Already Gone (16 page)

I pull into the hotel parking lot, exhausted. I look at my watch. It’s past seven, which means I have less than three hours before I meet Lisa.

Right now, all I want to do is lie down.

There are several cars in the lot that weren’t there when I left, but I remind myself that it is a hotel, and most guests won’t show up until later in the day.

It makes me feel better, but there’s an uneasy buzz building at the base of my neck that I can’t ignore.

As I cross the parking lot I hear the river in the distance, and the occasional car passing along the street. When I get close to the building, I notice a man standing alone on the second floor a few rooms down from mine. He’s leaning over the railing, smoking a cigarette, watching me.

I walk to the stairs, telling myself I’m being paranoid, that he’s just another guest. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but it gives me the strength to keep moving.

When I get to the top of the stairs, the man at the railing turns and looks at me.

“Evening,” he says.

I nod and pretend to search my pockets for my key.

I walk by him, then look back to see if he’s following. He’s not.

I don’t see the other man until I get to my door.

He’s standing at the far end of the walkway, hidden in shadows. I can’t tell if he’s watching me or not, but it doesn’t matter. He’s there, and that’s all I need to know.

The buzz at the base of my neck starts to feel like an electric shock. I consider turning around and going back down the stairs to my car, but then I see the man with the cigarette staring at me.

My only option is to get into my room. If I can do that, I can buy some time to think.

I take the plastic key from my pocket and slide it into the lock. The light flashes to green, then red.

The door doesn’t unlock.

The man at the far end of the walkway steps out of the shadow and starts toward me. I look over at the man by the railing. He takes a long drag off his cigarette then flicks it, end over end, into the parking lot.

I try the key again.

This time the light changes to green and I hear the lock click. I push the door open and go inside.

There is a man sitting at the table against the wall, facing the front door. He is older, wearing a dark suit with a blue tie. He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t stand.

One of the men from outside comes up behind me. He steps into the room and closes the door.

I look at him and say, “What the hell is this?”

He doesn’t answer, so I turn to the man at the table. “What’s going on? Who are you?”

The man watches me for a moment, then reaches down and takes a briefcase from the floor. He sets it on his lap and flips the latches. “Have a seat, Mr. Reese.” He holds his hand over his chair. “We have quite a bit to discuss.”

I shake my head. “Not without a lawyer.”

The man smiles, but there’s something unnatural about it, something sour. Seeing it makes my stomach turn.

“We’re not the police,” he says. “And you certainly don’t need a lawyer.”

“FBI?”

The man shakes his head.

I wait for him to go on, but he doesn’t.

“Should I keep guessing?”

A line forms between the man’s eyebrows, then it’s gone just as fast. “Of course, introductions.” He motions to the man behind me. “This is Mr. Hull, and my name is Anthony Briggs. We represent a small, offshore company that I’m sure you’ve never heard of, and we need your help.”

I look back at the man standing in front of the door.

He looks anything but friendly.

“I assume I don’t have a choice.”

Briggs smiles, but when he speaks, his voice is cold.

“There’s always a choice.”

We’re both quiet for a moment. Briggs opens the briefcase on his lap. He takes out several files and sorts through them on the table, then picks one and holds it out to me.

“Take a look.”

I don’t move.

Briggs waggles the folder in the air. “I think you’ll be interested.”

I feel the man behind me step closer, so I start across the room toward the table, moving slow. When I get there, I take the file, but I don’t open it.

Briggs shuts the briefcase and sets it on the floor. He sits back and crosses one leg over the other at the knee and says, “Go on, it’ll help you make your
choice
.”

I open it, but at my own pace.

I tell myself that no matter what I see, I’m going to keep my emotions in check.

It doesn’t work.

There are a series of photographs inside, each one showing a different angle of Detective Nolan lying facedown in the gravel parking lot at Memorial Park. His head is open and wet.

Seeing the photos brings it all back.

My breath catches in my throat, and when I look up at Briggs, I can tell he sees it in my face.

“How did you get these?”

“We took them.”

“Crime scene photos? You told me you weren’t cops.”

“We’re not,” Briggs says. “And these aren’t crime scene photos in an official sense.”

