Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

At 8:20, Aldo finally came out from behind the bar’s red door. He weaved a bit as he walked to his car, but he didn’t seem too drunk.

The man followed Aldo’s black BMW down Aurora to a Jack in the Box. Aldo used the drive-thru, and then he continued down Aurora. Eventually, he turned onto a side street and pulled into the driveway of a tall apartment complex. It was comprised of three buildings that were connected, but varied in style and color — like something out of Disneyland. A beige cedar shaker was sandwiched between two Cape Cods, one moss green and one rose colored. Aldo parked his BMW alongside the rose-colored building.

Meanwhile, the man pulled into a spot in front reserved for visitors. He waited until Aldo started down the walkway to the center building, and then he hurried out of the car. He caught the lobby door before Aldo let it swing shut behind him. “Thanks,” he said, though Aldo paid no attention to him. He guessed from the size of the Jack in the Box bag in Aldo’s hand that the hired killer wasn’t having dinner with anyone else tonight.

He touched the knife concealed inside his jacket while Aldo checked his mailbox in the lobby. With his back to Aldo, the man pressed the button for the elevator.

It arrived a bit too soon. Aldo was still getting his mail.

The man waited, and then the elevator door started to shut. He grabbed it, stepped inside, and held it open. “Going up?” the man called to Aldo.

Mail in one hand and the Jack in the Box bag in the other, he nodded. “Yeah, hold it,” he grunted, trotting toward the elevator. “Thanks,” Aldo said, stepping inside. “Could you hit four?”

“That’s where I’m going, too,” he said, pressing the button for the fourth floor.

They rode up in silence. The man stared up at the lighted numbers above the door.

As they passed the third floor, he turned to Aldo. “Say, do you know me?” he asked.

Aldo narrowed his eyes at him. “No, why? Should I?”

He waited until the elevator door opened on the fourth floor. He nodded for Aldo to go first. “No, you shouldn’t know me,” he said, walking with him down the dimly lit corridor. The carpet was pale green. Somebody had a potted plant outside their door; another tenant had one of those catscratching poles. He and Aldo were the only ones in the hallway. He could hear a TV blaring in a nearby apartment.

“In fact,” he continued, reaching inside his jacket, “you don’t know me at all. So you really have no business imitating my work.”

Aldo turned to stare at him. “What the fuck?”

Then he suddenly seemed to realize just who he was talking to. Aldo’s eyes widened as he stared at him. He didn’t appear to notice the hunting knife — not until it was too late, not until the sharp blade slashed across his throat.

Blood began to gush down his neck to his shirt. The envelopes in his hand fluttered to the floor, while his other hand crushed the Jack in the Box bag against his chest. Several fries spilled out. He slumped against the wall, and his legs started to give out from under him.

Knocking the fast-food bag out of Aldo’s grasp, the man began to search his pockets while Aldo was still vertical. He wanted to make sure there was nothing on Aldo’s person linking him to the woman on Willow Tree Court. He took Aldo’s wallet and his cell phone.

His face a bluish-gray, Aldo numbly stared at him and blinked a few times.

Blood drops dotted the fast-food bag, the scattered envelopes, and the pale green carpet. The man was careful not to get any on his hands. He let Aldo drop to the floor.

He didn’t wait for the elevator. He took the stairs, moving at a brisk clip. But he didn’t run. On his way down to the lobby, he thought about Jeff Dennehy’s girlfriend. After listening to their conversation in the tavern, he guessed she was finished with Aldo and no longer had any use for him. In fact, he had a feeling he’d beaten her to the punch with Aldo.

He hoped the hired killer didn’t have anything in his apartment or in a safe deposit box that showed she’d paid him to carry out those killings.

As far as the man was concerned, it just wouldn’t do to have the police sniffing around Willow Tree Court. No, it just wouldn’t do.

He’d made up his mind. He still had some work there.

He had a house to clean.

Molly tossed what remained of the chicken casserole into the garbage disposer. There was still one good-sized portion Jeff could have eaten. She’d cooked dinner for his children tonight, and covered for him, too. She’d told Chris and Erin that their father had an “after-work thing.” Now, it was eight o’clock, and he wasn’t home. He hadn’t even phoned. She’d tried his cell several times since early this afternoon, but it kept going to voice mail.

Let the lying, cheating son of a bitch fend for himself , she figured, flicking on the switch for the disposer. With a loud roar, it ground up what could have been his dinner. Then she shut it off and went back to washing the dinner dishes. Chris was upstairs in his room, and Erin sat at the kitchen table, doing homework with the big TV on.

So — where was their father?

Standing over the sink, she wondered if Angela had put up with this kind of crap. She had a whole new sympathy for Jeff’s late ex-wife.

She wasn’t sure what to do. Though she’d had her rough patches with Chris, she was very fond of Jeff’s kids. She hated the idea of them being without a mother. And she hated the idea of her baby being without a father. After leaving Jeff’s office, she’d come home and worked on her cola painting all afternoon. She’d figured she might have to start earning money to support herself — and her baby.

She was loading the dishwasher with the last of the glasses when the doorbell rang. Grabbing a dish towel, she dried off her hands and then headed to the door. She checked the peephole and saw Chet Blazevich standing on her front stoop. The last time he’d been there was the night after Angela was murdered.

Molly unlocked the door and opened it. “Well,” she said.

“Hi,” he said. “Is Mr. Dennehy home?” He seemed distracted by something behind her.

Molly glanced over her shoulder and saw that Chris was at the top of the stairs, staring down at them. “It’s okay, Chris,” she said. “I’ve got it. . ”

He frowned a bit, then turned and headed back toward his room.

Molly worked up a smile for the cop. “I’m sorry, but Jeff isn’t here. I’m not really sure when he’ll be back — soon, I hope.” She opened the door wider. “I’m sorry. Would you like to come in?”

“Thanks.” He stepped inside. He wore an old tweed jacket with jeans and a loosened tie.

Erin came into the hallway from the kitchen. “Molly, can I have an ice cream sandwich?”

“Are you done with your homework?”

She nodded.

“Okay, but just one,” Molly said.

Erin didn’t seem interested in an introduction to Chet Blazevich. She turned and scurried back to the kitchen. Molly led him into the living room and nodded at the easy chair. “Can I get you something? Coffee or water? An ice cream sandwich?”

“Thank you anyway,” he said, with a nervous laugh. He sat down in the chair.

Molly settled at one end of the sofa. “What did you want to see my husband about?”

“Well, there’s been some confusion about where he was the night the former Mrs. Dennehy was killed.”

Molly didn’t say anything.

“We checked with the Hilton in Washington, D.C.,” Blazevich explained. “In fact, we checked with all of the Hiltons in D.C., and your husband wasn’t staying at any of them.”

Molly shifted on the sofa. “Is it really so important where he was?”