Start Reading #10
Later at the station, I tell the detective what I learned from Buster. We talk for a long time, and he keeps writing and writing in that notebook.
“Roxanne Shevchenko is a badass,” he says.
“I thought she was dead.”
“We’ll find her.” But I wonder if that’s true. How, so injured, did she walk away? Where is she now?
There’s a board, so many pictures of Roxanne and Borys.
Smoking outside the strip club; one of them clearly fighting by a dumpster.
Another of them laughing. That look she had for him, obviously a shared passion between them.
There she is onstage, lithe and dazzling in sequins, those same glittery heels.
“Last year Shift cheated on her, and we almost got her to turn CI. But they made up. And that was that.”
True love. The Stripper and the Drug Dealer.
I think about what Buster said, how she was trafficked as a young girl, worked her way up to run the strip club, about what kind of gumption, street smarts, raw power that takes.
I find myself wishing I knew more about her.
That there’d been another choice but to fire on her.
But like I say, I have a kid. There’s literally no one I wouldn’t kill just to get back to Amelia.
There’s a part of me that’s glad she’s still out there. I’ll be watching my back for a while, but I don’t think her beef was with me. She might hold a grudge about the shooting, though. If she lives.
“Did you know what your dad was up to?” the detective asks near the end of our conversation.
“Not a clue.”
Then or now. That was his wish. To never be known. Obviously.
When I exit the station in the gray early afternoon that’s still threatening but not delivering snow, I am surprised to see my husband, my daughter, and Lenny waiting in the big SUV we own and rarely drive.
I’ve been asked again by the detective to stay “easy to find.” We both know I’m under no obligation to do that.
Amelia gets out and runs to me, like she always has since she was a kid, and I hold on to her tightly.
She smells deliciously of hair spray and strawberries.
I ugly cry again; I’m not embarrassed. We’re good at that in our little family, the one I created, expressing the depth and breadth of our feelings.
It’s the best we can do for each other. Show up. Bare all. Somehow we all know that.
“Mom, it’s okay,” she says, squeezing. “We’re here.”
Rick moves in to hug us both, and Lenny lingers awkwardly, leaning on his cane.
“Bring it in, old man,” I tell him. And he does. We stand there like that for I don’t know how long as finally a light snow starts to fall.
We head back to the house, and it’s a crime scene, teeming with cops. As we arrive, the medical examiner’s van is pulling away, followed by a silent ambulance. It’s grim, watching them leave. The snow comes down heavier.
I scan the woods, looking for a flash of red, a figure hiding in the trees. But no. If Roxanne survived her escape, she’s in bad shape, holed up somewhere and licking her wounds.
“What do you need in there?” asks Rick, frowning. “Let’s just get out of here.”
I missed his text: Just landed in Newark. On my way to you. I’m glad. I’d have just told him not to come. And I’ve never been so happy to see three people in my life.
“My bag,” I say. “My computer. Some of my dad’s files.”
“I’ll go in with you,” he says.
“I’ll go,” says Lenny. Rick nods; he’s not exactly comfortable with my line of work, has been pushing me to retire. Maybe I’ll consider it. There’s that novel, after all.
Amelia’s on her phone, smiling vaguely at whatever is going on there. She looks up at me, at the house, frowns, the mirror of her father. “I’ll just wait here with Dad.”
Smart kid. Good call.
I tell the cop watching the scene that Detective Crowe gave me permission to grab my things. He didn’t. But the cop, young and seeming overwhelmed, doesn’t call to check, just waves us through. He’ll probably get fired. But that’s not my problem.
Inside, crime scene techs mill about, booted and suited. Someone laughs quietly from behind a mask, at what, I can’t imagine. On the car ride over, I spilled it all. So Lenny has been fully debriefed.
I gather my things as well as the documents I’ll need to manage my father’s affairs. Lenny pokes around, as he does. Looking at photos, opening cabinets, drawers.
“Nice place,” he mutters almost to himself, apropos of nothing.
In the garage, I find a black duffel bag that is dusty and smells of mold. It will do.
Lenny takes the stairs with his cane, limping but surprisingly sure footed. The basement is empty; I slip under the crime scene tape, mindful of the blood on the floor. There’s blood on the desk, on the chair, on the ground where Buster died, holding my hand.
I reach up and wrest the camera off its mount.
I don’t know who’s watching, if anyone, now.
My father’s phone has stopped giving off a signal.
But that doesn’t mean someone won’t have access at some point to any footage that’s been recorded.
My dad, Buster, and Doug are all dead, so no reason to hunt down the phone for their protection.
I smash the camera beneath my boot, shove the pieces in the bag.
Lenny stands watch.
I enter the code scribbled on the cigarette pack, and the safe swings open.
I fill the bag quickly, listen for the telltale creak on the stairs.
Sorry, but I’m not leaving all that cash for the police to hold in an evidence locker for the next however long.
If it even stays in the evidence locker. Grift and corruption are real.
In the end, I decide not to take it all. I leave enough that it will seem like that’s what was in there. Enough to safeguard. The rest of it I’ll donate to some worthy organization that’s fighting human trafficking. I like the poetry of that.
I’m about to close the door when something catches my eye.
There. A single sheet of paper, folded in half and taped to the back wall of the safe. My name scrawled there.
Rae
I rip it out, open it, heart thudding.
Believe it or not, all of it was for you. Always.
Love,
Dad
“Everything okay?” says Lenny. All I can do is offer a nod, shove the paper in my pocket. He doesn’t ask any questions, just continues his watch, like a good partner.
“We’d better go,” he says after a bit.
I spend another moment thinking about Roxanne. I wish I’d known her better, understood when I was younger what was happening to her, that somehow I’d been in a position to help. I hope she survives this. I hope she doesn’t get it in her head to come after me.
“The clock’s ticking.”
Which reminds me, I never did figure out who wound the clock. Why do I think it was Roxanne?
Lenny has a sixth sense about these things, always knows when time is running out or trouble is coming. I get up from my crouch, close the safe. I have to help him on the stairs.
“Sucks getting old,” he mutters.
As we take the snowy drive back toward the highway, I show Lenny the piece of paper I found where my father had scribbled the word safe.
“Do you think he was trying to tell me something?” I ask. “That he knew trouble was coming, that I’d be the one to go through his things.”
Lenny considers, then shakes his head. “I think you’re going to have to be okay not knowing the answer to that.”
I think that’s true of a lot of things. I read my dad’s letter again. Maybe it’s all I get. Maybe it’s enough.
We pass Detective Crowe as he drives to the crime scene. He doesn’t seem to register us, moving fast, eyes on the road.
It’s decided that we’re just going to go home, back to our loft. Lenny and Amelia will spend the night; we’ll start rewatching The Sopranos, a family favorite.
We’ll order in pizza.
No mushrooms.