I look at the photos again, then close the file.

“I didn’t do this.”

“I know,” Briggs says. “We did.”

I look up at him. “
You
did?”

“We decided Detective Nolan had served his purpose.”

“His purpose?” I step closer to the table. When I do, I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder, stopping me.

“We asked Detective Nolan to pick you up and bring you to the park.” He motions to my face. “It looks like he got a bit overzealous.”

I hold up the file. “They’re blaming me for this.”

“That was the idea.”

His voice is casual, uncaring, and it catches me off guard. For a second, there are no words.

“We need your help, Mr. Reese, and this is our way of making sure we get it.”

“By killing a cop?” I hear my voice rise, and I fight to keep myself calm. “Are you crazy?”

“Things were beginning to spiral out of control, due in part to Detective Nolan’s involvement. All we did was step in to contain the situation.” He pauses. “Unfortunately, things have become even more complicated than we expected.”

“And you need my help?”

“That’s correct.”

I hand the file back to Briggs and say, “What exactly do you want?”

“The same thing you want, Mr. Reese.” He points to my hand. “We want to find the person responsible for you losing your finger.”

I smile. I can’t help myself.

“Is something funny?”

I hold up my hand and say, “I’ve tried to figure out who did this since the night it happened. No luck.”

“Then I think we can help one another.”

“You’re not listening,” I say. “I don’t know who did this, or why. If I did, I’d have found them already.”

“Mr. Reese.”

“I’ve gone over everyone I’ve ever known, and nothing makes sense.” I shake my head. “I wouldn’t know where to start looking again.”

Briggs turns toward Hull, frowns, then looks back at me and says, “I’m afraid you don’t understand. We already know
who
he is. The problem is finding out
where
he is. That’s why we need your help.”

This time I don’t smile.

“You know who he is?”

“Oh yes,” Briggs says. “And he’s not from your past, Mr. Reese. He’s from your wife’s.”

“You’ve made a mistake.”

Briggs ignores me. He picks up another file, opens it, and takes out several photographs. He holds the stack up for me to see, then lays them out across the table, one by one.

I move closer.

The photos are of Diane, all candid shots taken through windows, while driving her car, or just walking along our street.

I go through them and try to ignore the tears pressing against the back of my eyes. When I’ve seen enough, I look up at Briggs and say, “What’s all this about?”

“It’s about your wife, of course, and you.”

I stare at him, don’t speak.

“Mr. Reese, I’ve worked with your wife for several years. You see, I’m somewhat of an art lover, and I found her to be an invaluable resource while building my collection.”

“You were a client of hers?”

“A very good one, I’d like to think.” Briggs picks up one of the photos, looks at it briefly, then drops it back on the table. “We trusted one another, and that’s important when you’re dealing with hard-to-find items.”

“Hard to find?”

“Items that aren’t necessarily legal.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Works that have been listed as missing, or stolen, or perhaps lost in war,” he says. “I find them, collect them, then resell them to others. It’s quite a lucrative hobby.”

“I didn’t know that.”

Briggs frowns. “That’s surprising. I found your wife to be somewhat of an expert on the subject.”

“You’re telling me Diane dealt in stolen art?”

“Not exclusively, of course, but yes, if the opportunity presented itself, she did.”

I nod and try not to laugh.

Not Diane.

Briggs keeps talking. I can’t accept what he’s saying, but I listen and shuffle through the photos on the table. One of them catches my eye, and I pick it up.

There’s nothing special about it, just a photo of Diane walking down a crowded street, her hair pulled back and tied above her shoulders in a loose knot. She’s staring straight ahead, calm and happy.

The look on her face is familiar, and it touches something raw inside me. I reach up and run my finger over the image, and the ache in my chest builds. I focus on it, thankful it’s still there.

Far off, I hear Briggs say, “But that was before this latest incident. Now, unfortunately, things have changed.”

“What incident?”

Briggs stares at me. “She didn’t discuss any of this with you?” Before I can answer, he says, “Mr. Reese, how much do you know about your wife’s business?”

“She was an art buyer. She worked part-time at a gallery in the city.”

“Is that the extent of your knowledge?”

“What else is there?”

