One False Move (5 page)

The Saab’s engine wanted to race and Andrew considered cutting the A/C to relieve it. Instead, he blasted two of the vents directly in his face and sat back. He needed to relax. His shoulder ached. It constantly ached. And today the back of his head felt as if it would explode at any second. Probably the high blood pressure.

He glanced in the rearview mirror again, this time taking note of the blue eyes staring back from behind the wire-rim glasses. The glasses were new, yet another sign of the toll his newfound success had taken. The result of too many hours spent in front of a computer screen. Recently, his eyes had begun to remind him of his father’s, almost the exact blue, chameleon—quick to change with his mood or the color of his shirt.

Andrew remembered that his father’s eyes had grown hard and cold in response to the betrayal, pain and disappointment he felt he had been dealt. There was always some reason he wasn’t able to succeed, something or someone who kept him from getting what he deserved. Life wasn’t fair. That seemed to be his father’s motto. He believed that just when you got a taste of success, a sample of happiness, it could all be ripped away.

Andrew had always promised himself he’d never be like that, and yet when Nora left he’d felt a sense of betrayal. She left when he was most vulnerable, before he had even gotten a publishing contract, before he had anything concrete in hand that he could promise or offer her. But he couldn’t be angry with Nora. He couldn’t blame her. It was his fault. Andrew wondered if he was destined to sabotage any success and happiness that came his way. Because like his father, he worried that all of it could be taken away as quickly as it had come. Is that what his writer’s block was about? Was it just another way to sabotage the success he was amassing as a novelist?

“Be careful what you wish for,” his father would often warn, usually after several whiskeys, “you might get it, only it won’t look anything like you thought it should.”

Andrew shook his head and stole one more glance in the mirror. He was not his father. He had spent a lifetime making sure of that, and yet here were his father’s eyes, staring at him, warning him again.

10:03 a.m.

He was waiting when Melanie drove into the parking lot. Her stomach took a slow nosedive when she saw him. She knew how much Jared hated to wait. He sat in one of the wooden rocking chairs, the last in a row that lined the restaurant’s deck.

She glanced at her wristwatch. She was on time. Okay, maybe a minute late, but only a minute at the most. And even though he sat slouched, feet propped on the handrail, as though content enough to catch a nap, Melanie knew he would be pissed. Pissed that she wasn’t the one waiting for him. That she hadn’t been anxious and excited, ready to jump when he told her to. In other words, that she wasn’t the same little girl who looked up to her big brother, constantly wanting to please him. That girl would have been here on time. No, that girl would have been here early.

He nodded at her without really looking at her. There was something different about him. Something Melanie wasn’t prepared for. He was smiling, almost a grin, which made things worse. Jared smiled only for a couple of reasons, none of them because he was happy. This smile was his “I have something over you now” smile. If Melanie had had any appetite left—which she didn’t—it would be gone for sure.

He dropped his feet one by one as if he was in no big hurry, each an exaggerated plop against the deck’s wood floor. Then he pushed himself out of the rocking chair, scooping up the backpack that Melanie only now noticed.

“That’s Charlie’s,” she said in place of a greeting, pointing to the worn purple backpack, its corners scarred with black-and-white marks. She’d recognize that ratty old thing anywhere. Charlie could lift a new one—hell, he could lift a dozen new ones—and, yet, the boy carried this thing around like that pathetic Charlie Brown character with his worn-out security blanket. Because that’s what it was to Charlie. Her son, who wasn’t scared of anything or anyone, carried around this pathetic old canvas bag like it was his Superman cape, drawing strength from its simple presence. “Is he here?” she asked, looking around, but not seeing Charlie’s pickup in the parking lot.

“No,” Jared told her, the smile already gone as though he didn’t feel the need to explain. “But he will be.”

