Sixteen

The Painted Lady is quiet when young Detective Shaw drops me out front. Both Mrs. Pennell’s and Mr. French’s apartments are in darkness, as are the two apartments on the top floor. In the middle, however, lights are glowing. I take it as a hopeful sign that my reluctant guest has stayed put.

I didn’t mention Roxanne to Frank because I don’t want him thinking that I’m involved even more than he already knows. One butchered corpse is enough for him to be concerned about without adding angry Polish sailors, unconscious Russian henchmen, and the reluctant abduction of a prostitute to the mix.

I tell myself that I’m being thoughtful.

When I enter the lobby, Mrs. Pennell’s door creaks open and she pokes her head through the gap. Her hair is wrapped in baby blue curlers and she’s draped in a flowery nightgown that reaches almost to the ankles of her compression stockings and sensible rubber-soled slippers.

“Oh, hello, dear,” she says. “I hoped it was you. Kristy said you had gone out again. Long day?”

I nod and smile, not wanting to get corralled into a long conversation.

“I left a note on your door earlier, did you see it?”

I blanch. “Sorry, I completely forgot. It’s been one of those crazy days. Did you need something?”

“Not to worry, dear. It’s just a package that was dropped off for you. I took it inside because the man said it shouldn’t be left unattended.”

Curious. I’m not expecting anything. “What kind of package?” I ask.

“A box wrapped in brown paper.” She holds out her hands to indicate its approximate width. “Little bit heavy and doesn’t rattle. Not that I was shaking it, of course.”

“When was this?”

“This afternoon.”

I have no idea what it can be, and a shiver of paranoia makes
stiletto-heeled ants march down my spine. Had my handless Russian been missing any other parts? Or … I think of my card gripped in his fingers with my face burned off.

“Did you recognize the delivery man?” I ask.

“No, but he was older than usual. Normally they’re young men on bicycles with their hats on backward and smelling of marijuana, but this man was more like one of their dads.”

Panic rises, but I try to keep it out of my voice. “Did he have an accent? Russian maybe?”

“Not that I noticed.”

“Do you still have the package?”

“I took it upstairs when I thought you were home, but you weren’t there again. Kristy answered the door though and said she’d leave it on the counter for you. I hope that’s alright?”

I attempt a smile. “That’s just fine, Mrs. Pennell. Thanks for taking care of it.”

“Any time. You sleep tight now.”

“You, too.”

As soon as Mrs. Pennell closes her door, I rush up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

I push open the apartment door and take in the room. Kristy and Sam are cuddling on the couch with Prince Marmalade nestled on Kristy’s lap. His purrs are vibrating like a subwoofer set on happy.

The door to my bedroom is open and I see Roxanne and Bailey sitting on my bed. They’ve both been crying.

A brown paper–wrapped package sits on the kitchen counter. Undisturbed. Innocent in its plainness.

“You OK, Dix?” Sam asks. “You look pale.”

I point at the package. “Anything about that look suspicious?”

“There was no address on it,” says Kristy. “Just your name … ” Her eyes widen and she stands up. “But it’s not ticking or anything, if that’s what you mean.”

Sam stands up beside her and slightly forward, protective. “Er, is there something we should know?”

I cross the room to examine the package. I sniff the paper, but it smells simply of paper. There’s no lingering petroleum smell of crude explosive—nor of fresh human blood or decomposing flesh.

I place my ear close to it and listen. Everything is quiet. I reach down to my boot, pull out my knife, and flick open the blade.

Kristy pulls Sam down behind the couch. “Tell us if we need to run,” she says.

Prince, thinking it’s a game, rubs his furry body across Sam’s and Kristy’s faces, purr increasing in volume.

Being careful to look for hidden wires, I slice open one end of the brown packaging and carefully peel back the folds. There is a blue plastic box inside.

I open the other end and unwrap the paper to fully expose the box. Only it’s not a box. It has a foldaway handle. It’s a protective case, and I recognize it.

Two snaps hold it closed.

I unsnap the latches and carefully open the lid.

