No Safe House (45 page)

“I heard them talking,” Jane said. “The ones who grabbed me. Vince had all kinds of money hidden in people’s houses.”

“Yeah. Last night, when Grace and Stuart got into that house, they ran into someone who was ripping Vince off. Someone who found out money was hidden there. I’m thinking now it might have been your kidnappers. They figured out one house where the money was hidden, but it was too much to figure out all the locations, so they grabbed you. Told Vince to clear everything out or they’d—you know.”

“Kill me.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, they nearly did,” she said. “Vince told me, fast, about what was going on. He says we have to get a whole bunch of guns out of your house?”

Jesus. I’d forgotten.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

“You know what he’s doing, don’t you?” she asked.

“I don’t want to think about that.”

“He’s protecting us. Both of us.”

“I could see him doing that for you,” I said. “Not so much for me.”

Jane glanced over. “He respects you.”

“What?”

“He does. He thinks you’re a good man. He always has. He’s just not that good at showing it.”

I wondered why I should care. Vince Fleming was a thug. A killer. Did I need the respect of a man like that? And yet, knowing this, I felt something that was hard to explain. Some small measure of pride.

Was it because I was a killer now, too? No, that was a totally different thing. What I did had nothing to do with the kinds of things Vince was capable of.

“Pull over,” I said suddenly.

Jane looked over. “What is it?”

“Pull over!”

She whipped the car to the side of the road and I threw open the door. I stumbled out, doubled over, and was sick. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten anything, but whatever it was, it was gone now.

I rested there a moment, hands on my knees, while the Beemer idled. I stood, took a couple of deep breaths, and got back into the car.

Jane continued on.

At the cemetery, we took everything from the trunk and put it behind the seats in Vince’s Ram pickup.

“We have to wipe it down,” Jane said to me.

I wasn’t sure at first what she was talking about. She’d grabbed two rags from the truck and handed me one. “The Beemer. Vince said to wipe it down. Fingerprints.”

She had the door open and was going over the steering wheel, gearshift, dashboard—just about everything—with the cloth. I did the passenger side of the front, then the backseat. Jane did the trunk lid and the door handles.

“The hood,” I said. “By the front. Vince put his hand on it to get back up.”

When he was looking at the man I shot
.

“Vince wasn’t so worried about his own prints,” Jane said. “Just us. But I’ll do it anyway.”

The last thing she did was wipe down the key fob itself, which she tossed into the car through an open window.

Then we were off in the truck, Jane behind the wheel again. “Let’s clear your place out,” she said.

I told her how to get there, and ten minutes later I was in the attic, lowering the box of Glocks and Wyatt’s gun through the hole to her as she stood on the ladder. I tamped the insulation back down, crawled back down through the hole, and slid the cover back into place.

I put the box behind the pickup’s seats with the other bags of loot.

“Tell me you’re not going to drive around with all that.”

“Not for long,” Jane said.

She stood solemnly before me, smiled weakly, and gave me a hug. She whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?” I said.

“That you and Grace—that you all got dragged into this. I’m sorry about that, but grateful, too. For helping Vince. For saving me. You know, those kinds of things.”

She squeezed.

“And for always believing in me, Teach,” Jane said, putting her lips to my cheek and giving me a light kiss.

I hugged her back.

“Are you going to be able to do this?” she asked.

“I’m gonna give it my best shot.”

“All you have to do is play dumb.”

I almost smiled. “I should be able to do that.”

“It’ll blow over. It will.”

“Tell Vince I’ll try,” I said.

She gave me a pitying smile. “You don’t get it. We’re never going to see him again.”

I watched her get into the pickup, back out of the drive, and head up the street. When she’d turned the corner, I went back into the house, through the hall, and into the kitchen.

I went to the phone, picked up the receiver, and entered Cynthia’s number.

She answered on the first ring.

“Terry?”

“Come home,” I said.

“Well,” Cynthia said. “We’ve kind of got a situation going on here.”

CYNTHIA
put her phone away.

