
I was one of them,
and froze up. Simply couldn’t make her tongue work.

The detective continued. “On the way out the back door, they shot and killed a man.” His voice was matter-of-fact, almost bored.

And it occurred to her, finally, that he wasn’t here for her. That he didn’t know. The surge of relief was an almost physical thing.

Hard on its heels was confusion. If that wasn’t the reason he was here, then what was? And regardless, wouldn’t now be the time to make things right?

“Do you remember the last time you went to the restaurant?”

“Umm.” A lie? The truth? The guy had to know something. Better not to lie without knowing what. “I think it was Tuesday, actually.”

He nodded, and something in him seemed to relax.

She said, “I often meet a couple of friends there.”

“Were you meeting them that night?”

“No.” Technically true. Jenn had finished piling the glass on the counter, and to have something to do with her hands, she opened the cabinet again, took out a plate. “Why?”

“Well, I’m investigating the incident. We’re trying to get as complete a picture as possible. We pulled the credit card records for the evening, and saw that you paid your bill a few minutes before everything happened.”

She had an urge to laugh. What rotten criminals they made. That the police might look at something like that had never occurred to her.

“Do you remember anything about that evening?”

“I had a martini, I think.”

He smiled. “I meant more like, do you remember anything unusual. Anyone acting strange, or seeming to pay a lot of attention to the staff? Any sort of fight or altercation?”

You mean besides the one where we killed someone in the back alley?
She stared at him, realized that if she was going to speak, now was the time. Maybe there would be consequences to pay, maybe Mitch would end up in trouble. But at least it would all be over. The police could step in and protect their families, catch Victor tomorrow. All she had to do was tell the truth. Just own up, take responsibility, and be done with everything.

“No,” she said. “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

SHE HAD SOLD HIM OUT.

Mitch stood at the end of her block, shaking. The anger flowed from some hard hot center, radiating in fiery waves. His fists were clenched and his arms were trembling as he watched a cop walk out of Jenn’s apartment.

At first he hadn’t been sure. It was after ten, and raining, and the cop just looked like a guy in a suit. But when he’d stopped on the porch to look at the sky, his jacket had pulled open to reveal a gun and star. A detective. As Mitch watched, the man hurried out into the rain, heading for a pale sedan parked in front of the fire hydrant.

She had called the police. After everything he had done for her. After everything they had shared. After promising not to.

She had called the police, and she had doomed him.

Mitch dropped to a squat, pretended to tie his shoelace as the cop drove past. A lucky break that Jenn didn’t know he would be here. After they had parted, he’d walked and walked, let his mind run. Thinking about Johnny and Victor and the money and the four of them. And especially about her. About whatever had been going on between her and Alex. Because something certainly had.

And it had hit him, as he walked, that if it had, it had probably been going on for a while. So many shared looks he’d sort of registered, so many conversational dodges and changed subjects. They had probably been sleeping together for a while. And that whole time, they had kept it a secret.

Which meant that Alex had been unwilling to commit, that he’d been using her. It also meant that what she needed might be a romantic gesture. Something to let her know he was different.

So he’d bought a dozen roses and taken the train up to her neighborhood. Roses for the woman who had sold him out. The woman for whom he had raised a pistol, had—

Push it down.
The thought came swift with force of habit.

He stood up and started down the block. Tossed the roses aside, still wrapped in plastic. There was a man sitting on a stoop, talking on a cell phone, but Mitch didn’t even look at him. Took the stairs to her apartment two at a time, the echo thundering off the hallway. He was composed of energy, toes to fingertips. He banged on her door, the sharp impact feeling right and good.

When she opened it, he watched her face. Saw it change. It looked like she was folding into herself. “Mitch.”

“You called the cops.”

“No, I—”

“Don’t
lie
to me!” He pushed past her, down the short hall to her living room. He heard her following, saying, “Listen, I swear—”

Mitch whirled, and she blanched.

“Do you understand what I have fucking done for you?” He stepped forward, and she retreated. Her eyes were wide, her hair loose, and she still looked beautiful to him, even now, and that stoked the rage. He had been faithful. He had waited. When she needed protecting, he had been there to do it. Not Alex. Him. And in return, she’d mouthed lines about needing space, about wanting time, strung him along with lies. Given him up to the cops, to prison.