Inside, nestled in custom-cut foam, is a gleaming Smith & Wesson Governor handgun, two boxes of ammo, a trigger lock, and a bore snake for keeping the barrel clean. Resting on top is one of Frank’s business cards. I flip the card over and read: Happy Birthday. I know even you must have one—Frank.

“What is it?” asks Kristy. “Is it safe? Can we get up now?”

I laugh to release the tension and lift the gun from its cushioned rest.

“Sorry,” I say over my shoulder. “Paranoia. It’s a present from Frank that he didn’t tell me he was sending.”

“But you thought it was, what? A bomb,” asks Sam. “What kind of story are you into now?”

I turn around and show them the gun. “Obviously one that has Frank a little worried about my safety.”

Sam holds up her hands in shock. “You’re not keeping it are you?”

“Of course I am. It’s a lovely gesture. I was shooting one at the range earlier today and—”

Sam shakes her head. “I don’t like guns, and I don’t like the idea of you having one. More people in this country are killed from their own guns turned against them than other people’s.” She heads for the door. “I don’t want it here.”

“I’ll get a gun safe,” I say. “And I’m being properly trained.”

“Come on, Kristy,” Sam calls. “We’re not staying.”

“Sam,” I call after her. “I promise I’ll get a proper safe. Tomorrow.”

Sam stops at the door and holds out her hand until Kristy arrives to take it. Her eyes lock onto mine and there is an anger there that I’ve never seen before.

“Until you do,” she bristles, “and that weapon is locked inside it, we won’t be back.”

“But, Sam—”

She holds up her free hand again to stop me. “I can’t be any clearer, Dix. Good night.”

They pull the door closed behind them as I replace the gun in its case.

“Problem?” asks Bailey as she appears in the bedroom doorway.

I close the gun case and snap the latches before turning to her.

“They’re tired,” I say. “It’s been a long day for everyone.”

Unexpectedly, Bailey rushes forward and wraps me in a lung-deflating hug.

“I can’t thank you enough for getting my sister out of that place,” she says. “I was so … ” She struggles to find the word; to admit it to herself. “So scared, I guess. How did you do it?”

“I had help.”

Bailey releases me and looks into my eyes. “They’ll come for her though, won’t they?”

“Eventually,” I agree. “But they’ll need to negotiate. They don’t want the publicity that I can bring down on them, and now they can’t hide her away. All we need is the price of her freedom.”

“And what will that be?” Bailey asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Money?”

I shake my head. “The Red Swan has little need of money from the likes of us.”

Bailey pales. “Then what?”

I shrug. “I think your father is the key. If he’s alive, he must know some valuable secrets that have kept him that way.”

“And if he’s dead?”

“Then we’ll think of something else.”

Bailey blinks away a spattering of tears. “I’m sorry I got you in-volved in all this.”

“You didn’t.” I smile. “I jumped in with both clumsy feet and splashed half the water out of the pool like the baby hippo that I am.”

Bailey wipes her eyes and laughs. “Hippo?” she asks. “I think you’re a swan.”

“Then clearly you are over-tired,” I say. “Why don’t you and Roxanne spend the night in my room? I’ll crash on the sofa and we’ll make a fresh plan in the morning.”

“Are you sure?”

“I insist.”

Bailey wraps me in another hug before returning to the bedroom and gently closing the door.

Alone, I bring the gun case over to the coffee table and open it again. The Governor feels good in my hand, solid weight and comfortable grip. I open the boxes of ammunition and load it in an alternating pattern of one shotgun shell and one .45 until all six chambers are filled.

I make sure the safety is on, a matter that can be confusing for gun virgins because there is no visual indicator to say the gun is safe. It’s only when you flick the thumb safety off that a painted red dot
appears to let you know the gun is ready to fire. That’s why gun instructors tell you, “Red means dead.” I slip the Governor under the arm cushion that I’ll be using as my pillow.

From the hall closet, I grab a spare blanket, strip down to my underwear, and eat a few mouthfuls of peanut butter out of the jar until my eyelids become heavy and my mouth too lazy to chew.

Prince jumps onto the couch and curls his furry body around my butt as I succumb to the dark, hoping I can bypass REM and sink blissfully into dreamless oblivion.

Pity it’s to be so short-lived.