Wet Work: The Definitive Edition (15 page)

He smiled at the memory as he donned his terry-cloth robe and made for the bed. A bottle of Chivas Regal stood on the bedside table and next to it a glass that had hardly left his hand all evening. He poured a generous measure, closing his eyes as the scotch warmed his throat. Sitting on the bed, he glanced at his reflection in the dresser mirror. A tired drunk with a huge gut and a sad face framed by silver-gray hair stared back dispassionately. He smiled, but it came out as a frown.

“
To freedom,” he toasted, raising the glass, and took a sip.

His eye caught the framed photo of himself and Diane on the dressing table. The short brown dyed hair curling in at her chin, the wrinkled skin around the brown eyes, the pug nose, lips barely tinted with coral lipstick, blue L.L. Bean sweater.
Her
dressing table with its familiar pots of face cream, compact, mascara, hand lotion—all the things he’d have to dispose of if he was going to make out that she’d left him.

At least the notion of her leaving him was easily plausible. She’d left him twice before—once five years ago after delivering months of threats, and a second time after she’d found out about his short affair with that secretary, Monica DeVries, in the fall of 1991.

But bitterly afraid to be alone, Diane had always come back. And the more dependent upon him she’d become, the deeper his contempt for her had grown.

He got up and stood before the mirror, clutching the glass as if his life depended on it. He should stop drinking. Too much liquor had passed his lips over the past twenty-four hours. But he smiled at his reflection. He would never again have to wake up beside Diane’s drooping eyelids ever again. Plus, the bonus. He knew she hadn’t cut him out of her will, regardless of her threats, and the one million dollars in mutual fund-invested money—her money—would add a nice little cushion to the income from his medical practice. He was sick of Washington, and with Sondra’s yearning to return to Chicago, the money would help them buy a nice, large property in select surroundings. The Prospect Avenue brownstone was worth $900,000 at least. Add to that the price of Sondra’s property and they could live like royalty.

But what was he going to tell her? Would her love for him survive the truth he was a murderer?

Sondra Vaphides was a remarkable woman, the only member of the fairer sex he’d ever truly fallen in love with. An English lecturer at Georgetown University, they’d met at a cocktail party thrown by a Democratic Senator from New Jersey last summer. Auburn hair, long legs—she was a couple of inches taller than his 5’ 7”—and deep green eyes. A cut above the plump matrons and lonely secretaries with whom he usually indulged his lusts, he had trouble believing she was forty-one as Sandra looked ten years younger without the aid of a plastic surgeon. But even more exciting was her boldness, her obvious wanton desire for a man nearing fifty and carrying eighty pounds too much. Sondra had two sons, but they lived with their father, a sociologist, in Sacramento. Single, well-off, insatiable—she was free. She was everything he needed.

The whiskey warmed his throat before he realized he’d poured another generous shot. Grimacing, he tipped the rest back into the bottle. His hand shook, spilling the amber liquid over the table.

“
Damn.”

It was an antique that had belonged to his mother, the last of a pair.

He plodded to the bathroom to get a wash cloth to wipe up the spill before it stained.

All Sondra knew was Diane had left. He’d told her on the phone that morning when she’d called to say she was coming back from her business trip tonight instead of tomorrow as planned. She’d been delighted by the news.

He looked at the clock on the dresser: 12:27 A.M. he’d lost track of time. Sondra should be here soon if the train was running on schedule. He sighed, returning the washcloth to the bathroom.

The doorbell rang twice, startling him.

Sondra always rang twice on the few occasions she’d visited. A simple code but it had once averted a head-on collision with Diane.

He started for the stairs. Diane had left yesterday, he thought, rehearsing his story. She knew about Sondra and it was the last straw. She said she wanted a divorce. This time he believed she meant it.

Sondra smiled as he opened the door.

“
Is she—”

“
No, I haven’t heard from her since she left.”

She smiled like a happy child. “Darling, that’s wonderful news.”