Melanie watched him sling the backpack over his shoulder with exaggerated purpose, as if to reinforce the fact that Charlie would eventually show up. Sort of like a ransom. Ransom? That was silly. Why in the world would she even think such a thing? Charlie was crazy about his uncle Jared. He looked up to him like a father figure. Even during Jared’s five years in prison, it was Charlie who visited when Melanie couldn’t make herself go to the prison. Instead she had kept in touch via phone calls and letters. Melanie didn’t mind that Charlie wanted to visit. She knew he needed a man in his life to learn how to be a man. And his uncle Jared, despite what their mother called his “unfortunate incarceration,” was a better mentor for Charlie than Charlie’s own deadbeat father. There was a bond between Charlie and Jared that sometimes drove her crazy.

“He doesn’t go anywhere without that thing,” she said, not taking Jared’s hint and letting the subject drop. It bothered her. She couldn’t believe Charlie would have left it willingly, not even with Jared. It contained an odd assortment of what Charlie called his “valuables.” “Did he say where he was going?”

“He’s running an errand for me.”

Jared walked into the restaurant ahead of her, not bothering to hold the door open. A gray-haired man on his way out with his hunched-over wife shot Jared a nasty look. It was a wasted effort. Jared didn’t even notice. Melanie ignored them, too. Actually, it didn’t bother her. She didn’t need any man holding a door open for her.

No, what bothered her more was that Jared wasn’t telling her something. He was shutting her out again. He had been like this since he came back, quiet, almost secretive, as if he was holding something back.

The hostess led them to a table in the middle, but Jared continued on to a booth in the corner by the window. Before the woman even noticed, he was tossing the backpack against the wall and sliding in after it.

“This one’s not taken, is it?” He was already unwrapping the paper napkin and setting out his silverware while the poor hostess simply stared at him.

“No, that one’s not taken, but we—”

“Great. Could we have some menus?” He squinted at her name tag. “Annette?” Then he held out his hand for the menus. Annette immediately complied, a rush of crimson crawling up her neck from her white lace collar, coloring her cheeks.

“I’ll send your waitress over to get your order.”

“That’d be just fantastic, Annette.”

Melanie slid into the other side of the booth, giving the woman only a glance while examining Jared’s smirk. What she once considered to be her brother’s charm now seemed like sarcasm. Ever since they were kids, Jared would call strangers by their names, catching them off guard by reading their name tags that Melanie never noticed. It had always seemed so cool, so adult, even polite and friendly. Maybe she was only imagining that he sounded sarcastic.

What was her problem? Why was she doing this, second-guessing things? She and Jared were blood. They were family. They had a bond, held together by promises and secrets. They had vowed long ago to always be there for each other, and Melanie had broken that promise. Not only that, she had let him down when he needed her most. If she had only been able to provide him with an alibi he would never have had to waste five years of his life in prison. She owed him. That’s exactly what she told herself as Jared closed his menu, ready to order, waiting once again. He grabbed his fork and began cleaning his fingernails with the prongs. At least she wasn’t the one keeping him waiting this time.

Suddenly Jared broke out in a grin. Not at Melanie, but at someone over her shoulder. She turned, expecting to see a waitress, but instead saw Charlie making his way through the maze of tables. He bumped into someone and excused himself, but then turned and rolled his eyes at Jared as if the elderly man had been in Charlie’s way and it was his own fault for getting bumped.

Somehow her son seemed to lose his manners in Jared’s company, eager to please his mentor and instinctively knowing just how to do that. He annoyed her when he acted like some bumbling idiot, a puppy doing tricks for its owner. He was above that. Or he should be. Melanie would never call Charlie brilliant but the boy was smart, sometimes too smart, learning with ease the trade of manipulation. That red hair, spiked in all directions, along with those irresistible freckles and that boyish grin allowed him to get away with just about anything. Now if only someone could teach him how to dress. She certainly had not succeeded, because here he was wearing those baggy jeans she wished he would throw out and the black T-shirt that read, What if the hokeypokey is really what it’s all about?

Melanie hadn’t even noticed that he had something tucked under his arm until he got to their table. She might not have noticed it at all except that Charlie stood it in front of them on the table, grinning from ear to ear.

“Here you go,” Charlie said, presenting the object to Jared as if he were Indiana Jones delivering some gold treasure he had seized by outrunning violent tribesmen and Nazi henchmen. “You said you needed one more. Whadya do with the one I gave you yesterday?”

