Pretty Girls (44 page)

Claire’s hands were shaking again. She longed for a time when nothing on her body shook with rage or fear or whatever mixture of hate and betrayal she was feeling right now. “The paramedics—”

“Were undercover agents. Detective Rayman was in on it, too.”

“The man at the funeral home?”

“It’s amazing what people will do for you when you threaten to sic the IRS on their financial records.”

“They asked me if I wanted to see the body.”

“Paul said that you wouldn’t.”

Claire clenched her fists. She hated that he knew her so well. “What if he was wrong and I asked to see it?”

“It’s not like on TV. We show you the image on a screen. The body’s usually in another room with a camera pointed on it.”

Claire shook her head. She couldn’t fathom the level of deceit at play. All to help Paul. All to give him a new life without Claire.

“I’m sorry.” Nolan reached into his jacket. He handed Claire a handkerchief. She stared at the neatly folded white cloth. His initials were embroidered in the corner.

She said the things she had wanted to say to Paul. “I watched him die. He was in my arms. I felt his skin go cold.”

“A lot can happen in your head when you’re in a bad situation like that.”

“You think I imagined those things? I saw blood pouring out of him.”

“Yeah, we put two squibs on him. Probably could’ve gotten away with just one.”

“But the knife—”

“The knife was fake, too. Retractable. The plastic on the squibs only takes a little bit of pressure.”

“The killer.” Claire thought of the snake tattoo on the man’s neck. “He looked real.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a real bad guy. One of my confidential informants, a low-level drug dealer who’ll do anything to stay out of jail.”

Claire put her hand to her head where the Snake Man had nearly ripped open her scalp.

“Yeah, sorry. He got a little carried away. But Paul went off script, and my guy got pissed. That thing at the end where Paul turned into a Ninja Turtle, that was not in the program.”

She patted the edge of the handkerchief underneath her eyes. She was still crying. This was crazy. She wasn’t in mourning. Why was she crying?

Nolan said, “The ambulance brought Paul to the parking garage downstairs. He was supposed to have some information on him, but surprise, he didn’t have it.” Nolan was obviously still angry about this part. “He told me it was in his car. We waited until nightfall. Just me and him. Very low key. We were walking down the street talking about next steps—your husband’s all about the big picture—then we get to his car and he’s rummaging around inside the glove box and I’m thinking, What the fuck? Do I look like a fiddle that needs playing? and he says, ‘Here it is,’ and I’m thinking he’s just being an asshole, because the guy’s a real asshole, and he comes outta the car and I’ve got my hand palm up like some kinda stupid kid thinking he’s gonna get some candy and boom, the asshole cold-cocks me.”

Claire looked at the yellow-purple swirl around Nolan’s eye.

“I know, right?” Nolan pointed to his eye. “Dropped me like a sack of hammers. I was seeing tweety birds and then I was seeing that asshole skipping up the street like a fuckin’ schoolgirl. He turns around at the corner and gives me one’a these.” Nolan gave two thumbs-ups as he flashed a fake grin. “By the time I manage to peel my sorry ass off the sidewalk, turn the corner myself, he’s in the wind.” Nolan looked both annoyed and impressed. “I gotta say, it’s not the only reason, but it’s part of the reason I really, really want to find your husband.”

Claire shook her head. This still didn’t make sense. Paul asking to be placed in witness protection? He would never hand someone else control over his life. They wouldn’t let him be an architect in witness protection. They wouldn’t let him draw attention to himself or his career accomplishments. There had to be something else he was trying to get out of the FBI. She was missing a detail or a stray word that would put together the puzzle.

Nolan said, “Look, I know I’ve been a dick, but I wasn’t sure whether or not you knew about your husband’s extracurricular activities.”

“The embezzling?”

“No, not that. Like I said, the money case is closed as far as we’re concerned. I mean the other stuff.”

Claire stared in disbelief. How could anyone think she would know about the movies and sit idly by? But Nolan hadn’t talked about the movies. He had only talked about Paul knowing some bad people who were mixed up in some bad things.

She asked, “What else was he involved in?”

“Maybe it’s good you don’t know,” Nolan said. “I can tell he kept you in the dark. Think of it as a blessing. I see your hands shaking, the confusion in your eyes. But you need to understand that the man you loved, the guy you thought you were married to, is dead. He doesn’t exist anymore. Hell, maybe he never existed.”

