Cold Shot to the Heart (16 page)

“Great exposure in here, as you can see,” Jackie said, “and quite a view.”

A bird landed on the woodpile, pecked at the snow, flew away.

It would be a different world up here, Crissa thought. Far from the city. A house to call her own, with land, not just a cramped apartment with three rooms, noise in the street all night. A new life, if she could afford it. A place to come home to.

“So what's the holdup?” she said.

“Holdup?”

“On the offer I made. You said they were motivated.”

“I'm not sure. I guess they're having some issues deciding. There are several offers on the table.”

“With sixty percent down? Two hundred and fifty thousand cash?”

“I'm sure they're taking that into consideration.”

“My lawyer says they want to know more about my background.”

“That could be, I don't—”

“Is it because I'm a single woman? They're wondering where the money's coming from?”

“I really can't speak for them.”

“I'm not going higher, if that's what this is about.”

You can't afford to anyway, she thought. Thinking about Wayne then, in his jailhouse khakis. Wondering if, when it came down to it, she would have to choose.

“I'll talk with them again,” Jackie said. “They're going to call me this week from Grand Cayman.”

“I think we've got the same goal. You want to close the deal, earn your commission.”

“Of course, but—”

“So maybe a time frame will help them decide. Say a month from today. We get the inspectors in, and, if there's nothing major, I cut the Hammersteins a cashier's check for the down payment, and we get the lawyers going on the closing.” Trying to be casual, not have it sound like a threat.

“I'll talk to them.”

“After that date, who knows,” Crissa said. “I'm looking at some other places, too, in Plymouth and Torrington.” Lying.

“I'll do my best.”

“I know you will. Thank you.” She extended her hand, and Jackie looked at it for a moment, then took it.

“Make it clear to them,” Crissa said. “One month. Or I walk.”

“I'll let them know.”

“And let them know one other thing.”

“What's that?”

“I don't bluff.”

*   *   *

Later, she drove into Litchfield, parked on Bantam Road, and walked along the row of antique shops. Christmas music was playing everywhere. She stopped to watch an electric train display in a toy store window.

It had started to snow again, the sky a hard gray. She decided then not to drive back to the city. There was a motel just outside of town she'd stayed in once before, a restaurant across the street. She'd have dinner and a couple of drinks, get a good night's rest, head back tomorrow. Or maybe stay another day, drive around a little, get more of a feel for the town.

She thought about Stimmer, back in the city, maybe looking for her and Chance. The thought of it made her angry. But if he surfaced, Hector would hear about it, let her know. She'd worry about it when the time came.

There was no hurry to get back. Up here, it felt right somehow, as if things were in balance. It felt like the future. It felt like home.

*   *   *

The second time he came over, Crissa realized the man in the flannel shirt was hitting on her.

She was sitting at the bar with a glass of red wine, looking up at the TV. It was a game show she'd never seen before, lanky models displaying metal cases on pedestals. The sound was turned down. Soft music leaked through from the adjoining restaurant.

She'd left the Saturn at the motel, walked over. She'd had a meal and a glass of wine in the restaurant, decided to do the rest of her drinking at the bar. It was an old building, weathered oak paneling, colonial prints on the wall. A gas fire flickered in a flagstone hearth, warming the room. Light snow blew against the windows.

The man in the flannel shirt came up behind her, empty glass in hand. She watched his approach in the bar mirror. He stood close to her, though there was only one other person at the bar. He set his glass down, signaled the bartender.

She was on her third glass of wine and feeling relaxed for the first time in weeks. She'd left her cell in the motel room, felt freed by its absence.

“Hi. My name's Travis.”

She turned to him, ready to cut him off, shut him down. Late twenties, Levi's and green flannel, boots. Dark hair and brown eyes, a hint of five o'clock shadow. His cologne was faint and musky.

“Sorry if I'm interrupting,” he said. “I thought I'd introduce myself. Since we're both alone.”

She looked over at the table where he'd been sitting, the leather jacket hung on the chair, then back at him.

“Maybe that's a choice I made,” she said.

“Aha,” he said. “Sorry about that.”

The bartender set his drink down. He took it and started to the table.

“Hold on,” she said. He turned.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “That was rude of me.”

“No, I totally understand. I was out of line. I'll leave you alone.”

“Come sit down.”

He came back, slid onto the seat to her right. She put out her hand. “Roberta Summersfield. My friends call me Bobbi.”

“Travis Unger.” He shook her hand.

“Like Felix?”

“My curse in life.”

“I apologize, Travis. I'm a little tired, that's all.”

“I wasn't sure if I should come over. You look like you've got things on your mind.”

“You have no idea.”

When the bartender came back, she nodded. He filled her glass, took money. She was feeling the wine, the heat in the room, a pleasant light-headedness.

“I was being a little forward, I guess,” he said. “Coming up on you like that. But I figured, what the hell?”

They drank as they talked. He was a carpenter from Long Valley, New Jersey, in Litchfield building custom cabinets at a pair of houses in town. He'd been here almost two weeks, he told her, and was feeling homesick.

“Don't you have an assistant?” she said. “Someone helps you with the work, lets you take a break for a couple days?”

“I did, but things got so slow, I had to let him go. It's starting to pick up a little now, but it's still not enough to keep two people working.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“You here on business?”

“Looking at some houses,” she said. “Maybe buying.”

“That's a brave move these days. What do you do?”

“Investments. Here and there. Some property.”

“A speculator.”

“Sometimes.”

“You like to take risks.”

She shook her head. “Not me.”

She was starting to warm to him now, his manner easy and relaxed.

“You up here from the city?” he said.

“Just until tomorrow.”

“Are you married? You don't have to answer that.”