Melanie couldn’t believe it. Was this the important errand Jared had sent Charlie on? What the hell were the two of them up to? Was it Jared’s way of testing Charlie’s loyalty? What stupid, immature game were they playing? Because why else would Jared encourage her son’s obsession with stealing ugly ceramic gnomes from people’s front yards?

10:24 a.m.
Logan Hotel

Max Kramer stopped to catch his breath at the fourth-floor landing of the Logan. Sweat poured down his forehead, dripping off his chin. The son-of-a-bitching apartment building had no air-conditioning. What did he expect of a place that had a security door held open with a trash can? The elevator didn’t work. No surprise. And if that wasn’t enough, Carrie Ann Comstock lived on the sixth floor.

He took off his suit jacket, threw it over his arm and loosened his tie. He had just put on the crisply pressed suit and already it felt like a wrinkled wet rag. He swatted at a swarm of flies that had followed him in from the street. Maybe he was getting too old to be meeting clients at their houses. He pulled himself up the narrow flight of stairs and stopped again. This time he took a deep breath and almost started gagging.

“Good God!”

Someone on the fifth floor had burned their breakfast. It smelled like scorched milk mixed with something sour, something that reminded him of vomit. He held his breath and hurried up the last flight, pushing through the filthy, heavy door and letting it slam behind him.

He tried wiping the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his shirt and slapped at the persistent flies. He hated feeling damp and sticky, unclean. He prided himself in looking pressed and polished. He kept remembering how good he looked on those videotapes he had made of his recent interviews. Thanks to Jared Barnett he had a whole library of videotapes.

He buttoned his collar and straightened his tie. He took one more swat at the flies then knocked on the door of apartment 615. The number six clung by a loose nail and had swung upside down so that it looked like apartment 915.

A grumble came from the other side of the door. He stepped back and waited for the succession of clicks as the locks were undone. The door opened a couple of inches, limited by the chain that held it. Max wanted to shake his head and restrained himself from rolling his eyes. In this building a door chain was about as worthless as a flyswatter.

“Whadya want?”

Max recognized the woman’s raspy voice and knew that it was, no doubt, the result of her prolonged usage of crack cocaine, not cigarettes.

“I’m Max Kramer. Are you Carrie Ann Comstock?”

“Yeah, so whadya want?”

“Actually, Carrie Ann, you called me.”

“I did?” She shoved one eye to the crack and gave him a once-over.

“You said your friend Heather Fischer recommended me to represent you.”

“She did?”

“I just spoke to you on the phone last week. I told you I’d stop by on Wednesday. Today’s Wednesday.”

“Oh, right. You’re the lawyer guy. Geez! Where’s my fuckin’ brain today?” She slammed the door. He heard the rattle of the chain, then she opened the door. “Come on in.”

Max stepped in slowly, but the apartment wasn’t bad. If he hadn’t had to endure the hot, smelly, fly-infested climb, he might have called it cozy.

She offered him a seat in what had to be her favorite chair. It faced the TV set and had a small fan blowing directly on it. He declined, insisting she sit, letting her think that he was being polite when he simply liked the feeling of control standing gave him.

“I checked all the charges, Ms. Comstock. With the crack cocaine charge alone you’re in some pretty serious trouble.”

Her head went down as though she was ready to be punished. He tried to determine how old she was. Sometimes with crack whores it was difficult to tell. If the crack didn’t whither their skin, their horrendous nutritional habits did. He decided she might actually be pretty if she cleaned up and put on ten pounds. As for her age, he guessed that Carrie Ann was maybe twenty-five or twenty-six. Her rap sheet had only estimated it. He wondered if Carrie Ann even remembered how old she was.

“I can help you, but we need something you can bargain with. You understand what I’m saying?”

He knew if she was a friend of Heather’s she would understand. She looked up at him, and yes, there was already a look of recognition and relief in her bloodshot eyes. That was one thing he liked about his clientele. They could be very grateful to anyone who offered help. They were so used to everyone giving up on them—family, friends, even the justice system.