Dennis Lehane - Since We Fell

“No,” Caleb said.

“Well, you’ve missed your chance.” Trayvon Kessler returned the photograph to the pocket of his car coat. “She turned up dead about eight hours ago.”

Rachel said, “How?”

“Shot once in the heart, once in the head. It probably led the news tonight if you’d been watching.” He gave the bar another glance. “But you were engaged in other activities.”

“Who was she?” Rachel asked.

“Her name was Nicole Alden. Beyond that, I don’t know much. No criminal record, no known enemies, worked in a bank. Knew your husband, though.”

“That picture’s old,” she told him. “Might even pre-date when I met my husband. So what’s to say he’s still in contact with her?”

“You say he’s in Russia?”

“Yeah.” She found her phone, opened the last text he’d sent her claiming to be on the runway at Logan. She showed it to Kessler.

Kessler read it and handed the phone back. “He drive himself to the airport or take a cab?”

“He drove himself.”

“In the Infiniti?”

“Yes.” She stopped. “How do you know—?”

“What he drives?”

“Yes.”

“Because an Infiniti FX 45, registered to your husband at this address, was found parked across the street from the victim’s home this afternoon. And a witness saw your husband exit the home on or around the time of the murder.”

“And, what, he just walked away and left his car behind?”

“Can we all sit down?” He tilted his head at the bar.

All five of them took stools around the bar, Kessler in the middle, like the father at a family meeting.

“Our witness says your husband drove up in the Infiniti, but he drove off again an hour later in a blue Honda. You ever use one of those map programs where you can see the actual street? Either of you?”

They both nodded.

“What the map companies do to get that picture is drive around in a van and film the streets. So you’re looking at pictures could be months old or weeks but not years. So I went on a real estate site and I punched in the victim’s address and then I went to street view and I clicked around a bit. And guess what I found?”

“A blue Honda,” Caleb said.

“A blue Honda parked halfway down the block on the east side of the street. Got me a license plate, ran that plate, and discovered it was registered to a Brian Alden. Ran Mr. Alden through the DMV, got a driver’s license photo that looks identical to your husband.”

“Jesus,” Rachel said, not having to bring much to the performance to make it convincing. “You’re telling me my husband is not my husband.”

“I’m telling you your husband may be living a couple of lives, ma’am, and I’d like to talk to him about that.” He folded his hands on the bar and smiled at her. “Among other things.”

After a minute, she said, “I only know he’s in Russia.”

Trayvon Kessler shook his head. “He’s not in Russia.”

“I only know what he tells me.”

“And that’s looking like it could be a lot of lies, ma’am. He go on business trips a lot?”

“At least once a month.”

“Where to?”

“Canada and the Pacific Northwest mostly. But he also goes to India, Brazil, the Czech Republic, the United Kingdom.”

“Some cool places there. You ever go with him?”

“No.”

“Why not? I’d like to see me some Rio, maybe walk around Prague.”

“I have a condition.”

“A condition?”

“Or, I mean, I had one until recently.”

She could feel them all looking at her, particularly the two female cops, wondering what “condition” could possibly afflict an entitled Back Bay princess like her.

“It kept me from leaving the house,” she said. “I couldn’t fly, that’s for sure.”

“So you’re afraid of flying?” Kessler’s tone was helpful.

“Among other things.”

“You agoraphobic?” he said.

She looked in his eyes and they were far too wise.

“I majored in psychology at Penn.” Again with the helpful tone of voice.

“It’s never been officially diagnosed,” she said eventually and thought she heard Officer Mullen sigh. “But I definitely had symptoms that suggested it.”

“Had? Past tense?”

“Brian’s been working with me on it.”

“But not enough to take you on a business trip.”

“Not yet, no.”

“Would you like protective custody?”

He said it so casually it took her a moment to process the words.

“Why would I want that?”

He turned on his stool. “Officer Garza, you got that other picture?”

Garza handed him a photograph and he turned it faceup on the bar so she and Caleb could see it. The blond woman lay facedown on a kitchen floor, her lower half out of frame. Blood had billowed out from under her chest and pooled above her left shoulder. Her left cheek and part of the refrigerator door were also splattered with blood. But the worst image, the one Rachel suspected she’d be woken up by for the rest of her life, was the black gouge at the top of her head. It didn’t look like someone had shot her; it looked like something had taken a bite out of her skull. And the hole left in the wake of that bite had immediately filled with blood that spilled into her hair and turned black.

“If your husband did this and—”

“My husband didn’t do that,” she said loudly.

“—I’m not saying he did but he’s the last person we know of to see her alive. So let’s just say, let’s just say, Mrs. Delacroix, that he did do this?” He turned on his barstool and pointed. “Well, ma’am, he has a key to that door.”

He’s beyond using it, she thought.

She said, “So you’d like to take me into your custody?”

“Protective custody, ma’am. Protective.”

Rachel shook her head.

“Officer Mullen, please make note that Mrs. Delacroix declined our recommendation of PC.”

“Got it.” Mullen scribbled on a pad.

Kessler tapped a finger on the marble bar top, as if testing it, then looked at her again. “Will you be willing to come down to the precinct and talk about when you last saw your husband?”

“The last time I saw Brian was eight o’clock this morning when he drove himself to the airport.”

“He didn’t drive himself to the airport.”

“So you say. That doesn’t mean you’re right.”

He gave that a small shrug. “But I am.”

He exuded equal parts serenity and skepticism. The odd mixture made her feel as if he knew all her answers before they left her mouth, as if not only could he see into her, he could see into the future; he knew how this was going to end. It was all she could do to hold his mildly curious gaze and not fall to her knees and beg for mercy. If she ever went into an interview room with this man, the only way she’d exit would be in handcuffs.

“I’m tired, Detective. I’d like to get into bed and wait for my husband’s phone call from Moscow.”

He nodded and patted her hand. “Officer Mullen, please make a note that Mrs. Delacroix declined to join us at the precinct to answer further questions.” He reached into the inside pocket of his car coat and placed his business card on the bar between them. “My personal cell is on the back.”

“Thank you.”

He stood. “Mr. Perloff.” His voice was suddenly louder and sharper, though he kept his back to Caleb.

“Yes?”

“When’s the last time you saw Brian Delacroix?”

“Yesterday afternoon when he left work.”

Kessler turned to him. “You’re in the lumber business together, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you knew nothing about your business partner’s other life?”

“No.”

“Care to come to the precinct and speak about that at length?”