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Leaving Mike behind, leaving their new house, was not nearly as painful as Callie had feared. The house was nothing but boards and tar paper as far as she was concerned. They’d only been there a couple of months and she’d spent the bulk of that time tending to the kids and preparing her syllabi for the courses she was teaching up in Plattsburgh. And it had been the middle of winter when they’d arrived. She’d planned on spring cleaning, making the place cozier and more her own, even doing a little painting, but that time had never arrived, and so the house she left on 9N was just a building, nothing more.
Mike was a different story, but she still felt relief at their temporary separation. She loved him fiercely. All this would have been difficult for anyone to cope with. Beyond difficult. Downright Atlas-carrying-the-world difficult. For Mike’s part, he was bearing a huge and weighty chunk of guilt. She knew he felt guilty over what he thought of as his complicity in his own stepson’s death, and she felt terrible about this. But something more had changed in Mike. She supposed she had changed, too. But whereas she felt vulnerable, raw, exposed, Mike had become murky.
Getting in touch with someone from his hidden past. It scared her. It worried her that Mike was not just calling up any old friend, but an old part of himself. A violent part. She had vowed never to live with violence again after Tori. And so far with Mike, there had been none. But she could see the look in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the way his knuckles pressed white against his skin as he curled his hands into fists. He hadn’t been up front with her about a number of things. Major things.
In truth, if she were to be honest with herself, she didn’t know what to make of the thing with the money. When Mike first told her that his father was setting up an education fund for Braxton, she’d been thrilled. She’d gone to college, she believed in education; it was Braxton’s future. His special character made it tough for him in some social situations. Grade school was tough. But, in college, he would flourish.
Mike had explained how it worked, to some extent, and she’d left it to him. He told her that Jack had entrusted him with ownership of the account; his father didn’t want paperwork and phone calls bothering him. It all seemed normal enough.
Yet she knew that part of her reason for leaving was that she didn’t want to be there when the cops came knocking again.
His guilt and anger were palpable; guilt about what? The email to Tori, lying to her, maybe even something to do with the money? She just didn’t know. Whatever it was, he seemed to be always looking to her for some sort of expiation, some release from the prison he seemed to find himself in.
And wasn’t she complicit, too, in a way? Had she not allowed Mike to take a background role in the family, afraid of what might become of them if he were allowed to express his true nature? All those times Mike had tried to discipline his stepson and she had come between them, unable to overcome her protective instincts, her self-reproach over what Braxton had gone through when she’d left Tori — had she not robbed Mike of some of his due authority as a father? Had she not done this selfishly, to make herself feel more comfortable? And had this precipitated Mike’s lashing-out when he felt threatened by Braxton’s biological father, after he came poking his deadbeat, drug-dealing nose back into the family?
She needed just to go away. It wasn’t escape, it wasn’t running away from her emotions — because there was nothing more hurtful that morning than the thought that she was leaving without her son.
There was a profound emptiness in that thought. It had the finality of a door slamming on a room to which she knew she could never return.
Whatever it was Mike needed to deal with, whatever he had to get through, he had to do it alone. She couldn’t risk harm to her other children. Above all, this was why she was leaving. To protect her other babies.
They stood in the small airport terminal. Mike had insisted on coming with them through security and waiting until they boarded the plane.
They held one another, and she felt Reno’s arms encircle her thighs as the six-year-old girl joined in the family hug. Next to them, Hannah watched and babbled and said “A-daddah,” at her father.
And then they were waving, and she walked down the gangplank to the airplane that waited on the tarmac. Callie watched Mike recede from her as he stood there in the terminal in the jeans she’d bought him that past Christmas, his flannel shirt and the black coat with the fur around the hood, his dark, wavy hair, his eyes silver in the light shining through the giant windows of the terminal.
Mike finished his call to the funeral home. Braxton’s body would be incinerated that night.
He went to the refrigerator, pulled a bottle of chilled vodka from the freezer and poured himself a straight drink. It was only four o’clock in the afternoon, but he didn’t care. He gulped it down and poured another. Then he went to the couch in the living room and sat down with his laptop. The place felt completely different now, alien; too quiet with the girls gone. He took another pull from the vodka and did a Google search on the computer, looking for Detective John Swift.
There were several stories in the local paper about Swift’s involvement in a case where a young man, Frank Duso, had claimed police harassment.
Duso
, Mike pondered.
Duso.
There had been a parade of people tramping through his life in the past seventy-two hours, but he seemed to remember that Duso was the name of the man who had found Braxton and placed the emergency call. Who was Frank? His brother? His son?
