The River Killings (18 page)

“Are you kidding? He’s not out on the front lines; the feds are. But he’s the local guy in the arena, going after bad guys—Big ones. Playing hardball with the big leagues. It’s like a lawyer arguing before the Supreme Court. Or an actor doing Broadway, or a violinist playing in Carnegie—”

“But lawyers and actors and musicians don’t get killed.”

“Zoe, Nick’s a cop. You know the deal. He’s at risk no matter what case he’s on. Do you want him to rise to the top of his field? He could be commissioner someday—”

“Dammit, Susan. If it was Tim, you wouldn’t be so cavalier.”

“Tim’s in airplanes every other day. Do you think I don’t worry? I worry every time he leaves the house.”

There was no point arguing. Susan raved on, a volcano spewing words and energy, and not for the first time that week I suspected that she was more than a tiny bit bipolar.

“I gotta go,” I begged off. “I’m wiped. I’ll call you tomorrow.” And then, with a desperate determination, I made a beeline for the Scotch.

I T
OOK
I
T
TO T
HE
KITCHEN,
S
HIVERING
. M
Y
H
ANDS
T
REMBLED
AS
I
took out a juice glass decorated with panda bears. They trembled as I opened the bottle. And they trembled as I poured, threatening to spill precious Johnny Walker Black all over the counter.

“Bottoms up,” I toasted myself, and I finished off the entire glass in two gulps, as if it were medicine. Then steadying myself at the kitchen window, I poured another, letting the booze rush through my body. Absorbing it, and the news. Nick was the liaison on the slave-smuggling case. Nick hadn’t told me. I gazed out the window, unfocused, letting the streetlights blur into globs of hazy ghostlike white. Eventually I realized that I was staring at Victor’s house, and that Victor himself was silhouetted at his window. Oh my. A genuine Victor sighting. Was he watching me? Did he think I was watching him? Had I unwittingly entered a staring contest with my shut-in neighbor?

I looked away, embarrassed, but remembered that I’d never asked him about the break-in, whether he’d seen anyone hanging around that day. Was it too late to call? Of course it was. It was almost eleven. But, hell, I could see him; he was awake, sitting at the window. Still, Victor wouldn’t want to know I’d seen him. The very idea that he was visible to the outside world might send him into an agoraphobic spin. No, I shouldn’t call. But I could e-mail him. And I’d do it now, before I could get interrupted again.

It was good to have a purpose, something active to do. So, carrying Johnny and my glass, I went to my study and sat at the computer. As soon as I touched the keyboard the screen came
alive. I blinked, startled. Why was the computer on? Then I remembered. Nick had been using it the night before. I’d interrupted him, and then we’d rolled around on the carpet like a pair of rutting hyenas. He’d apparently never logged off. I began to sign him off, then stopped, staring at the screen. The computer was still connected to his e-mail. If I wanted to see it, all I had to do was click.

Of course I had no business looking at Nick’s e-mail. That would be an invasion of his privacy. A breach of his trust. It wouldn’t be right. I should have felt bad even considering it, but I didn’t. I was too busy reading, and too immersed in what I saw.

T
HERE
W
ERE
A
BOUT
T
WENTY
M
ESSAGES
F
ROM
S
OMEONE
N
AMED
Kiddo2. Randomly I opened one. “Look behind you, Nick. I’m here for you, finally. Can you find me?”

I read it again. And again. Someone was threatening Nick. What had Nick said? That the break-in might not have been the slave smugglers. That it might have been someone from his past. An old case. Someone with a grudge. I closed my eyes, saw the vandalized photographs, Nick’s face obliterated in each. Oh, God. I opened another message.

“You did what you did; now it’s my turn. Want to dance, Nicky? How about a two-step?”

A two-step? Was Kiddo2 a woman? Maybe she was someone from Nick’s past. Not an old police case, but an old romantic one. Someone he’d broken up with. I read on, looking for clues to the writer’s identity, finding nothing but anger. Veiled threats, one after another, indirect and chilling. And they’d been sent over a period of weeks. Which meant that Nick had known about them long before the break-in. And of course he’d said nothing. Not a word.

Sipping Johnny Walker, I read them all, one after another. A few rambled on for paragraphs of long run-on sentences, making no point, spewing spirals of rage. “Where am I, Nick? On the street corner, waiting for you to pass? In the doughnut shop? Outside your Chester County bungalow or your boat club? Inside your car? At your ladyfriend’s door? You have no clue, do you?

