Dennis Lehane - Since We Fell

“Isn’t sleep for that?”

“Can I come clean on something? A secret?”

“I love secrets. Why I’m a cop.”

They reached the elevator bank. She pressed down and risked a glance back up the corridor to her apartment door. What would she do if the door opened? Run for the stairs?

They’d just kill her in the stairwell.

“I’m a closet smoker,” she said. “And I ran out.”

“Ah.” He nodded several times. “I bet he knows.”

“Hmm?”

“Your husband. I bet he knows you smoke but he chooses not to let on. Where’s Mr. Perloff?”

“Passed out on the living room couch.”

“I’m sure your husband’s cool with that too, another man sleeping over. He’s progressive that way, your husband. Nothing ‘antiquated’ about ol’ Brian.”

She looked at the numbers above the left elevator and saw the car was stalled on three. Looked at the numbers on the right elevator and saw nothing was lit up. They’d shut it down for the night. It was probably on a timer to save energy costs.

Fucking timers, she thought, and looked back at her door.

“You expect it to move?” Trayvon Kessler asked.

“What’s that?”

“Your door. You keep looking back at it.”

If Ned and Lars walked out now, guns drawn, they’d have the drop on Kessler. But if she told him — told him they were in there, told them what they’d done — he’d pull his gun, shield her with his body, and call for the cavalry. And this nightmare would be over.

All she had to do was tell him. And prepare herself for jail.

“Do I? I’m not myself right now.”

“Why’s that?”

“Learning my husband is living a double life could have affected me a bit.”

“There’s that.” He looked above the elevator. “Should we take the stairs?”

She didn’t give it a thought. “Sure.”

“No, wait. It’s moving.”

The elevator car crawled from three to four and then picked up speed and shot from four to five to six to seven to eight to nine.

And stopped.

She looked at Kessler.

He gave her a “Sue me” shrug.

She said, “I’m taking the stairs,” and turned toward them.

“It’s moving again.”

The red light jumped from nine to ten, and then zipped from eleven to fourteen. And stopped again. She could hear laughter from the shaft, the people getting off on fourteen sounding Saturday-night drunk on a Tuesday.

Trayvon Kessler had his back to the corridor when Ned stepped out of her apartment. She thought of screaming. She thought of running for the stairs, the red EXIT sign beckoning like the hand of God. By the time Kessler followed her gaze and turned, Ned had strolled up the corridor to them, his hands free, the gun probably tucked at the small of his back, hidden by the hem of his Members Only jacket.

“Rachel,” he said. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Ned.” She watched a quick flare of confusion in his eyes. “Been staying home mostly, ordering in.”

Ned turned to Detective Kessler. “Ned Hemple.” He stuck out his hand.

“Trayvon Kessler.”

“What brings the Providence police to Boston?”

Kessler looked confused for a moment, until he glanced down at his own belt, saw the gold badge clipped there.

“Checking out a few leads.”

The elevator dinged as the car arrived and the doors opened. They got in. Kessler pressed L.

“Is everything okay, Rachel?” Ned looked across the car at her, his face the picture of concern.

“Sure. Why?”

“Well, I just...” He looked embarrassed as he turned to Trayvon Kessler. “I live next door to Rachel and Brian. Sorry, I should keep my big mouth shut.”

Kessler gave that a loose grin. “Should he keep his mouth shut, Rachel?”

“Not on my account.”

Kessler held out his hand. “Proceed, Mr. Hemple.”

Ned hemmed and hawed and looked at his shoes for a moment. “I heard some, a little, uh, shouting a few minutes ago. I guess you and Brian aren’t getting along. Same thing happens with me and Rosemary. No big deal. I just hope everything’s okay.”

“Shouting?” Kessler’s grin grew broader.

“People fight,” Ned said.

“Oh, I know people fight,” Kessler said. “I’m just surprised Rachel was fighting with Brian. Only a few minutes ago, huh?”

The car stopped at seven and Mr. Cornelius, who owned three nightclubs in the Fenway, got on. He gave them all a polite smile and went back to texting someone on his phone.

Ned had served her up to Kessler on a platter. Even if she managed to get away from both of them when they reached the lobby — and she had no idea how she’d manage that — Kessler would go back to her apartment, this time with a warrant, and find Caleb dead inside. Not passed out. Dead.

She realized they were both looking at her, awaiting a response. “It wasn’t Brian, Ned, thank you.”

“No?”

“It was his partner. You’ve met him a few times. Caleb?”

Ned nodded. “Good-looking fella.”

“That’s him.”

Ned said to Kessler, “Like I’m always telling the wife, though, looks fade.”

Rachel said, “He wanted to drive home and I didn’t want to let him. Too much bourbon.”

Kessler said, “But he took the T.”

“What?”

“Over from Cambridge, he told us he took the subway.”

“But he lives in the Seaport and he didn’t want to take the T back there. He wanted to borrow my car. That’s what the fight was about.”

Jesus, how many fucking details could she keep straight here?

“Ah.”

“Makes sense,” Ned said in a tone suggesting that it didn’t.

“Why wouldn’t he just take a cab?” Kessler said.

“Uber,” Ned ventured.

“What he said.” Kessler jerked his thumb at Ned.

“You’ll have to ask him when he sobers up,” she said.

Now Mr. Cornelius was watching the three of them, not sure what was going on, but recognizing conflict when it was in front of his face.

They reached the lobby.

The moment they exited the building, Kessler would, she presumed, leave her. Even if she stalled, chatted Kessler up on the sidewalk, Ned would just act as if he’d walked away. And the moment Kessler did, in fact, drive off, Ned would reappear. Or just shoot her from across the street.

She placed her hand up to the back of her neck, fingered the clasp of her necklace. If she could twist it a bit and then snap her fingers, she might be able to break the strand. The beads would hit the floor. The men would bend to retrieve them. And she could scoot out through the mail room.

“Got a bite?” Kessler asked.

“What?”

“An itch,” he said. “Is your neck itchy?”

Now Ned was looking at her.

She dropped her hand. “Yeah. A little bit.”

They walked into the lobby. Mr. Cornelius turned right into the hall for the garage elevators. Ned and Kessler kept moving forward.

Dominick, behind the desk, glanced up at them, seemed mildly baffled by the presence of Kessler and Ned, but he gave Rachel a nod and went back to his magazine.

“No garage?” she asked Ned.

“Hmm?” Ned followed her gaze to the garage door. “No.”

“You’re parked on the street?” she said.

Ned looked back over his shoulder at her. “Oh, no, I’m just going out for a walk, dear.”

“Everyone’s going for a walk tonight,” Kessler said. He patted his stomach. “Makes me feel like I gotta hit the gym.”

He opened the front door, inward, and made an “after you” gesture to them both. Ned went through the door, followed by Rachel.

On the sidewalk, Rachel said to Ned, “Enjoy your walk. Tell Rosemary I said hi.”