Before he could close the door she was in his arms, her lips glued upon his as she dropped her pocketbook to the Aubusson rug. He held her tight, kissing her passionately as she traced her fingers through his hair.

“
The bedroom,” he said before she silenced him with another kiss.

Then she pulled away, taking him by the hand and leading him to the stairs. Her firm ass-cheeks seemed to glide beneath the green fabric of her skirt. He sighed.

“
I’ve been excited all day since you told me,” she said as she ascended the stairs, “but I don’t want to talk about it
now
.”

She tossed him a schoolgirl grin as they neared the top. He slapped her rump. She giggled, the sound filling his ears with sweet promise.

Neither of them heard the cellar door opening.

As soon as she entered the room, Sondra hastily threw her brown jacket across an armchair. She wore an almost transparent cream blouse, the curves of her low-cut bra clearly traceable under the sheer fabric.

“
I hope you didn’t wear that at your meeting.”

“
Changed on the train,” she said. “Especially for you.”

He pulled the covers from the bed.

The skirt was discarded next. She wore sheer silk stockings held in place by matching cream, lacy garters.

“
These too,” she added, seeing his eyes widen.

All thoughts of Diane vanished. His member stiffened beneath the terry robe. Her legs looked fabulous in the stockings.

“
Keep them on.”

She smiled and slipped her silk French silk panties down, kicking off her shoes as she made for the bed, gesturing to him. He threw off the robe. She spread her legs and he entered her, trembling with physical relief at her touch, almost shaking with the emotional strain he’d endured. Sondra groaned as he started to thrust his fleshy hips. He looked down. Her eyes were closed. She pulled him closer. He grunted. Neither heard the stairs creak.

The Scotch had made his system sluggish. Although hard, he would have to work at it, but Sondra wouldn’t mind. He smiled to himself. Instead of depleting his desire, murder was improving his performance.

Sondra grunted. “Deeper.”

He complied. She groaned, gripping his back with urgency as her hips pushed against his.

Then he saw stars as incredible pain exploded through the back of his head. Consciousness deserted him as he heard Sondra scream—

ALEXANDRIA.

7:04 A.M.

Nick’s head was leaden with sleep as he picked up the phone on the fourth ring.

“
Nick?”

It took a couple of seconds to register that it was Sandy. That snapped Nick awake quicker than a cold shower.

“
Yes, hon,” he mumbled, reaching for the alarm clock.

“
Didn’t you get my message? I waited up half the night for you to call.”

“
What?”

The clock showed 7.05. Shit, the alarm should have gone off twenty minutes ago. He must have forgotten to set it.

“
On the machine.”

“
No.” He paused. “Sorry. I got in late last night, went straight to bed.”

What time did I get in last night?
He couldn’t remember. Well after midnight.

Then it all came back to him in a vertiginous rush: stopping at the diner on his way back from Billy’s, stuffing down a burger and puking when he got in. He’d collapsed exhausted on the bed and saw now that he was fully clothed.

“
You okay?”

Man, I drank way too much.

(you’ve got a problem)

“
Yeah, yeah, I guess so. Just overslept.”

He swung his body upright, his foot kicking over a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels spilling liquor on the carpet.

Shit!
His head throbbed like someone was pounding out a drum solo on his skull.

“
How are you doing? How’s Mom?” he managed, righting the bottle and trying not to groan.

Sandy paused.

“
She’s not doing well,” she finally said. “The doctors don’t think she’s going to make it through the end of the week.”

Did I drink that?
He didn’t remember hitting the Jack when he came in. God, he couldn’t remember much at all.

“
Nick?”

He realized he’d tuned her out.

“
Sorry, hon. I didn’t get all that. The line’s bad,” he lied.

“
I said, she’s not going to make it past the weekend.” Her voice trembled, close to tears.