He wasn’t telling Claire anything she did not know. “Why do you think that?”

“We had a shrink take a look at him. Witsec—that’s Witness Security with the Marshall’s service—they always want a profile of anybody they put into the system. Kind of like a cheat sheet so they can predict behavior.”

Claire doubted a stadium full of shrinks could predict her husband’s behavior. “And?”

“He’s a non-violent, borderline psychopath.”

They were wrong about the non-violent part. “Borderline?” she asked. Why did she want to hold on to that word, to think that Paul wasn’t a total psychopath because he was still capable of loving her?

Nolan said, “He’s been living a parallel life. There’s the guy who’s married to this beautiful woman and has this successful career and lives in a million-dollar mansion and then there’s the real guy who’s not very nice.”

“Not very nice,” Claire echoed. What a massive fucking understatement. “You said they found him non-violent.”

“They did, but I’m the dumbass who took a hit in the eye, so I’m bound to think otherwise.”

“Why were you helping him if he’s such a bad person?”

“Because the real Paul Scott knows the identity of a very bad man who needs to be in prison for a very long time.” Nolan glanced back at the mirror. “That’s all I can tell you. Straight up, no bullshit. That’s how the system works. You do something bad, we let you go if you can point us toward somebody doing worse. And believe me, this is a hell of a lot worse.”

Claire looked down at her hands. Clever Paul. He hadn’t just fooled Claire with his movie-editing skills. He had fooled the Federal Bureau of Investigation. They had found the disgusting movies on his work computer and he had dangled the identity of the masked man in front of their faces in return for his freedom.

She asked Fred Nolan a question she knew she would eventually ask herself. “You said he wanted to go into witness protection. He was just going to leave me? Just like that?”

“I’m sorry, but trust me, you’re better off.”

“Did Adam Quinn know about the other stuff Paul was mixed up in? The name of the bad man?”

“No. We grilled the shit out of him. He had no idea.” Nolan picked up on her distress. “I can see why you stepped out on your husband. He really didn’t deserve you.”

Claire agreed, but she had caught Nolan in a lie. “If Paul was planning to run, why would he slip me something before we went into the alley?”

“Back-up plan?” Nolan guessed. “There was no guarantee he’d be able to get the drop on me.”

“I want to get this straight.” Claire turned around all the cards he’d just laid out so he could see them from her perspective. “You caught Paul doing something bad, something worse than embezzling. He told you that he knows the identity of this boogeyman. You said he was taking you to his car to show you some kind of proof, so I’m going to guess that’s a photograph or a document or something electronic, which means it has to be stored on a piece of paper or a disk or a flashdrive or something like that? Something he could fit in his glovebox? Something that could be slipped to me before we went into the alley?”

Nolan shrugged, but she could read him now and she could tell that he was getting nervous.

“You also said that Paul’s life would’ve been in danger if it got out that he was sharing this information about the boogeyman.”

“Right.”

“So that gives you all the power. Paul needs you more than you need him. I mean, yes, you want to make a case, but Paul wants to live. You said his life was in danger. You’re the only one with the resources to protect him. So why is he hiding from you?”

Nolan didn’t glance back at the two-way mirror, but he might as well have.

Claire tried to look at the situation from a different angle— Paul’s angle.

He’d escaped from Nolan, but he hadn’t run off to an island country with no extradition treaty. Claire had no doubt that Paul had a secret stash of money waiting for him somewhere. He’d probably already ordered the Gladiator cabinets for the garage. He’d admitted to her over the phone that the timeline had been pushed up, but that didn’t explain why he was sticking around. The FBI couldn’t find him, but as Lydia would say, so what? Paul was a free man. He didn’t need to go into witness protection. He didn’t need the FBI. He didn’t need anything.

Except for whatever was on the USB drive.

The door shook as someone pounded a fist against the flimsy wood. “Claire!”

Claire recognized the angry voice of her lawyer on the other side of the door. Wynn Wallace, the Colonel.

“Claire!” Wynn tried the knob. The door was locked. “Keep your Goddamn mouth shut!”

Nolan told Claire, “You can refuse his counsel.”

“So you can keep lying to me?”