“Mitch—”

He slapped her beautiful mouth.

Her head snapped sideways. The fleshy sound hung in the air. His palm tingled. Slowly, like she couldn’t believe it, she turned to face him. Raised her hand to her cheek. Touched it with delicate fingertips. He could see the flesh beginning to redden.

Her lip trembled like a little girl’s.

And just like that, the anger was gone. It didn’t drain away; it evaporated. And it left a terrible void. “Oh God.”

She stared. “You hit me.”

“Oh. God.” He staggered back, wanting to get away. Hit the wall by the fireplace, and felt his legs going weak. Let himself slide down it. The drywall cool through his shirt. He had that same disconnected feeling he’d had in the alley, that sense of standing outside of himself and outside of time.

The way he had raised the gun. Stared down the barrel at the man on the ground. Realized, a half second before he did it, that he was going to pull the trigger.

Half a second before he had swung at her, he had known that he would. Known it that same way. The same way . . .

The same way he had killed someone.

Jenn said again, “You hit me.”

He saw the look in the man’s eyes, the way he, too, had known what was coming. The moment fear had hit, as all that he was and all that he had was taken away.

The kick of the gun in his hand. The same right hand that stung from hitting the woman he loved.

What had he become?

Jenn said, “Get out,” but Mitch could barely hear her. His mind was filled with a static roar and a video of what had happened after he pulled the trigger. The way the man’s body had jumped as the bullet slammed into his chest. The spreading circle of red, moving slower than he would have guessed. The faint and final exhale, barely audible over the ringing in his ears.

He had killed someone.

Jesus Christ. He had
killed
someone.

All the waves of emotion he had been walling away crashed with tidal force. Horror and shame and guilt and especially fear. For days he had been telling himself to push it down, to lock it away. Hiding from what he had done. Bargaining with the devil, but never looking him in the eye.

But now it was right in front of him. He wasn’t the strong man he had tried to pretend he was. The cold calculator, the one who had acted like this was a game and he could play a role.

He was just Mitch. That’s all he had ever been. All he ever would be.

He buried his face in his hands and wept.

 

 

THE SHOCK HAD COME FIRST. No one had hit her, ever. This didn’t happen to her. Her cheek burned, and her brain felt scrambled. She touched her fingers to her face to check it was all still there.

When she looked at Mitch again, she saw something happening in his eyes. Something terrible. For a moment she was afraid he would hit her again, but then he staggered back as though he was the one who had been struck. Hit the wall and slid down it. His hands were shaking and his face was pale. He looked like he might vomit.

“You hit me,” she said, incredulous. The words making it real. “You hit me.”

He said something, but she didn’t hear it. “Get out.” Anger replacing fear. Ready to scream at him, to kick and slap and claw. To beat him out of her house if she had to. To fight him if he dared.

But instead of moving toward her, he collapsed. His head fell to his palms, and he made a terrible choked sound, and his chest began to heave.

He was crying.

She was surprised to feel her rage ebb. The last days had been a constant swing from one primal emotion to another—exhilaration to terror, lust to loneliness, rage to sympathy. She was wrung out, weak on her feet. Standing over the lover she hadn’t planned on taking, the man who had killed to protect her and then mistrusted and hit her, she didn’t know what to think. Where to stand.

“I didn’t call the police,” she said softly.

He didn’t respond. His tears were slowing, but he looked like a glass vase hurtling toward a marble floor.

“The detective had run the credit cards for that night. That’s why he came here.”

“What did I do?” His voice thin and aimed at his lap.

“I’ll live.”

“Not that. I mean, yes, that too.” He looked up at her. A little boy’s face tracked with tears. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I did that. But I meant—”

“In the alley.”

He nodded.

She sighed. Lowered herself to sit cross-legged on the floor a few feet away. “I’ve been wondering how you were so calm.”

“I haven’t let myself think about it. Not once. I just decided that I would pretend it was something that had happened to someone else. The old Mitch. And that the new Mitch would break free from that. Rise from the ashes. And not just from that. From everything.” He wiped at his cheek with the back of his hand. “I wanted to be, I don’t know . . . strong. Decisive. Able to take care of you. More like”—he turned away, barely whispered the words—“more like Alex.”