Kings of Midnight (6 page)

There was a local phone book in the desk drawer. She got the number of a car rental agency, made the call. It would feel better to be on the move. There were plans to be made, to try to get her life back to where it had been. It would take time. And there was never enough of that.

*   *   *

She left Baltimore in a Ford Fusion that afternoon, headed up I-95. She stopped in Wilmington, Delaware, and used her ID to rent safe deposit boxes at two different downtown banks. She'd bought a shoulder bag, used it to carry banded cash into the banks. In each box, she left $20,000.

She did the same at three banks in Philadelphia, then crossed the bridge into Jersey, hit two banks in Camden, two more in Trenton. It was dark by the time she got on the New Jersey Turnpike, headed north, wipers on against the drizzling rain. She had $160,000 left.

It felt good to be on the road again, moving forward, seeding cash along the way. The first steps of a new life. The rest of the money she would try to launder, keep fluid. The money in the safe boxes was for emergencies.

She tuned in a classical station. “Venus” from Holst's
The Planets
came through the speakers. It was one of the first classical CDs she'd ever bought, knew almost every note of it by heart. When she'd left New York, she'd had to leave all her music behind as well, except for what was on her laptop. Once she got settled, she'd buy more. Maybe a book, too, one of those classical guides for beginners. She could recognize favorite pieces, but beyond that she was lost.

She turned up the volume. Music filled the car, calmed her.

The rain was coming down harder now, slashing through her headlight beams, the wipers clicking rhythmically. Her hips ached, another souvenir from Connecticut, when she been clipped by a car driven by the man she'd killed. But despite the weather, despite her fatigue, somehow it all felt right. The night, the road, the music. It felt like going home.

FIVE

When they reached the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-fourth Street, Crissa told the cabdriver to pull over. They were five blocks short of the address she'd given him. He steered into the loading zone in front of the building, horns sounding behind him. She looked up at Rathka's office window, twelve stories above, and wondered if anyone beside Rathka was waiting there for her.

“Miss, I can't stay here,” the driver said.

She paid him, got out. Wind was whistling down Fifth, light rain in the air. The weight of the shoulder bag pulled at her. Inside was $150,000 in cash. She'd left the other $10,000 in the trunk of the Fusion, in a parking garage downtown.

Her first time back in the city in more than three months. Rathka had given her the all-clear over the phone, but there was still the chance of a setup. Enough pressure would turn him. He had a wife, children, grandchildren, a flourishing practice. Too much to lose.

Nothing for it, though. She was here now, had nowhere else to go. She had to trust him.

When the elevator doors opened on the twelfth floor, Monique was waiting for her. She escorted her through an outer office, two of the chairs there occupied. Crissa scanned faces as she went past. A heavy black woman and a hard-looking man in his fifties, with long gray hair and a tattoo on the back of his neck. Neither of them looked much like law.

Monique led her down a hallway and into a conference room with a big oak table, law books lining the walls. Watery gray light came through the window blinds. There was a multiline phone in the center of the table.

“Can I get you something while you're waiting?” Monique said. “Coffee, tea, water?”

“Some water maybe.”

There was a tray with pitcher and glasses on a sideboard. Monique brought it over to the table.

“Thanks,” Crissa said. She set the shoulder bag on the table, hung her leather car coat on a chair.

“He shouldn't be long,” Monique said. “He's with another client, but they're finishing up.”

When she left, Crissa knelt, looked up under the table for wires, microphones. Nothing. She turned the phone over, checked the screws on the bottom for fresh marks. They were clear.

At the window, she parted the blinds, looked down at the traffic. She didn't like being up this high, not having an easy escape route.

She was still at the window when Rathka came in.

“Ms. Hendryx. So good to see you again. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

He was thinner than the last time she'd seen him. Late fifties but looking older. More lines around the eyes. Dark three-piece, white shirt, red club tie.

“Walt,” she said.

“Come on, let's sit down.” He set a yellow legal pad on the table. “Monique's making the call. She'll buzz us when they're ready.”

He poured water into a glass, ice cubes clinking in the pitcher.

“You look good,” he said. “I was worried.”

“Sorry for that complication.”

They sat across from each other. He put the glass in front of her on a paper napkin.

“Any more fallout?” she said.

He shook his head, poured for himself. “A shot in the dark, as I said over the phone. They had nothing. I answered their questions politely, and sent them packing.”

“Any feds?”

“Just locals. NYPD and Connecticut staties. Felt like there was some friction between them too. The lieutenant from Connecticut seemed to be the driving force. Very focused. But I think the city boys were looking at it as a waste of their time.”

“This lieutenant, you get a name?”

He nodded, took a business card from a vest pocket, handed it over. It was blue and white, with the Connecticut state police icon in the upper right-hand corner. In embossed type, it read
LT. VINCENT GAITANO, MAJOR CRIMES UNIT.
There was an address, phone and fax numbers, e-mail.

“I'll keep this, if it's okay,” she said.

“Be my guest. I never heard from him again, so I'm not overly concerned.”

He looked at the shoulder bag, raised an eyebrow. She slid it toward him.

“I'm not sure I want to look in there,” he said. “What condition is it in?”

“As found.”

“That's not good.”

“Couldn't be helped. Someone down there was supposed to take care of it for me. He ran into trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“As bad as it gets.”

“That makes me even more reluctant to look.”

“It's clean, as far as it goes. Can't be traced.”

“You hope.”

“If you don't want to deal with it, I understand. But I need to turn some of it around, to live on.”

“I see, but…”

“There's more I've put away,” she said. “I can get at it if I have to. But I need this as working capital, so I want to make sure it's clean. I've got nothing up here anymore.”