Troopers popped Frank Duso for driving under the influence. Not once, but twice. Some people just didn’t learn. The first arrest had happened during the previous summer. In that initial incident, according to the state police, Frank had been unruly and uncooperative and his actions had warranted use of force. Pepper spray. His second offense had occurred several weeks ago. He was drunk again, speeding on the interstate between Plattsburgh and New Brighton. Speeding, inebriated, and under the influence of another substance: crystal meth. Frank Duso wasn’t in possession of the drug, just had it in his system. So the mandatory minimum sentencing laws didn’t apply. He was put in County Jail for three weeks.
Mike leaned back into the couch, feeling his scalp tingling. South Plattsburgh was where Tori McAfferty lived. Where he, apparently, had a meth operation. Duso’s second arrest report said he’d been driving back from there. Mike thought for a moment, then started a new search.
Was McAfferty already a known entity? What was going on behind the scenes? It seemed as though Swift and Duso had some kind of feud going on. Maybe it had to do with the pepper-spray incident, but maybe there was more. The prickling sensation intensified. Now Mike’s fingers started to tingle as he typed.
The lead Investigator working Tori McAfferty’s meth lab explosion was named Remy LaCroix. There was a picture of LaCroix in one of the articles — a funny-looking guy with a pot-belly wearing an old-fashioned fedora. LaCroix was part of a task force going after all the meth operations in the region. There was a related article in which the Plattsburgh Police Chief vowed that the city wouldn’t allow this rot to infest this community like so many other places in the country. They were going to “stamp it out.”
Mike cross-referenced LaCroix with the name Frank Duso. There was nothing. Even if there was something, realized Mike, it likely wouldn’t be in the papers. But he had a hunch, a guess that Frank Duso was getting his meth from McAfferty. Or maybe even selling for him.
There was some connection between Swift, Duso, and McAfferty, though nothing certain apart from what Mike felt in his gut. That McAfferty had hurt Braxton. That McAfferty had killed him.
So when the email alert popped up a few minutes later, it felt like someone had reached down inside of him and squeezed.
* * *
The email was from Tori McAfferty.
Mike. You ought to check the balance of your 529 account. Then we should talk.
He brought up the page for the education fund, his nerves chattering. He plugged in his username and password. Then he held trembling fingers over the keys. The page to his account profile opened, and his eyes scanned down to the bottom where he read the balance.
The balance was zero.
He stared into an abyss; his brain could form no rational thoughts.
McAfferty. The whole thing. I knew it all along. I should have killed him when I first saw those emails
.
Memories of his childhood crept into his mind, long repressed, specters materializing from the shadows. Images of his father, hands black with the tar and soot of the tunnels, his face smeared with it, his white teeth flashing as he yelled at Mike’s mother. Mike getting in between them. Turning on his father.
McAfferty. No different. Abusive psychopath. Everything starts and ends with him
.
He got back on his email and sent a reply to McAfferty.
Tell me what you want.
He pressed Send. He got up from the couch and wandered aimlessly through the house, unable to focus. He was trying to locate something in his mind, but was unable to see clearly through the fog of swirling thoughts, each one more vicious than the last. He heard the chime that signified an incoming email, sat down and opened McAfferty’s new message.
Tonight. 10 pm. You and I meet. Father to father
.
You call the cops, and the whole thing is off.
Mike sent another message.
Why?
He waited another agonizing minute for the reply. It was an address, nothing more. Mike didn’t recognize it, but found a piece of paper and a pencil in a kitchen drawer and scribbled it down.
He picked up his phone. He dialed the number from memory. He listened to the ring, and a woman answered. His own voice seemed to come from far away. She told him just a moment, and then another voice came over, and the sound of a man eating something like potato chips.
Bull Camoine said, “Hey, Mikey.”
Mike let it all out in a rush, his whole body shuddering as he stood with the phone to his ear, looking out over the windswept front yard, the drifts of snow, the scabs of oak bark and branches darkening the white in places.
When he was done explaining — about McAfferty, the 529 account, the messages, everything — he added, “Callie and the girls left.”
“Probably for the best,” Bull said, as if this sort of thing happened all the time.
“You think?”
Bull was silent, seeming to calculate. “Not my place to say; I’m sorry. So aside from getting all this off your chest, to what do I owe the pleasure? Is it time?”
Mike was silent. He could feel his mouth working, but his lips had gone numb.
Bull let out a laugh. “Always did have a problem coming to the point, didn’t you, Mikey? Come on. Nice to be catching up and everything, but Jesus, out with it.”
Mike took a huge breath and exhaled slowly. “I was just thinking, you know? For protection.”
“Absolutely, absolutely. We say no more, here, now, okay?” Bull would of course be worried about Big Brother listening in. And who knew — maybe Mike was worried too. Calling up an old friend to help you get yourself a gun was risky.
“Hey Mike?”
“Yeah.”
“Just know; I know what you and your mom went through. Yeah your pop helped me out, but I never forgot, you know. I never forgot the things he did to you and your ma. I’ve got my bags packed, Mike. I’ll be there in a few hours. Sit tight.”
