Busted Brooklyn
Busted
Brooklyn
I watch Detective Lee cautiously. Where is she going with this?
“I don’t know what there is to say about Roger,” I answer. “He died a decade ago.”
“Your aunt told us everything,” Detective Lee says, her tone weary, matter of fact. “We know about your dad, too, the time he served for drug charges, fraud, and money laundering. But I want to hear it from you. Were you involved in Roger Bandolier’s death?”
I don’t say a word. The detective is trying to trick me into talking.
Pat knows nothing about France. No one but Margot knows what really happened in Thiviers, and we’re going to keep it that way.
Even Trey thinks he knows, and I’ve never dissuaded him from his version of events. It’s safer for all of us that way.
But what does Roger’s death have to do with Trey’s disappearance? Unless . . .
The cop settles deeper into my sofa, getting comfortable.
She’s been burning the candle at both ends.
Dark circles ring her eyes, and her silver hair is wiry and needs a wash.
She’s been busy trying to arrest my husband, and I am not about to cooperate.
As if she knows exactly what I’m thinking, she drops her voice low.
“Listen to me very carefully, Brooklyn. I’m not going to jam you up here.
We’re totally off the record, okay? I’m just trying to figure out what’s happening.
Something in your past is tied to what’s going on now.
I’m sure of it. Someone has been stalking you.
And your husband. And me.” She holds up her hand, the bandage tight across her palm.
“He came by my place the night of the accident, the night the Lockes were killed. I didn’t report it because, well, two reasons.
One, he threatened to kill me if I did, and I didn’t doubt his sincerity for a moment.
He scared the bejesus out of me. And two, I think there’s something else going on with this case.
I need to know what his tie is to you. So tell me the truth, Brooklyn. How do you know him?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Fine. Let’s do it like this.” The detective sets her iPad on the sofa between them. “Have you ever seen this man before?”
The video is grainy, black and white, and I’m immediately cast back to the airport footage, Trey’s pained expression as he left us behind. The phone he left for me is warm in my pocket. Is he really coming? Or is that a lie, too?
Lee hits play, and I watch Trey move through the airport. And behind him, in a surgical mask and a baseball cap, is another man. His hair is light and curly. He moves with the grace of a predator. He is hunting my husband; that is abundantly clear.
My heart starts to pound.
“What is this? What kind of joke are you playing on me? You know I have a bad concussion, a TBI, and I have to say, manipulating a video to entrap me is low. What the hell is this?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down. No jokes. No manipulation. He followed your husband from the airport, then went to Malogen.” She flashes a photo of an SUV. “I get the sense you know who it is.”
I do. But that is impossible. Completely, undeniably impossible.
“This is a trick.”
“It’s not. All of our lives depend on your answer here, Brook. I’m not joking, and I’m not playing around, and I’m not manipulating things. I am scared to death of what this man is capable of, and I think you are, too.”
I put my fingers in my ears and bend my head to my lap like Four does when he doesn’t want to answer me. It’s childish, but I have to stop my heart from exploding in fear. If this is who I think it is . . . no one is safe. Not me, not the cop, not my kids, not my sister, not my husband.
“He’s dead,” I whisper. “I mean, I thought I saw him in the hospital, and I thought he had his hands around my neck at one point, but it was a hallucination. The nurse said I was alone in the room. It can’t be him.”
“Say the name aloud, please.”
“Alex.”
“Alex who, Brooklyn?”
“Alex Durov. But he died ten years ago. I saw him die. Roger killed him.”
“What?”
My mind touches on the memory gingerly, like probing a sore tooth. The cold river. The vodka. The blood. Alex’s laugh, so warm and inviting. The picnic blanket. The gun. I can’t help fidgeting. I don’t want to remember this.
“Let’s start again. And be straight with me this time. Both of our lives depend on it. Tell me about your relationship with Roger Bandolier.”
I want to trust her. But I have to be careful here.
“You already know I worked for the show. I traveled with them all over the world for two years. Roger himself . . . he was an absolutely amazing chef and mercurial person, a total star. I didn’t have a relationship with him, outside of being the staff photographer.”
“Where were you the night he died?”
“Detective, what does this have to do with my husband?”