“Claire!” Wynn yelled.

Claire stood up. “You’re asking the wrong question, Fred.”

Wynn tried to shoulder open the door. There was a sharp crack.

Nolan said, “Tell me the right question.”

“Paul didn’t give you the information you wanted, therefore his life isn’t in danger. He should be on a beach somewhere. Why is he sticking around?”

Nolan hacked like a dog with a string down its throat. “You’ve seen him?”

Claire opened the door.

Wynn Wallace stormed into the room. “What the hell is going on here?”

Nolan tried to stand up, but Wynn blocked him, demanding, “Who the hell are you? I want your ID number and your supervisor’s name right now.”

“Claire,” Nolan tried, “don’t go.”

Claire edged her way out the door. She fumbled for Lydia’s phone in her bra. The metal was hot. She pressed the button to power on the phone. She stared at the screen, silently begging for a message from Paul.

“Sweetpea?”

Claire spun around. She wondered if she was hallucinating. “Mom?”

Helen was near tears. “We’ve been halfway around the state. They wouldn’t tell us where you were.” She cupped her hand to Claire’s face. “Are you all right?”

Claire was trembling again. She couldn’t stop. It was like she was standing on the beach in the middle of a hurricane. Everything was slamming into her at once.

“Come with me.” Helen took her hand. She pulled Claire down the hallway. They didn’t wait for the elevator. Helen led her to the stairs. Claire looked down at the phone as she followed her mother. The signal was strong. No calls. No voicemail. There was one new text: a photograph that had been sent a few minutes after Claire turned off the phone. Lydia was still in the trunk. Her face didn’t show any new cuts or bruises, but her eyes were closed. Why were her eyes closed?

Helen said, “Just a little bit farther.”

Claire put the phone in her back pocket. Lydia had blinked when Paul took the picture. Or she was tired. She had closed her eyes against the sun. No, it was dark in the photo. Lydia was being contrary. She didn’t want Paul to get his way. She was trying to make trouble because that’s what Lydia did.

Claire’s knees felt weak. She almost stumbled. Helen helped her down another two flights of stairs. Finally, she saw the sign for the lobby. Instead of going through the marked door, Helen took her through the emergency exit.

The sunlight was faint, but Claire still shielded her eyes with her hand. She looked around. They were standing on the corner of Peachtree and Alexander. Traffic was starting to fill the streets.

She asked Helen, “What time is it?”

“Five thirty in the morning.”

Claire leaned back against the wall. She had been inside the building for almost twelve hours. What could Paul do to Lydia in twelve hours?

“Claire?”

She waited for her mother to lay into her, to demand an explanation for why she had to find a lawyer and rescue her daughter from the FBI.

Instead, Helen stroked Claire’s cheek and asked, “What can I do to help?”

Claire was speechless with gratitude. She felt like decades had passed since someone had offered her something as simple and genuine as help.

“Sweetheart,” Helen said, “nothing is so bad that it can’t be fixed.”

She was so wrong, but Claire forced herself to nod.

Helen stroked back her hair. “I’ll take you home, okay? I’ll make you some soup and tuck you into bed and you can get some sleep and we can talk this out. Or not. It’s up to you, sweetheart. Whatever you need me to do, I’m here.”

Claire felt herself start to crack. She turned away from her mother’s touch, because the only other option was to fall into her arms and tell her everything.

“Sweetpea?” Helen rubbed her back. “Tell me what I can do.”

Claire opened her mouth to tell her mother there was nothing that could be done, but she stopped, because she saw someone familiar standing fifty feet away.

Detective Harvey Falke. She recognized him from the Dunwoody police station. Captain Mayhew had called him in to help connect the massive hard drive to his computer so that he could tell Claire that the movies Paul had been watching were fake.

Harvey was leaning against a railing. His suit jacket was open, showing his gun. He wasn’t being shy about it. He was looking directly at Claire. His lips smiled under his bushy mustache.

“Claire?” Helen sounded even more concerned. She had seen the man, too. “Who is—”

“The Tesla is parked downstairs on the third level.” She took the keyfob out of her pocket. “I need you to move it to the Marriott Marquis for me, okay? Visitors’ parking. Leave the ticket on the seat and hide the keyfob behind the parking pay machine in the lobby.”