“No, not married.”

“Engaged? Someone special?”

She gave that a moment. “Yes.”

“That's good. You have a slight accent. I've been trying to place it. It's very faint, and it's not New York.”

“No, it isn't,” she said, wondering how much to give him.

“So you want me to guess?”

“Texas,” she said, “but that was a long time ago.”

She sipped wine. It happened like this three or four times a year. The last had been in Tortola. She'd be away somewhere, under another name, and she'd meet someone this way, without trying. It would last a day or two at most, more often just a single night. It would take the edge off for a while, but without entanglements. She wasn't who they thought she was, so she owed them nothing.

“How about you?” she said. “Married?” She'd already seen the pale band on his finger where a ring had been.

“Divorced,” he said.

“Sorry to hear that. How long?”

“Divorced? A year. Married, eight.”

She thought about Wayne. Seven years now, three of those with him in lockup. Wondered what he would say if he saw her here now, talking to this man, smiling, drinking.

“Sorry,” she said. “Drifting a little, I guess.”

“I've probably overstayed my welcome. I guess we're both tired.” He finished his drink.

She turned toward him. “Where are you staying while you're up here?”

“Across the street. I've been eating in here almost every night. It's starting to feel like home. How about you?”

“I'm there, too. There a liquor store around here?”

“Just a few blocks away,” he said and smiled. “I've been there many times.”

“When do they close?”

“Ten, maybe.” He looked at his watch. “Still plenty of time.”

“I'd like a little more of this,” she said, touching the wineglass, “but not at these prices.” Making the decision then, letting him know it.

“Sounds good to me,” he said. “Let's go.”

He had a big Ford 150 with a cap in back,
EXCEL CARPENTRY
and a phone number painted on the side. He drove carefully, not looking at her. Snow swirled in the headlights, the wipers clicking rhythmically. There were few cars on the road.

Outside the liquor store, she said, “Wait here,” got out, and went inside. She bought a pint of rum and a liter of Coke for him, a bottle of Médoc for herself.

When they pulled into the motel lot, she said, “There's some plastic glasses in my room. Nothing fancy, but they'll do.”

He took the bag from her, and they walked to her room in the snow. She closed the door against the wind, undid her scarf and unbuttoned her jacket. He set the bag on the table.

“Gotta hit the bathroom,” he said.

“Go on.”

Her cell was on the nightstand where she'd left it. She had three missed calls, all from Hector. No messages.

She hit
RETURN CALL
. He picked up on the second ring.

“Been trying to reach you all night,” he said. “Can you talk?”

She looked at the closed bathroom door, heard the toilet flush, then the sound of running water.

“Yes. What's the problem?”

“It's about our friend. The bald guy with the blue eyes.”

“What about him?”

“He's dead.”

The bathroom door opened, and Travis came out, drying his hands on a towel. He looked at her, his smile fading. She lowered the phone.

“Travis,” she said. “Go home.”

NINETEEN

Hector suggested Hop Ling, but she was paranoid now, didn't want to meet anywhere they'd been before. They settled on a coffee shop on Church Street, near the World Trade Center PATH station.

She got there first, took a booth in the back, far from the windows. It was ten thirty in the morning, the breakfast crowd thinning. She was tired from the drive back, had left at first light. She was on her second cup of tea when he showed up and slid in across from her.

He ordered coffee from the waitress. When she walked away, Crissa said, “Tell it.”

“I don't have all the details. Got a call from my cousin. She works with the state police, in the office.”

“You never told me that.”

“No reason to. She's a good source, I use her all the time. Back when Stimmer first got in touch, I asked her to run a check on him, see if there were any warrants, if he was involved in any open cases, listed as a CI, whatever.”

“Was that smart?”

“She didn't know why. I'm just trying to keep you safe. If there'd been an issue, or something didn't seem right, I wouldn't have put you in touch with him.”

The waitress brought his coffee, left. Crissa said, “What happened?”

“A crew working out in the Meadowlands, underground cables or something, found his car. He was in the trunk. One in the head. Hadn't been there long.”

“It make the news?”

“Not yet. His wallet was in there with him, though. When my cousin saw the report, she called me. The car was under an abutment, out of sight. If that crew hadn't been there, it might not have been found for a while.”

“Sounds like wiseguy bullshit.”

“Maybe.”

“Someone angry over Florida. Getting even.”

“She'll call if she hears anything else.”

“Question is, who else are they angry at? And what did he tell them beforehand?”

“That's why I called you last night. I figured you'd want to know right away. I called Chance's man, too. He's passing the message along.”

“All that's been going on, he's probably halfway to Hawaii.”

“Not a bad idea. Maybe you should think about the same. I sent Luisa and the girls to her mother's in Philly, just in case.”

She looked around the room, scanning faces.

“I don't like this,” she said. “Not knowing.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Jimmy Falcone still around?”

“Which one, the father or the son?”

“The father. Jimmy Peaches.”

“I think so. I haven't heard otherwise. Last I knew, he was in one of those assisted living places, down the Shore somewhere. Jimmy Junior's out in Marion, not coming home anytime soon. How do you know Jimmy Peaches?”

“Through Wayne. He pointed us to some work up here a few years back. I got to know him a little.”

“He's old-school. Way before my time.”

“Do me a favor and see what you can find out.”

“I will. You know, there's a chance what happened to Stimmer has nothing to do with any of this. Could be an old beef he had. Could be something else entirely.”

“That's right,” she said. She finished the tea, got bills out for the check. “But do you really believe that?”

He didn't answer.

*   *   *

She was walking north on Broadway, heading toward the Chambers Street subway station, when her phone buzzed. A number she didn't recognize. She pressed
SEND
.