Russell Andrews - Aphrodite

What? Off what case? What the hell was the idiot talking about?

Justin clicked off the TV, ran to the front door, opened it a crack, just wide enough to pull in the newspapers off the front mat. The second the door opened, he heard questions being hurled at him from the curb. The words didn't make any sense to him, it was just one loud roar. He slammed the door shut, backed over to his couch as if he were facing down a pride of lions in the jungle.

He sat and read the front page of the New York Times. The entire right-hand side of the page was devoted to the discovery of Maura Greer's body. He read through to the break, didn't find any crucial details he hadn't learned the day before, other than the fact that the weekend Frank Manwaring, the secretary of Health and Human Services, had been in the Hamptons he had several hours that could not be accounted for. It led to even more suspicion that he was involved in the murder and disposal of the body. Justin turned to page eighteen to finish reading the story. But he didn't get to continue with it. On the center of that page was his photograph. And above it was a headline: tragic hero in the middle of two murders. He read what they had to say about him. The journalist had more than done his homework. He'd talked to cops up in Providence. He rehashed Justin's history up there. He told the story of the deaths of Justin's wife and daughter. Justin stopped reading halfway through. His eyes ran back up to the headline. Two murders?

He skipped ahead until he read it.

Jesus Fucking Christ.

The reporter had gotten to Brian. The idiot cop had spilled his guts. He told everything he knew about Justin. Talked about his personality. His violent temper that had erupted when he'd attacked his fellow cop. And Brian said that Justin Westwood had been working on another murder case, the murder of a local journalist named Susanna Morgan. Justin pictured him smiling as best he could through his injuries as he bragged that he was now in charge of the investigation and revealed that there had been a witness to that murder, a woman who had been interviewed by the East End Harbor police and who had seen everything that had happened. She was their best lead, Brian Meves said.

Justin dove for the telephone, grabbed the receiver, and dialed the police station. Gary answered the phone, sounding tense and nervous.

"Where's Brian?" Justin said. "Put him on the phone."

"Westwood? I mean…Justin…uh…"

"Get your fucking friend and put him on the phone!" Justin screamed.

"He…he hasn't come in yet."

"When did he do the TV interviews?"

"What? I…"

"Gary, for chrissake, I just saw him on TV-when did he tape that?"

"Last night. They talked to both of us. Around ten, I guess. I watched it last night around eleven."

"It aired last night?"

"Yeah. They must be showing it again."

"Did he talk about Susanna Morgan?"

"I…I don't know."

"Did he say she was murdered? Did the moron say that last night on TV?"

"Yes. Yeah, I guess he did."

"Where the hell is he?"

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. He was supposed to be here at nine. He hasn't shown up yet. We've been calling him but there's no answer. We figured-"

"Where does he live?" When Gary didn't answer, Justin screamed into the phone: "Give me his goddamn address!"

Gary rattled it off. It wasn't far from Justin's house, maybe a couple of miles. Off in one of the newer developments in East End, the kind that was destroying whatever pretense the area still had of being rustic and charming.

"What's going on?" Gary asked. "It's been insane here. The media-"

"Go over to Brian's now," Justin said. "If he's still alive, get him the hell out of there. If he's not, just wait for me."

"If he's still alive? What the hell are you talking about?"

But Justin didn't wait to hear any more. He slammed down the phone receiver, pulled on a T-shirt and jeans, and laced up a pair of sneakers. He looked at the folder he'd taken from his desk at the station, grabbed it. Then he saw what else he'd taken from the station and he picked that up, too. His gun. A.357 Magnum.

He fished in his pocket for his car keys and ran out the door. More questions were shouted at him but he didn't even hesitate. Justin ran straight for his beat-up Civic and turned over the engine. One of the journalists' cars was partially blocking the driveway. Too damn bad. Justin backed up at full speed, ramming it out of the way. As the rest of the reporters scrambled like mad to get to their cars, Justin put the pedal to the metal. His tires screeched, the back of the car fishtailed, and then he was on his way. Three blocks away, when he had a little daylight between him and the jackals, he swerved the Civic into a dirt driveway. It led to a house he knew was at least two hundred yards farther up the path. He drove another fifty feet, out of view of the road and the house, slammed on his brakes, and turned off the engine. He forced himself to wait five full minutes, until he was satisfied that the reporters on his tail had to be scattered all over the place. Then he pulled out of the driveway, his wheels spinning, the car fishtailing again as he made a left, and drove into town.

He was almost certain that the asshole was already dead. Justin wouldn't miss Brian or mourn him. He knew enough about death to know that it didn't change what you were when you were alive. The guy was a jerk. Now he was a dead jerk. Justin wasn't a romantic when it came to death. Nor was he a hypocrite.

He was also not a praying man. Nor did he much believe in happy endings. So as he sped back toward Deena Harper's apartment on Main Street, he didn't pray and he didn't expect to find that things were all right. The best he could do was hope against hope that he wasn't too late and that, if he was right about Brian, he could be wrong about Deena and her little girl, and maybe, just maybe, they were still alive. After turning the doorknob to no avail, knocking as hard as he could and yelling out her name, Justin lowered his shoulder and charged the door. It splintered open and his force carried him through into Deena's living room. He called out her name and then her daughter's, ran from room to room, but the apartment was empty. No Deena. No Kendall. But also no sign of violence, so maybe there really was a chance. Just maybe…

Justin heard a noise behind him and he didn't think, just reacted, whirled, reaching for his gun. He felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, knew he was dead if they wanted him dead, looked up, trembling, surprised to find he wasn't afraid, was almost relieved. But it wasn't anyone who wanted him dead. It was Deena, who was staring at him like he was a lunatic, shifting her gaze disbelievingly back and forth between him and the shattered front door.

"What the hell are you doing?" she said.

He didn't give her a chance to say anything else. "Where's the kid?"

"Kendall? Why? What…?"

"Where is she?"

"At a friend's house. What's going on?"

"What friend? Someone you know?"

"Of course it's someone I know. She was at school and her friend's mother picked her up. I have a class to teach, then I'll go get her. Now what is going on and what are you doing breaking into my apartment?"

"Do you have any idea what's happened today?"

"No. What do you mean?"

"Have you seen the paper?"

"No. Not yet. I was practicing with my teacher all morning. He was out in Montauk and-"

"You've got two minutes to pack some clothes. Just take enough for a few days."

"What are you talking about? I can't just pack up and leave!"

"Two minutes. Then we'll get Kendall. You've got to get out of here."

"What is going on?" she demanded. "I'm not doing anything until you tell me what the hell you're talking about!"