Thirty-Eight
Alicia went to her apartment door but did not open it.
“Who is it?”
“Catherine Chartwell sent me.”
She put her eye to the peephole, saw a man standing there. Hard to get a good look at someone that way, but he was not that
imposing a figure. Balding, glasses, no more than five six, probably late fifties.
Alicia felt a wave of fear coupled with anger. The fear was easy enough to explain. She’d been followed, found out. She hadn’t
spotted anyone following her, and now she was kicking herself. And the anger? That box filled with magazines instead of cash
was more than enough to raise her hackles.
“She fucked me over,” Alicia said through the door.
“I’m here to make that right,” the man said.
“Unless you’ve got the cash on you, forget it.”
“Did you really think she’d leave that kind of money in a dumpster? All it would take is one homeless guy to find it before
you got there. Makes more sense to deliver it in person.”
Alicia wasn’t so sure. “I’m not buying it.”
“Very well,” he said and went quiet.
Alicia looked through the peephole again. He was gone.
Shit.
What if he had come with the cash? Was she going to let him walk away? No, it was a trick. Don’t take the bait. Let him go.
What should she do? Call Catherine, tell her all bets were off, she was calling the police, telling them everything? Scare the shit out of her, tell her if she didn’t come up with the money, right now, then—
Maybe that was why the guy’d been at her door. Catherine knew she had no choice but to pay up and had sent this shmuck to settle things.
Alicia unlocked it, slipped off the chain, and—
The door burst open, knocking her off her feet and sending her onto the floor on her ass. The man was in the room in less
than a second, the door closed a second after that.
He loomed over her, looked down, and said, “We should talk.”
“Yeah, sure,” she said, moving crablike on her back, farther into the room.
“Get up.”
Alicia got to her feet. With his foot, Crane pulled a chair away from the table in the kitchen nook and nodded, inviting her
to take a seat. She sat. He glanced at the now empty box, the periodicals and catalogs scattered across the table. Yellow-spined
copies of National Geographic, a thick catalog from Restoration Hardware. Something about that one caught Crane’s eye.
He lifted out the catalog, saw stamped right there on the cover for all to see, Catherine’s name and address.
Crane closed his eyes for a moment and sighed.
Alicia, mustering some false bravado, said, “You better have the money on you, or get it here, ASAP.”
Crane eyed her as a cat might look at a mouse. “First, I need the answers to some questions.”
“Like what? If I want it in twenties or hundreds?”
Crane gave her a sly smile. “Your actions insinuate that Mrs. Chartwell has something to hide.”
“Yeah, well, her wanting to pay me off is kind of a clue, isn’t it?”
“What is it you think she’s done?”
“I don’t think. I know.” She grinned. “I know it like I know you’re a four-eyed fuck face.”
“Convince me.”
“Maybe I should call the cops and convince them.”
Crane smiled. “Go ahead.”
She made no move to get out her phone.
Another smile. “In a little too deep, aren’t you?” He gave her a long, contemplative look, narrowed his eyes and asked, “How
much did he tell you?”
Her eyes danced. “Who? About what?”
He used his foot again to pull the chair opposite her out and sat. “How do you know Holden? And spare me the obfuscation.
It tries my patience.”
Her mouth was dry. “I need some water.”
He raised a hand toward the sink. She got up, found a glass, ran some water into it from the tap, and sat back down. She took
a long sip and said, “Rehab.”
“Go on.”
“In the group, Holden said stuff about covering up for someone, that it fucked him up. Something that happened a long time
ago.”
Crane ran his tongue over his upper teeth. “So he gave the whole group the details?”
She shook her head. “No. But he said enough that I got curious. The timing, some of what he said, it lined up with what happened
to my aunt.”
Crane nodded very slowly. “And your aunt. Evelyn Corby?”
She was unable to hide her surprise. “Yes.”
“Holden told you his mother had killed her.”
Another head shake. “Not exactly. I told him I had an aunt that got murdered but changed the name and circumstances. But we
still had kind of a bond, and then he told me what happened. Pretty much all of it.” She tried to puff herself up. “And if
she doesn’t want me telling anyone, she needs to come up with the money she promised. She owes me. She ruined my life.”
Crane said nothing.
“Holden saw it all. Saw his mom shoot her. Saw his dad and I’m guessing you take her away. So Brent had it coming, too, if
you ask me.”
“The gun,” Crane said.
“Huh?”
“Did Holden tell you anything about the gun?”
“He found it, in the pond. Fishing. Kept it, cleaned it up, got it to work.”
“It worked, but you killed the wrong person.”
“Whoa, whoa,” she said, raising her palms.
“What, you meant to kill that other woman?” Crane gave her a dismissive shake of the head. “That must have been a shock, finding out it wasn’t
Catherine. You’d never seen her before, had you? Made an assumption. Here’s what I’d like to know. How’d you get Brent to
blow his brains out? You drug him? Knock him out or something? Whatever you did, my hat’s off to you. Cops bought it.”
“Listen—”
“Did using the same gun make it special? Give it a kind of cosmic resonance?”
“Look,” she said, “forget the money. I don’t care anymore. Tell her she’ll never hear from me again. I’m done. I made my point.
I wanted to rattle her.”
“Consider her rattled.” He was thinking. “You must have a burner you’ve been harassing her with?”
She nodded. Crane held out his hand. She pointed to her purse, which she’d left over on the couch. “May I?” she asked.
Crane nodded.
She walked over, pulled the phone from the bag, set it on the table. Crane pocketed it carefully, making sure his fingertips
did not touch the tabletop.
“Fine, keep it. I don’t need it anymore.”
“Who else did Holden tell at rehab?”
“No one. Just me. I mean, I’m pretty sure. I had to pry it out of him. He never talked about it in the group, not the details,
and I don’t think he told his doctor. I mean, if he had, the doctor would have had to report it, right? It’s not like he’s
a priest.”
“So no one else?”
Alicia hesitated.
“Tell me.”
“It’s nothing to worry about.”
Crane stared at her, moved his lower jaw from side to side, saying nothing. He reached into his jacket and slowly withdrew
a gun. It had something attached to it that was designed, Alicia thought, to dampen the noise when it was fired. Crane placed
the gun on the table.
“Let me ask you again. Who else did Holden tell?”
Alicia’s eyes were on the gun. “I tell you, and we’re good, right?”
“Yes.”
“Far as I know,” she said, “only Gage.”
“Gage?”
She nodded. “His nephew. They’re close. But Gage wouldn’t tell a soul.”
“How old is this Gage?”
“Thirteen, fourteen.” She chuckled nervously, eyes still on the gun. “Any other questions? Just ask. You put that away and
I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
He nodded, picked up the gun, and shot her in the forehead. She toppled from the chair onto the floor.
Crane stood, gathered all the scattered magazines that still bore Catherine’s name and home address and put them back into
the box. Talk about stupid. He would take the box with him when he left.
He put in a quick call to Catherine.
“Yes?” she said anxiously when she picked up.
“It’s done.”
“Who was she?” Catherine asked breathlessly.
“A friend of your son’s,” he said. “Evelyn Corby’s niece.”
“Oh god.”
He could sense the wheels turning in Catherine’s head.
“It was her,” Catherine said. “She did it.”
“So it would seem.”
Silence from Catherine’s end. After a moment, he asked, “Are you home?”
“Yes.”
“Stay there. We have a few things to go over.”
“Yes . . . okay.”
Crane ended the call. Best to have her stay put. Easier to find her there later after he’d dealt with the other two.