“You don’t know? Or you don’t remember?”
“Neither. Roger died years ago. Well before I met Trey. The two aren’t related at all.”
“That’s not entirely true, is it?” The detective crosses her legs and sets a file on the coffee table. “Bandolier died on a shoot in Thiviers, France. He partied late into the night after the last day of shooting and overdosed on cocaine. The autopsy showed that coke was laced with fentanyl.”
“This is not a secret, Detective. Roger had a terrible problem. He did drugs indiscriminately. Whatever could be procured and delivered and ingested. Coke, amphetamines, heroin, MDMA. Alcohol, if no other escape could be found, but he preferred the stronger stuff. They did a whole documentary on it.”
“Yes, but who provided him with the fentanyl-laced cocaine he took the night he died? Who snuck it into France? Maybe a young photographer? Whose father has a record of drug trafficking?”
I freeze.
“It was a terrible situation, I’m sure. To have provided the drugs that killed your boss.
Of course you’d run. Of course you’d need to lie low.
So you went to Mexico, and lo and behold, met Andrew.
What did you tell him about your time on the show?
About all the places you traveled? Did you tell him about the drugs, and how you shuttled them from country to country?
How your father would mail them to you, and you’d pack them in your bags, and because Roger Bandolier was who he was, customs didn’t search as thoroughly as they might have? ”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Brooklyn, we know you provided Bandolier with the drugs that killed him.”
“You know nothing. This is bullshit. I didn’t have anything to do with Roger’s drugs.”
“Then explain it to me. Tell me what’s going on. Tell me about Alex Durov. Help me. If you help me, I can help you. I’ll show you everything I have about Andrew—Trey—and Chloe. We can solve these cases together.”
I watch this woman who seems so sincere, who has answers I need, as well. Calculate. Trey should be here soon, right?
Assuming that was him texting me. If Alex is alive, anything could be happening.
That thought chills me to the bone. He’s alive.
“Alex was my boyfriend. We were having a picnic by the river.” My voice sounds mechanical, even to me.
“A little party to celebrate the end of the shoot. That wasn’t unusual.
And Roger found us there. At first, he joined us, did a little blow, and drank some vodka.
Also not unusual. And he wanted more, and more. Alex cut him off, said he’d had enough.
“But he was jealous of Alex. He’d always wanted me for himself, had been hitting on me relentlessly for months. Honestly, I was getting ready to quit the show because it was just too much to deal with. Roger never did anything halfway. It was all or nothing, always.
“And that day, because he couldn’t have me, he wanted more drugs. It wasn’t me, it was Alex. He was providing the whole crew with whatever they needed. He had a source in Europe, and he used my photography equipment to stash baggies in the lining so we could move it across borders.”
“Okay. I’ll take your word for it. And then what happened?”
“They got into an argument, and somehow, Roger got a hold of a gun that Alex had stashed in his bag. I don’t know how it happened, just that they were scuffling, then there was a gunshot, and Alex went down. He was bleeding badly.
“You would think Roger would panic. I did. I was screaming. I wanted to call for help, but he was cool and collected. He told me to stop freaking out, that he’d take care of it.
That it was too late, Alex was dead. He sent me away.
Said he wanted me to quit the show, that he never wanted to see me again.
And so I did. I listened. I ran. I looked back once, just in time to see him push Alex’s body into the water. ”
“And you didn’t tell anyone?”
“I was in shock. It happened so fast. My boyfriend was dead, my boss was firing me. I couldn’t believe how quickly it had all gone bad. One minute we were happy, the next, fractured beyond repair.
“And of course, as you know, that night Roger went absolutely nuts. He took every drug he could get his hands on, including what he took from Alex’s bag. And in the morning, he didn’t wake up.”
“Tragic.”
“Yes. And that’s the whole story. Alex died, Roger died, I got myself out of France, came home, took some freelance work so I could keep traveling. Then I met Trey and you know the rest.”
Lee taps the screen. “This is Alex Durov?”
“I was sent to find you.”
“I’ve taken care of it.”
“I’ve made them understand you were not involved. It took the rest of the money, but we don’t have to worry about this anymore.”
“It looks like him. But it’s not possible. I watched him die.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police in France the truth?”