Nathaniel was still insisting that his real name was not Duggan, that he was not a private detective, and that he was not trying to find fingerprints on that blue vase that was sitting on top of his dresser.

“What about the two hundred thousand?” Barney asked. “You got that, too? Did Eli give that to you? The little bastard. I gave him some work fixing up some of my other apartments, took pity on the little shit when I found out he didn’t have a place to stay. But the little bastard was watching me, figured out where I kept my money. Thirty years! Thirty years it took me to save that much.” He gazed longingly at the vase. “But what mattered most was getting back Charlotte. I never should have told Eli about her.”

Grace spoke, in little more than a whisper. “Is that … an urn?”

Barney looked at her, his eyes softening. “It’s Charlotte. We were going to be married. I had an accident, I was laid up a long
time, and my best friend—my best friend!—went after her while I was recovering. The fucker. Won her away from me, married her. She was the only one I ever loved.”

“I don’t understand,” Cynthia said. “If she married this other man, how could you have ended up with her ashes?”

“Because I stole them,” he said, and smiled proudly. “When Charlotte passed away two years ago, I went to the service, heard that she’d been cremated. A couple of days later I was driving past the funeral home, saw Quayle coming out the front door, a package in his arms. I knew what it had to be. He got in his car and I followed him. He stopped along the way, went into a bar to deal with his grief.” Barney laughed. “I smashed the window of his car and took Charlotte back. If I couldn’t keep him from having her when she was alive, I could have her as she enjoyed her eternal rest.”

“This is fucked,” Grace said.

Barney walked slowly, almost reverently, into the bedroom and took the vase gently in his hands, cradled it in the crook of his arm as though it were a newborn. He worked the duct tape off the cover, peered briefly inside, appeared pleased by what he saw, and reapplied the tape.

“She hasn’t been disturbed,” he said.

Nathaniel, who’d been in such a rush to get out of there, appeared transfixed by these developments. He stood alongside Cynthia and Grace, watching the man reunite with the remains of the woman he loved.

Barney, clutching the urn, trained his eyes on Braithwaite.

“I want to know how you ended up with this.”

“I’ve got no fucking idea how that got here.”

“I do,” Grace said, and looked at Braithwaite. “And just so you know, I never actually saw you, so you don’t have to worry about trying to kill me or anything, but it really must have been you.”

“Must have been me
what
?”

“Who was in the Cummings house. You got the money, and you grabbed that … that thing, too. And killed Stuart.”

“No,” he said.

“And that case you didn’t want me touching—that’s the money, right?”

Barney came out of the bedroom, still watching Nathaniel. “I want my money, too. If you don’t return it, I know someone who’ll find a way to get it out of you.”

With one free hand, he reached into his pocket for his cell. Hit a couple of buttons and put the phone to his ear. “Come on, pick up, pick up,” he said under his breath. Then: “Reggie, I found it. It’s here. In one of my buildings. I don’t know how, but it’s here. I’ve found her. Call me when you get this.”

He put the phone away. “You’d be smarter to deal with me, instead of her.”

“Whoever Reggie is can kiss my ass,” Braithwaite said, picking up his two last bags. “I don’t know what the fuck is playing out here or what it is you think I did, but I’m gone.”

He turned and headed for the hallway.

“You come back here, you bastard!” Barney said, pushing past Cynthia and Grace, hugging the urn to his chest, his arms encircling it.

By the time Barney reached the top of the stairs, Braithwaite was already running out the front door, not bothering to close it. Seconds later, he could be heard getting into his Caddy, turning the ignition.

“Come back here! Come back!” Barney shouted.

He started down the stairs, but he couldn’t race down them the way Nathaniel had. Four steps down, he stumbled. He took one arm from around the urn and reached out instinctively for the handrail, but it was not there. His hand brushed across the bare wall, catching nothing, and he tumbled forward.

Cynthia watched from above as Barney pitched headlong down the stairs, then heard the sound of the urn shattering beneath him as he slid down several steps on his belly.

Seconds after that, weeping.