Okay, then. I’ll tell you where I am. I’m in your shadow, Nick. I’m right here. Behind you.”

Another read: “Ignoring me doesn’t help, Nick. You thought you could just walk away, but think again. See, now, because of you, I have nothing left to lose. Send me back to jail, lock me up again. I know the drill. I’ll be good and obedient and get out again. And if it takes ten years or twenty, or the rest of my life, I’ll be back. It isn’t over, I promise. She was my damn sister.” Her sister? Who was her damn sister? I kept reading, finding out nothing, until I read the final e-mail. “Nice house, Nick. Nice photos. Is the kid yours?”

The kid? Molly—oh, God. Ice washed through my body. The maniac who called herself Kiddo2 knew where Molly lived, what she looked like. That she was connected to Nick. Was she threatening Molly too? Was Kiddo2 the woman Molly had said was following her? Oh, Lord. She had to be.

Stop it, I told myself. Nick knew about this person, whoever she was. Nick was secretive, but that was because he was protective. He didn’t want me to be upset. But he wouldn’t let anything happen to Molly. He had the situation under control. Of course he did.

I scanned the list of e-mails, saw one dated a few weeks ago from someone named Bosscop. “Heads up, buddy,” it said. “You no doubt know that Heather’s parole came through. She’s out. And I’ll bet my pension she’s still got it in for you. Family reunion time, pal. Watch your back.”

Family reunion? Was Kiddo2 related to Nick? In one of her e-mails, she’d written Nick about her sister. Facts swirled around my mind, falling into jumbled heaps. And then, with a jolt, I finally began to understand. “Family reunion time” meshed with “She was my damn sister.” Was Kiddo2 Nick’s sister-in-law? Nick’s wife might have had a sister. Was her name Heather? Was she Kiddo2?

I remembered Nick’s spotty account of his wife’s death, how difficult it had been for me to find out what happened. At first
he’d let me think that she’d shot herself when she’d found out he was leaving her. Later I’d learned on my own that there had been an investigation, that he’d been suspected, briefly, of shooting her. Apparently, Kiddo2 still believed that he had.

Well, one thing was clear. Nick had been right about the break-in; it had not been by the cartel, but by someone from his past. From “an old case.” But he’d known all along that it was his sister-in-law. And he had deliberately hidden that fact from me, even though it affected not just his life, but my child’s and my own.

I swallowed what was left in the panda glass, poured another. There was no point anymore in e-mailing Victor. I knew who’d been in my house. Who’d damaged my photos. Probably, who’d been following Molly, too. Everything began to make sense, merging together in a hazy but somewhat coherent blur. Wandering away from the computer, I listened to the quiet of the house, and observing that the Johnny Walker bottle was much emptier than when I’d opened it, drank more, bolstered with the confidence that even if it couldn’t fix life, it could blur it for a while.

S
OMETIME
IN T
HE
DARK,
A
MAN’S
V
OICE
D
RIFTED
T
HROUGH
T
HE
haze, insisting that I open my eyes and go with him. The voice was soft and gravelly, and I liked its persistent urging, its presence, but I didn’t like what it was saying. My eyes were happy being closed, and I was comfortable. I was fine. But the voice continued, and I realized that I wasn’t actually all that comfortable after all. The mattress had become hard, and I had no pillow. And now someone was touching me, pushing a hand under my back, lifting me up.

“Come on,” the voice urged. “Let’s get you to bed.”

To bed? If I wasn’t in bed, where was I? I managed to open an eye, and it managed to look around. Oh. The light was dim, only the stained-glass lamps were lit, but I was in my living room. Definitely the living room.

The man kept talking, asking questions. “How much did you have? Since when do you drink?” His lips brushed my forehead. “Come on, Zoe. You can do it. Lean on me, just like that.”

I had no choice, actually. I had to lean on him; the room was rotating, and so was my stomach. I needed to steady myself when I lifted my head; my temples throbbed and my pulse was a base drum.

“You know,” he snickered, “you’re going to have a hell of a headache tomorrow.”

A headache? Oh, damn. Reality washed over me. And so did nausea. I forced myself up and dashed to the bathroom. When I took my head out of the toilet, Nick was waiting, eyebrows furrowed,
with a cool damp washcloth. Gently, he wiped my face, my eyelids, my throat. “Feel better?” he asked.

I nodded yes, but knew otherwise. Shards of memory began to float through my mind, teasing, staying close enough to bother me, but too far away to grab.