Looking at the bottle and the stain on the rug made him feel guilty. “Oh, hon…”

He couldn’t think what to say and the line hummed as Sandy waited for him to continue. “Sweetheart, I…”
Damn it!
Say something. Let her know you care. His mouth felt like a buzzard had crapped in it, his tongue thick and sticky.

“
Where were you?”

“
Went out to dinner with Tranksen and his wife. Celebrated our first day on the job,” he replied, trying to think fast.

“
Are you hung over?” Her voice had a suspicious edge to it.

“
No. No, not at all. Just tired.”

(
Liar!
)

“
We just had a quiet meal. Yesterday was tough.”

Could he tell her what had happened? No, not now. Later, once she was over her own trauma. It’d freak her out. Well, honey, I shot a man, stopped him from blowing off his face. Should have seen what he did to those kids though.

“
What happened?” The concern was back.

“
I…I saw some stuff… Hon, it’s not important, you don’t need to know.”

“
Nick, what’s wrong? You don’t sound good.”

“
I’m okay, really,” he lied again. His head throbbed like a demolition derby was slamming around inside. “I was sick last night. The hamburger I had must have been off.”

Sandy was silent.
She doesn’t believe me, she knows I went out and got ripped.

“
Look, I’m okay, really. Tell me about Mom.”

“
She looks so frail, so…so lost.” Sandy’s voice trembled.

Nick grimaced as he stood up.
Some comfort you are,
he thought
, some hero. Your wife calls and you lie your ass off.

“
I wish I could be there,” he said as he glanced at himself in the mirror. He looked like shit. His hair was a mess and his eyes bloodshot.

“
Yes.”

He heard her stifle a sob.

Man, I can’t deal with this.

“
Look, I’d love to talk, Hon, but I gotta go or I’ll be late.”

“
I know.”

Another pause, then: “I love you.”

“
And you. Call you later. Take care.”

“
Bye,” she said and he hung up.

Nick sat down on the bed. What a great start to the day. A hangover, Jack Daniels staining the rug, lying to Sandy. And he was late.

It was 7:11 a.m. on a Tuesday morning. And it sucked.

NEW YORK, BETH ISRAEL MEDICAL CENTER.

9:57 A.M.

Liz found a parking space on East 17th Street, two blocks from the hospital. The temperature had already climbed to the upper 70s, and by the time they reached First Avenue, both she and Sandy were sweating.

Three police cars and an ambulance were parked in front of the main entrance, and two foot patrolmen were stationed beside a blue wooden barrier on which was written POLICE LINE—DO NOT CROSS. A small crowd had gathered at one end of the block, held back by another barrier and two of the burliest cops Sandy had ever seen. She threw Liz a perplexed glance.

“
Don’t know,” her sister said. “Looks serious.”

They waited for the stoplight to turn red then walked over to join the crowd.

Liz pushed through the throng of bystanders and spoke to the nearest cop.

“
What’s happening?”

“
There’s been an incident,” he replied, his accent pure Bronx. “Please stand back.”

“
What kind of incident?” Sandy asked as she joined Liz.

“
I can’t say, ma’am.”

“
Look, officer, we’re here to visit our mother in the cancer ward,” Liz said.

The cop, a walking mountain of muscle and gut, turned to her, disinterest written large across his uneven features.

“
Sorry, lady. Nobody’s allowed in or out, that’s all I can say. You’ll just have to wait until the detective in charge gives the all-clear.”

He turned his back towards her, discouraging further questions.

Liz looked angrily at Sandy, mouthing the word “bastard” under her breath. Sandy shrugged, listening to a man behind them.

“…
took out two bodies about twenty minutes ago,” he was saying to an old, bespectacled woman with gray-streaked black hair. “But I don’t know.”

“
There were three before that,” added a young woman dressed in a lilac blouse and electric-blue skirt.

“
Someone said there was a shooting,” said a man in a tan suit.

“
What?” Someone asked at the back.

Liz leaned forward, tapping the cop on the shoulder. “Excuse me, officer.”