“I understand. But maybe this isn't the best place for starting over.”

“I don't plan to stick around. But there's no one else I can trust anymore with this. Except you.”

He looked at the shoulder bag.

“A year ago, you wouldn't have thought twice about taking that money,” she said.

“I'm sorry. A year ago, things were different.”

The phone began to buzz. A green light blinked.

“Here we go,” he said.

He picked up the receiver, listened.

“That's right,” he said. “For Wayne Boudreaux. This is his attorney, Walter Rathka.” A pause. “Certainly. Yes, It's cleared with all of them. Check your computer. I'll wait.”

He looked at her, raised his eyebrows in a gesture of exasperation.

“Yes,” he said into the phone. “I'm still here. Thank you.”

Another wait. Then he said, “Wayne? This is Walt Rathka in New York. Yes, we're secure here. Are things okay on your end?”

He listened, nodded, said, “Hold on,” and passed the receiver to her.

She met his eyes, took the phone, raised it to her ear.

Silence at first, then, through the phone, “Hey, darlin'.”

She closed her eyes. “Hey, babe.”

“I've been worried about you.” His voice weaker, older.

“I'm fine,” she said. “There was some trouble, but it's over.”

“And you're okay?”

“Yes. I've wanted to get down to see you, but I couldn't.”

“I know. Rathka told me. Don't worry about it, Red. It's better this way.”

“No, it's not.” She looked at the tattoo on the inside of her left wrist, the Chinese character for “perseverance.” Wayne had the same on his own wrist.

“Remember what I told you the last time you were here,” he said. “About moving on.”

“No chance of that. We're going to get you out of there. Soon. You're short for the door.”

When he didn't respond, she said, “Wayne? Are you all right?”

He coughed. “I'm fine, girl. Fine as can be. For an old man.”

“Don't start that again. You're not old.”

“In here I am. And older every day.”

“You don't sound well.”

“I've been under the weather a little, but I'm good.”

“I'm not convinced.”

“Forget about me. You get down to see that little girl?”

“Yes.”

“Everything okay there?”

“Yes,” she said. “She's good.”

She had an image of Maddie, her daughter, the last time she'd seen her. At a Texas playground, laughing and running, then leaping into the arms of Crissa's cousin Leah, the woman she knew as her mother. The memory hurt.

“You need to work that out,” he said. “Get her back.”

“I will, someday.”

He began to cough again, deep and wet.

“You're sick,” she said. “Have you seen a doctor there?”

“Depends how you define doctor. Ones here barely qualify.”

“I'm worried about you.”

“Don't be.”

“When you get out, I'll have doctors ready. The best there is. A place to live, too, for both of us.”

“That sounds good.” His voice flat.

“Talk to me, babe. What aren't you telling me?”

“I'm glad you could call,” he said. “It's good to hear your voice.”

“You'll be seeing me soon.”

“Maybe. But if not, I want you to know I love you. Always did. Always will.”

She blinked, felt water come to her eyes. Rathka got up, stood at the window, looking out.

“Soon you can tell me that in person,” she said.

“Just in case things don't work out that way, you should know there's not a minute in here I can't close my eyes, see your face.”

“I'm going down there for the hearing. I want to be around when it happens.”

“No need for that.”

“I want to be there.”

“Worry about yourself. That's what matters now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have to go,” he said. It was the way he always did it. Ending things on his own time. Not letting someone else do it, take something away from him.

“I love you,” she said.

“Look after yourself, Red. That's what I want.”

Clicks on the line. A dial tone sounded in her ear.

She held the receiver out. Rathka took it, replaced it in the cradle.

“Something's going on down there,” she said. “Something he's not telling me.”

Rathka sat again, didn't meet her eyes.

“I need to know,” she said.

He sat back. “All the indicators I'm getting are positive. There are already three letters of recommendation on file. Your money's being put to good use. Don't doubt that.”

“It better be.”

“I'm confident they'll do everything possible. But I'm afraid there are some situations where we have to accept our powerlessness after a certain point. This is one of them.”

“What are you leaving out?”

“I had my colleague down there talk to one of the guards, off the record,” he said. “The guard said Wayne's been having issues with another inmate. You'll remember there was a fight last year.”

“Who's the inmate?”

“Does it matter? Wayne's older than most of them in there right now. Some probably see him as an easy target. And you know Wayne, he doesn't know when to back down.”

“Why should he? Is this a gang thing?”

“Isn't everything in prison?”

“Whites or Mexicans?”

“White. Aryans.”

“Wayne never had much use for them. How come he hasn't been moved to another unit?”

“They offered protective custody, but he refused. That guard's keeping an eye on him, though. He'll keep us informed, try to watch out for him if he gets in another jam.”

“How much is that costing?”

“It came up while you were away, so I went ahead. Not much. Ten grand so far. Just enough to keep the pump primed, give us some eyes and ears down there. I thought it was worth it.”

“It was. I owe you.”

“I used what I had on hand of yours. It'll all balance out in the end.”

She nodded at the shoulder bag. “What about that?”

He exhaled. “I don't know. I could put it in a safe here, keep it for you.”

She shook her head. “I need it liquid. With a fast turnover. I'll be living off it.”

“Normally, I'd take it, make an investment in one of our construction projects. Like the deal we had in Alabama with the strip mall. But I don't know if that's a good idea right now. To be honest, having those cops poking around this office, making noises about ethics committees … It put the fear of God into me.”

“I can see that.”

“I don't know what to tell you.”

“Maybe you know somebody who knows somebody,” she said. “Even if you can't vouch for them.”

“This isn't good,” he said. “This is no way to do business.”

“I need your help.”

He sighed, looked at her. Horns sounded in the street below.