Mike felt his lips quivering, and they parted. The objection rose in his throat, and then stayed there.
Let him come. Let him come and together you will shoot Tori McAfferty to death. Maybe first drag him behind the truck until he shits and pisses himself and then stop and let him think he is going to live and then do it again. Pull his arms from his body so he can’t even wedge into the ligature like Braxton did. Pull him through the dark and snow until his head shears away from his body.
On the other end of the call Bull Camoine said, “I’m on my way to you, buddy.”
The phone sat on the desk between Swift and Captain Tuggey.
I spend half my goddamned life on the phone
, Swift thought.
A voice came through the speaker. “Captain Tuggey, Senior Investigator Swift, Assistant District Attorney Sean Mathis. Hello.”
“We’re here,” said Tuggey. “Hello Deputy Inspector Jonas. How’s life in the big city?”
“Dandy. You trying to show us up out there in God’s country? Quite a case.”
“It is,” said Tuggey. He glanced briefly across the desk at Swift before his gaze fell back to the phone. “We appreciate your help, Jonas.”
“Well, I wish I had better news. As you know, warrant came through and we did a thorough toss of Darring’s apartment in Queens. Seized a laptop, a smart TV, a gaming console, a few personal effects, that’s about it. Guy lives like a monk. Place was spic and span.”
Swift scribbled down a note in his pad, and Tuggey played with the Windsor knot in his tie. “Tell me.”
“You know, like I say, not much to tell,” Jonas went on. He had a thick New York accent. “Cyber-crimes spent the morning going through the computer.” The word sounded like
computah
. “But there’s nothing that has stood out. Normal usage, I guess. Amazon, Netflix, various news media, a little porn, two basic email accounts; one Yahoo, one Gmail.”
Swift leaned forward. “Deputy Inspector, this is John Swift. Anything interesting in the emails?”
“We’re still going through them. The Yahoo account has over a thousand. So far, looks like emails to some buddies. But no Branson Simpkins.”
“Braxton,” Swift corrected.
“Right.”
“The other two? Hideo Miko, Sasha Bellstein?”
“Yeah, they’re in there. Right up at the top. Just a couple. Uhm . . .” It sounded like Jonas was rustling paper. “This one here is a group email, arranging a time and place to meet. Time stamp is 4:22 p.m., Saturday. It says Darring is going to pick Miko up in New Jersey first, and then going to meet the other one outside of Philly at 7p.m. Something about when the Philly kid gets off work . . .”
“But no intent?” asked Swift. Tuggey gave him another glance, which Swift ignored.
“I know what you’re looking for, Detective. No, there is nothing we have seen so far that indicates any intent to harm. Looks like they’re just kids planning a visit to another kid.”
“That kid is dead now,” Swift said.
This time Tuggey didn’t just glance, but gestured, drawing the ridge of his hand across his neck, indicating to Swift to
quit it
.
“I understand that, I understand,” said Jonas. “You know what I’m sayin’? I wish I could tell you what you want to hear. But we just haven’t found it.”
“Thank you, Deputy Inspector,” Tuggey said, before Swift could speak again. “We appreciate all you’ve done.”
“My pleasure. You two take it easy up there, huh?”
“You bet.”
Tuggey pressed a button on the phone to end the call. His eyes were fierce. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Trying to solve a murder.”
“You’ve already got two strikes against you, Swifty. Big ones. First, last summer’s fiasco with Frank Duso. Now this gaff where you’re caught boozing while on active duty — that’s punishable by termination alone — and you destroyed private property.”
Swift put on a humorless grin. “You loved that one. Admit it.”
“Now you want to badger the Deputy Inspector in New York City? You like this Darring kid so much for the Simpkins murder, you show motive, you give him a murder weapon, and you explain all this other shit with McAfferty.”
Tuggey pushed back from the desk and sighed. He played with his tie, smoothing it out.
“The arraignment is in two hours. Mathis is busy preparing. And you know what’s going to happen. Darring is going to see the judge, he’ll be advised of his charges, he’ll plead Not Guilty, Mathis will try to show he’s a flight risk, but Judge Stenopolis is a light touch with first-timers, and he’s got nothing but a sad, foster kid story in his background. No priors, no convictions. He hasn’t sought counsel, so he’s getting a PD. Bail will still be set high, but from what this kid has told us, he can afford it. And then, —vipp — he’s out. The burden of proof is all on Mathis, and he’s got none.”
“Which is why I’ve got to see Darring again.”
“No. For what?”
“I’ve got a theory.”
“You’ve got a theory. Jesus Christ, Swifty.” Tuggey was mad. “This is a small town, Swifty. You’ve probably noticed. Your recent actions make it look like we’re losing control, John. Like we’re frustrated, with nothing on the ball with this case.”
“Third time’s the charm, Tug.”
“Get out,” Tuggey yelled. “Get out!”