Lynne Heitman - First Class Killing

“Because you do not need the money.”

“There is no amount of money that would make me trade my family’s future and my own peace of mind. But I understand if you need it. Take it without me.”

“Do you actually believe they would retain me while you are actively working at cross-purposes? That is your plan, is it not? To approach the authorities?”

“Yes.”

“What makes you think the authorities will be any more responsive?”

“If they’re not, I’m pretty sure I can find a newspaper that will listen. It’s a juicy story.”

“Then you are not above employing your own leverage.”

“That’s what it’s all about. If I learned anything from this case, that’s it.”

He stared at me for a long moment. Maybe we were both disappointed in each other. He finally flinched first, letting his gaze drop to the deck and the rust-colored, nonslip rubber tiles with the shamrock cutouts. His feet were crossed at the ankles in a bow-legged attitude that exposed the thick calluses on his heels.

“Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“I will inform the client.” He stood up, wrapped his towel close around his shoulders, and started to move off toward the entryway to a locker room.

“ Harvey…” He stopped but didn’t turn around. “ Harvey, I need to know. You won’t work against me, will you?”

Then he did turn on me, as quickly as his feeble state would allow, which wasn’t fast. In some ways, that made it even more devastating when he said it.

“Shame on you, Alex. Shame on you.”

Out on the curb, I sat in my parked car for a long time. More than once, someone pulled up next to me, hoping to grab the space when I pulled out. A vacant stare and an anemic shake of the head sent them off in a huff, but I wasn’t leaving until I had someplace to go. I was having a hard time catching up to what had just happened. But why should I be surprised? Harvey was motivated by a very real fear that he would run out of money and be too sick to earn any more. Carl Wolff had understood that and used it against him. Against me. Bastard.

I sat there a long time before my phone rang. I checked the spy window and answered. “Tristan?”

“I found Monica. You need to get back here, Alexandra.”

I felt for the keys and started the engine. “Is she with you? Will she talk?”

“Oh, she already is.”

“Anything good so far?”

“How about who killed Robin Sevitch?”

IT WAS STRANGE TO SEEMONICA SITTING ON Tristan’s couch, looking, if not scared, at least less self-possessed than the last two times I had seen her. The first time, she had been the one with the razor-blade smile swiping my date in Chicago. The last time, she had been the one with her clothes off and her sense of self-confidence firmly in place.

“Hello, Monica.”

“I’m only here because Tristan asked me. I trust him.”

Tristan stood behind the couch at her left shoulder. Over his left shoulder, resting on the mantel in the middle of his international trinkets, was the deadliest trinket of all, his.44 Special. I hadn’t expected Tristan to be Monica’s private bodyguard, although, as I thought about it, there was no way he would bring her out of hiding unless he intended to protect her as best he could. I thought that would be pretty well.

I sat down next to Monica. She looked good for someone in hiding, better than I felt. Tristan had given me the story on Monica in our long, overnight chat. She was from Paterson, New Jersey, and had tried for a career as a singer and dancer on Broadway. She’d given up almost immediately, because she didn’t like that part about being poor. She’d bought some breast implants and shifted her act to prostitution, where every night she could be someone new. With her lively brown eyes, long legs, and thick, dark hair, it was not hard to see her as an entertainer.

At this point, I didn’t have the mental capacity to do much besides ask her to start talking and see if I could follow along.

“Tell me,” I said, “everything that is going on. Start with Robin Sevitch.”

“Angel killed Robin. Tristan, can I smoke in here?”

“No, dear.”

He said it calmly, which led me to believe he had heard this already. I hadn’t, and I was appropriately unsettled, despite Monica’s blunt nonchalance. “Are you saying Angel had her killed?”

“No. She did it herself.” Monica shook out her arm to loosen her bracelets, a whole wristful that jangled like a bag of coins. “She told Robin she wanted to meet her to negotiate, because, you know, Robin wasn’t too cool with Angel taking over her business. She flew out there. They went for a walk. She picked up a brick somewhere along the way and beat her head with it until she was dead.”

My lips kept sticking together. They were pasty because my mouth was dry. My mouth was dry because I kept picturing Robin’s savaged face and thinking about how much time I had spent alone with her murderer.

“Were you there? Did you see this happen?”

“No. She told me.”

She ran her fingers through her long hair and crossed her legs. She seemed calm on the outside, but I also sensed that she could really use a smoke. “Then how do you know it’s not just a story?”

“Because she has the brick. Angel brought it back with her.” She glanced from me to Tristan and back. “It has her blood on it. That’s what she said, anyway.”

I looked at her closely. Could this be her own bit of performance art? What would be her reasons to lie? “You’ve seen this brick?”

“She showed it to me. It was last year sometime, not long after she did it. It was sometime in the summer, because that’s when we had our thing.”

“You and Angel had a relationship?”

She nodded. “I was at her cabin one night. We were having a bottle of wine, or maybe a few. She pulled it out and showed it to me. She told me what it was. It kind of scared me. I didn’t go up there after that, not alone, anyway.”

“Did you see where she keeps it?”

“In a desk drawer.”

What she was saying was horrifying on so many levels. I had been alone in that cabin with Angel and her murder brick, which Monica talked about as if it were some kind of gruesome paperweight. My brother had also been alone with her. I wrapped both arms around myself and squeezed. “Why would she keep a murder weapon in her house?”

“That’s just Angel. It’s like a souvenir. Also, I don’t think she wanted to leave it in Omaha. She watchesCSI like everyone else.”

I looked at Tristan. “I need a drink,” was all he said, and headed for the kitchen.

“Angel was never mentioned in the Omaha investigation.”

“Of course not. She was covered.”

“Covered how?”

“She had a trick out there, someone to keep her name out of it. I don’t know who it was, but that’s why she picked Omaha to begin with.”

I thought about the senator. I thought about Jamie’s video. I thought about Monica’s blackmail scheme and some of the pieces started to float together. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning whoever it was, she had him in a dirty movie. All she had to do was send it to him along with a list of his private e-mail addresses, and he took care of it. That’s how she gets everything she wants. She uses her archive.”

I leaned forward on the couch, poised to absorb every word, but then Tristan came back with his serving tray of ice, glasses, and bottled sparkling water and stepped between us.

“Tristan, baby, do you have something stronger than fizzy water?”

“What would you like?”

“Do you have any beer?”

He disappeared again but came back quickly with an open longneck and handed it to his guest.