Cynthia turned around and put her arm around Grace. “I’m going to call your father back, tell him we’re on our way.”

VINCE
did it quickly.

Went back downstairs. Three people, three shots.

Made them count.

Did them all with the same gun that had been used to shoot Joseph in the garage.

No one left to talk now.

He went back up to the kitchen, looked for where Reggie and Wyatt kept their liquor, and stumbled upon a bottle of Royal Lochnagar scotch.

“That’ll do,” he said to himself.

He didn’t bother looking for a glass. He opened the bottle and drank straight from it.

There were things he could do, he thought, but none particularly appealed to him. That small matter of the missing money from the Cummings house didn’t seem like such a big deal anymore.

He could go after Bert. Track him down. Vince didn’t figure he’d be that hard to find, but really, did it matter?

And then there was Braithwaite, the goddamn dog walker. He’d given Bert and Gordie the slip, got Gordie killed. Vince figured
Braithwaite was on the run now, too. He might be trickier to find. Vince didn’t know his habits, didn’t know who his friends were. But with enough effort, he believed he could hunt Braithwaite down.

But the hell with it. What was the point?

He’d rather drink this scotch.

Finally, there was the matter of Eldon. His body, still up there in his apartment. There was no one left to help Vince deal with that matter. If it was to get done, he’d have to do it himself.

Didn’t have the energy. He could feel the cancer eating away at him these last twenty-four hours.

Too bad about Eldon, and his boy.

“Damn,” Vince said under his breath.

He wondered whether he should do it right here. Put the gun in his mouth, pull the trigger, be done with it.

Jane was free. And she was well-fixed, too. He’d made it clear what he wanted her to do. Get rid of the drugs, guns, anything like that. Stuff that could be traced, identified. Dump it in the Housatonic. But keep the cash. Keep it all. Get yourself a safe-deposit box, in an actual bank.

Maybe take off for a while. Go to Europe. Take that asshole musician with you. Live it up. Have the life you deserve. Let this be my gift to you, my way of saying sorry for everything. For not being there for your mom when she needed me. And for all the other shit.

When the folks who’d left money with him learned what had happened—and they would, Vince was sure of that—and realized the only person who knew where their loot could be found was dead, what the hell could they do? Invade every house in Milford?

They’d have to write it off. That’s what they’d have to do.

He set the bottle down on the counter. He’d made a decision. He really didn’t want to do it here. He’d take Logan’s SUV, drive back down to his beach house, and do it there. Maybe take his shoes and socks off and walk a few feet out into the sound, feel the water lapping about his ankles.

Yeah, that’d be nice.

Vince had to go back downstairs to find the keys on Logan’s body. Coming back up was a struggle. It took everything he had.

He left the house with only one gun—the Glock Terry Archer had found in his attic—as he went back into the garage. He went over to the garage door button, pressed it to open.

The door slowly rose.

There was a car parked across the end of the driveway. A plain black Ford sedan. An unmarked police car, Vince figured.

And that woman standing in the middle of the drive, looking into the garage, was a cop, he bet.

A black woman, stocky, about five-three or so. She had a gun in her hand, too. Both her hands, actually. She had her arms straight out and that gun pointed straight at him.

“Police!” she said.

Vince just stood there. With the BMW out of the garage, she’d be able to see Joseph’s body on the floor behind him.

“Drop your weapon!” she shouted.

He glanced down at the end of his arm, saw the gun, but did not let go. He looked back up and said, “I think I know you.”

“Sir, put down your weapon.”

“I remember you asking questions years ago, back when I got shot. Wedmore, right?”

“Yes, sir, I am Detective Rona Wedmore, and I am telling you, drop your weapon.”

But Vince held on to it.

“There’s quite a mess in here,” he said. “This guy behind me, and three more in the basement. I did it. Plus a guy who worked for me. Eldon Koch. You’ll find him sooner or later. And his boy—”

“Drop it!”

Would have been nicer standing on the beach when it happened. But this would do just fine.

Vince raised the gun, fast. Pointed it right at her.

Didn’t even have his finger on the trigger.