He sat beside me on the powder room floor and rubbed his eyes, tired. “Well? Want to talk?”

I shook my head no, but knew I had to. “Okay,” I said. “Sure.” The toilet seat seemed almost as good as a pillow, offered itself to me as a place to rest my head, but I leaned against the wall, drifting.

“Okay.” Nick smiled with half his face, the other half immobile, paralyzed and scarred. He knelt beside me and touched my cheek, a tender gesture. I studied his crooked features, imagining how handsome he must have been before he’d been shot, and I reached up and touched his scar. Lord, I loved this man. Or, wait. No. Did I? Did I even know this man?

“Okay,” I agreed, not remembering anymore what I was agreeing to.

“Okay. So, tell me. What’s driven you to drink, my sweet? What?” He waited, his pale eyes patient but tired. And something else.

Good question. What had made me drink so damned much? Even the thought, the memory of drinking made my stomach churn. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to talk at all.

“Zoe, let’s just put you to bed.” Nick put an arm around my back, starting to get up.

But when he reached for me, I recoiled, remembering the e-mails, the threats. Nick’s secrets. I pushed him away.

“What?” He looked wounded. “What’s wrong?”

Go on, I told myself. Tell him. Don’t play games. “It’s everything.” Why had I said that? It was not everything. It was one thing. It was him.

“Everything?” he repeated.

I nodded. Not a good idea. My brain sloshed in my skull, sending the room into a dizzying swing.

“Well, that’s a long list. How about we take things one at a time?”

Tell him, I thought. Tell him what you found, about the e-mails. About Kiddo2. I took a deep breath, tasted recycled Scotch. “Okay,” I agreed. “One at a time.”

“Okay, I’ll start. Here’s the first thing.”

I blinked, waiting for him to explain himself.

“You’re beautiful.”

I smelled like puke and my legs were rubber, but Nick had chosen this moment to admire my appearance? How endearingly sweet. Or was it? I struggled to figure out why it felt wrong, then grabbed on to my drifting memory: the e-mails. Nick’s secrets and lies. The reasons I’d been drinking. I leaned my head back against the wall, wishing the powder room would stop spinning.

Meantime, Nick had moved on. “Are you sober enough to hear the next item? It might reassure you. It’s about Agent Ellis.”

Agent Ellis? Oh, God. How had I forgotten? She was dead. I saw her again, propped up and lifeless on the bench. Three lines, the logo of the slave cartel, carved into her face. “What about her?” I turned my head too fast. Damn. The walls whirled.

“I don’t think she was killed by the cartel.”

Suddenly my vision popped into focus. The walls stopped spinning. Johnny Walker lost his protective haze. “What are you saying?” I didn’t follow, didn’t want to try.

“She was one of them. Or, at least, working for them.”

I shut my eyes, trying to focus, realizing that what he was telling me was important. “She was working for them?” My tongue felt wooden, unwilling to move.

Nick nodded. “She was dirty. Officially, Ellis wasn’t supposed to question you. She was working on transport—another aspect of the case. So when she approached you on her own, she gave herself away.”

I blinked, struggling to make sense of what Nick was saying,

focusing on the straight thin lines of grout between the floor tiles, using them to clear my mind.

“Darlene Ellis was an informant for the cartel.”

A cartel informant? Inside the FBI? Was nobody safe?

“She kept the traffickers updated on the FBI investigation, and she led the feds offtrack whenever she could. She was a valuable resource to the traffickers. There’s no way they’d want her dead.”

That made sense. Almost. Suddenly, I had a coherent, sober thought. “But you said that she gave herself away. So the FBI had found out she was an informer. That meant she’d be useless to the traffickers. Even a liability. So that would be why they eliminated her.”

“But the traffickers don’t know she blew her cover.” “How do you know that?”

“Because, except for you and Susan, I’m the only one who knew she’d talked to you.”

Wait, what? Nick hadn’t told the FBI? Why would Nick keep information from federal investigators? Oh, Lord. How could I even ask that—Nick kept information from everyone. My head was reeling; I held the washcloth against my eyes, recalling again what had led me to drink. The e-mails. The secrets. The lies. I tried to make sense of all that had happened. Darlene Ellis hadn’t been representing the FBI. And according to Susan, Father Joseph Xavier and So-nia Vlosnick hadn’t been working to help cartel victims. It seemed that nobody was who they claimed to be. Maybe not even Nick.