Gregg Hurwitz - You're Next

Now they sat in the family room, Shep ready at last to weigh in on the big picture. ‘Your locks suck,’ he said. ‘That Schlage in the laundry room, you could get through with a wet noodle. We’ll change the ones that need changing after we handle this Riverton broad. The side gates need padlocks. I have a friend who trains attack rottweilers in Fort Lauderdale, I can have one out in two days.’

‘An attack rottweiler? What about Kat?’

‘I’m thinking of Kat.That’s why we need an attack rottweiler. You can keep him out back.’

‘How will we-’

‘I’ll handle him.’ Shep pulled two sleek black cell phones from his pocket and set one on the coffee table in front of Mike. ‘These are only for us. Don’t use it for anything else. Let me repeat that: Don’t use it for anything else . Each is programmed with the other’s number.’

‘Can I give Annabel your number? In case…?’

‘Her and no one else. Keep this phone with you at all times. Text me if possible. I don’t like talking.’

Mike knew that the issue for Shep wasn’t talking but hearing. On the facing sofa, Mike leaned back, picked at his shoe. It was ten forty-five, his apprehension growing the closer he got to that meeting with Dana Riverton. First Dodge and William, then all of a sudden she shows up? Pretty big coincidence. Her claim that she’d known his parents had to be a manipulation; he despised himself for wondering – hoping – that maybe it was something else.

Refocusing, he plucked the Batphone from the coffee table and slid it into a pocket. Shep leaned forward, the pendant dangling, and laced his rough hands together.

The first lull since he’d arrived.

Another awkward minute crept by, and Mike asked, ‘What have you been doing?’

Shep shrugged. ‘Cracking jobs mostly, still. A lot of cash floating around Reno, ’cuz, you know, the gambling. I did a bank once, but no guns. Went through a back wall at night, covered the sound with a fake street crew jackhammering the curb out front.’ He shook his head. ‘But that was a onetime thing.’

‘I bet you’re something to watch now,’ Mike said. ‘Going at a safe.’

‘You wouldn’t believe your eyes.’ Shep leaned back, stretched his arms across the top of the couch.

Mike thought of the others. Charlie Dubronski, serving a life sentence for armed robbery. Tony Moreno, overdosed on black tar in a truck-stop bathroom. All those wrong turns, all those dead ends. And here was Mike Wingate of the Ford F-450 and the land-development deal, with his pure-of-heart wife and bright daughter. He’d been lucky as hell. Until now.

Mike said, ‘What next?’

‘Go get me your cell phone. Your real one, I mean.’

When Mike retrieved his phone, Shep clicked around, then held up the screen. The highlighted entry read A’S CELL. ‘This the one they have?’

‘Yeah, that’s hers.’

Shep hit speaker and dialed. Straight to voice mail. ‘ Hi, it’s Annabel. I’m probably digging around for my phone in that tiny-’

Shep hung up. Heat crept into Mike’s face. The notion that they had even her recorded voice in their possession made him angry. He pictured her cell phone in William’s sweaty hand, in Dodge’s oversize pocket, riding on the dash of that dingy white van.

‘Tell her not to report her phone missing,’ Shep said. ‘We want to keep it active.’

‘Why?’ Mike asked.

He was punching buttons, so Mike crossed and looked over his shoulder. He’d typed a text message: WHAT DO U WANT?

He looked at Mike. Mike nodded. Shep clicked ‘send’, pulled out a pad, and jotted down the time. He set the cell on the glass surface of the table.

‘They’re only turning on her phone at intervals,’ he said. ‘Harder to track.’

‘Impossible?’ Mike asked.

‘Harder.’

They sat. Shep, never one for small talk on a job, stared straight ahead. Mike did his best not to fiddle with his hands. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. Pretty soon they’d have to start thinking about heading out to that café. Mike checked his watch, cleared his throat, about to suggest they get moving.

The clatter of the cell phone against the glass made his breath catch in his chest. It was loud enough for him to feel in his teeth, but Shep barely blinked.

Mike leaned over and picked it up, his hands shaking slightly as he read the new text.

U REALLY GOT NO IDEA, DO U?

A chill did a slow crawl up Mike’s back. He started to say something, but Shep ticked his finger once to silence him. Shep checked his watch, jotted down the time, then pointed at the phone.

Mike keyed in, NO.

He set the phone back on the table and leaned back. Both men stared at it for what seemed a very long time, Mike bracing for the ring this time. The anticipation only made him start worse when it finally did sound.

He pried open the cell. His hands were trembling even more, but he no longer cared what Shep might think. The message stilled them instantly – it seemed his whole body, his heart, was frozen in a moment of suspended alarm.

JUST WAIT.

Driving through his neighborhood, Mike was struck by its suburban genericness. This was not Hollywood of the palm trees and starred sidewalks, Venice Beach of the hippie conspiracists and incense burners, Beverly Hills of the Sunday Bentley and nine-dollar cupcake. Lost Hills was built, block after block, of ranch-style family homes, a community of gleaming mailboxes and bright yellow play structures. It was for folks who craved Southern California’s endless summer, who could not afford Malibu real estate but wanted to live a short drive from the Pacific, who didn’t need the paparazzi glare of Los Angeles but enjoyed the bright-light glow from a distance. Neighborhood Watch signs, hammered into every third street corner and front lawn, served as amulets against shadowy men with sinister hats and white slits for eyes. Bad things weren’t supposed to happen here.

He could not see Shep anywhere on the road, impressive given the Mustang’s conspicuousness. He got to the café five minutes early and took an outside table, as planned. Sipping an orange juice, he waited, his nerves frayed. Two women in their fifties dressed like they were in their twenties sashayed in, rat dogs peeping from their handbags. A well-dressed man carried on a domestic dispute through a Bluetooth earpiece. Glancing around the parking lot and surrounding buildings, Mike looked for some sign of Shep, but still nothing.

He turned at the clop of her heels. A middle-aged woman approached, clutching a tatty leather briefcase and wearing a short-sleeved silk blouse and a bark-colored skirt. Librarian’s spectacles with a beaded chain offset a soft, jowly face. Frizzy brown hair spilled to her shoulders. Her big arms had once held muscle. Whatever Mike was expecting, it was not her.

‘Michael?’

‘Mike’s fine.’

She sat. ‘I’ll cut right to it, as I imagine you’re fairly eager after all these years to know what this is about.’

Her curt, businesslike manner was something you’d encounter at a customer-service desk.

‘I think you may have me confused with someone else,’ Mike said.

‘Your father passed a few years ago. John. John Trenley.’

Hearing the first name, he felt a flare of excitement. But Trenley ? It meant nothing to him.

‘Your mother’s been gone about a decade now.’

That didn’t square with the blood on his father’s sleeve. But then again, with everything going on, he didn’t know what he knew anymore.

Riverton unsnapped her briefcase and laid it open. ‘Danielle.’

Mike could see only the raised lid and the hinges of the briefcase. His mind raced, but he kept his mouth pressed closed. Danielle. My mother was named Danielle.