“More than you might expect,” he says. “Did you know she worked with your father?”

This time I do laugh.

“Diane never knew my father. He died a few weeks before I met her.” I start to toss the photo back on the table, but I change my mind and keep it. “You guys have really made a mistake.”

Briggs takes a piece of paper out of the briefcase and hands it to me.

I look at it, say, “I don’t know what this is.”

I try to hand it back, but he doesn’t take it.

“It’s a copy of the visitor’s log from Arrowhead Correctional. Your wife’s name is listed next to your father’s. She visited him in prison.”

I look at it again.

He’s right.

Diane’s name is printed next to my father’s, along with her signature. According to the date, she visited him a week before his heart attack, almost a month before we met.

For the first time, I feel a sharp ping of doubt in the back of my mind.

“I don’t understand.”

“They were business partners,” Briggs says. “I don’t know how often they worked together, but in this particular instance, Diane hired your father to hijack one of our trucks, the contents of which were quite valuable.”

“You owned that truck?”

Briggs nods, doesn’t speak.

“And you’re telling me Diane was behind it?” I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

“She didn’t do it alone,” Briggs says. “We looked into it and discovered someone inside our company provided her with the truck’s route and shipment schedule. All Diane had to do was pass the information along to your father.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Not important. It is what happened.”

I try to understand what he’s telling me, but it doesn’t makes sense. Diane wouldn’t even cross the street against the light, and now I’m supposed to believe she was an art thief who helped my father hijack a truck.

No, I don’t believe it.

“The heart attack was so sudden that we didn’t have a chance to speak to your father after he was arrested,” Briggs says. “We had nothing to go on until we checked the visitor log at the prison and found Diane’s name. Once we discovered her role in this unfortunate event, we knew she would lead us to the traitor inside our company.”

I turn and sit on the edge of the bed. “I don’t understand. I thought you wanted my help finding the person responsible for cutting off my finger.”

“That’s exactly what we want. In this case, it just happens to be the same person.”

I don’t say anything, and Briggs stares at me for a long time. Eventually, his face softens, and he leans forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Mr. Reese, I understand this is a lot to take in, but I assure you it’s all true.”

“Why would this person want to cut of my finger?”

“I’m sure he assumed Diane was trying to push him out of the deal. You see, no one seems to know what happened to the cargo stolen from the truck. All he sees is Diane marrying you, the son of the man arrested, and he assumes he’s been deceived.”

“What about my father’s crew?”

“Disappeared,” Briggs says. “There wasn’t much to go on to start with. Your father’s face was the only one that showed on the surveillance cameras. From what I’ve heard, he was quite intoxicated.”

“You should be able to find someone.”

“Diane was our only lead. It wasn’t until the incident with your finger that we knew for sure someone else was involved.”

“You think he came after me to get to Diane?”

“That’s our theory. Use her love for you against her.”

I look away, silent.

“Honestly, Mr. Reese, we don’t care about the cargo. What we’re most concerned with is finding the thief working inside our company.”

“And you expect me to help you?”

“You will help us.”

“Is that right?” I shake my head. “I told you, I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“You’ll start with your wife,” he says. “I’m sure he’s contacted her. Have her tell you where he is, then you’ll tell us. We’ll handle the rest.”

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

I clear my throat and try again.

“You want Diane to tell me where he is?”

“We have an idea where you can find her, but it’s—”

“Is this a joke?”

Briggs stops talking.

“You want me to ask Diane?” I stand up. “Who are you fucking people?”

“Mr. Reese, please—”

“You
think
you have an idea where she is? I can tell you
exactly
where she is. She’s in a goddamn urn on a shelf at Pearson’s Funeral Home.”

I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder, but I shrug it off. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but you need to leave, now.”

All eyes are on me. No one moves.

“Did you hear me?”

Briggs turns to the table and shuffles through the photos. He picks one up, looks at it, then hands it to me.

I take it.

It’s a photo of Diane walking out of a building through a set of frosted glass doors and onto the street. She’s wearing black baseball cap with her hair tied back in a ponytail.

I hand it back. “What about it?”

Briggs reaches out and taps the photo with his finger. “That photo was taken almost forty-eight hours ago, less than five miles from this room.”