The guilty verdict was a foregone conclusion. Oksana knew from snippets of conversation overheard while gathering empty wineglasses in sitting rooms or wiping down kitchen counters as homeowners chatted on the phone. Brooklyn Heights’ potential jury pool had already decided what word to scrawl on their ballots. Philip Banks had misappropriated Nate Walker’s investment in his spinoff restaurant by directing it toward the rent for the larger establishment. Confronted with that fact—and an inevitable lawsuit—he’d freaked out and killed his famous director friend, robbing the world of the movies that the man might one day create.
Oksana hadn’t known the killer’s motive when she’d moved that empty bottle of Black Bushmills onto Nate’s desk, but she’d suspected the man involved. As she sat in her favorite chair in the living room of her Sheepshead Bay apartment, the New York Post open to the metro section folded on her lap, she thought about all the bottles of Black Bushmills that she’d taken to the recycling bin over the years while working for the Banks family.
Philip’s excuse for letting her go at the beginning of the pandemic never made sense to Oksana. A guy who worked in a restaurant kitchen, interacting with a full staff and the occasional patron, wouldn’t worry about catching anything from the masked cleaning lady who tidied up while everyone was at school or in the office. She’d reasoned that Philip couldn’t afford her anymore.
Just like she’d guessed that he’d been drinking with Nate and something had gone south. In all the time that she’d cleaned for both families, she’d only ever seen Philip’s favorite whiskey at the Walkers’ residence after a visit from the Banks brood, which she’d inevitably hear about from either Imani’s or Melissa’s attempts at casual conversation the following day. Oh, you were at the Walkers’ place this morning? We were there the prior night. Hope we didn’t make too much of a mess. Or sorry for all the glasses downstairs. We had the Bankses over for a nightcap.
As Oksana looked at the paper in her lap, she felt some pride in the role she’d played in solving the case. She could never have accused Philip publicly without risking all her clients in the neighborhood. But she’d made sure to include the liquor in the photograph, figuring that some mutual friend of the Bankses and Walkers might make the connection. According to the article, seeing the whiskey had led Imani to accuse her husband. So Oksana had ultimately done her part.
She felt a little bad about that too. Philip had testified that Nate had drunkenly waved a gun at him. Oksana knew from living through battles that there were only two acceptable responses when a firearm was aimed at your chest: raise your arms and hope for the best or fight like hell to kill the other guy before he got you. The chef had been a marine. He was never going to choose the first option.
Oksana put the paper on her bedside table and stood from the chair. Sunlight poured through her window, advertising the ninety-degree temperatures melting new parts of the pavement. Kids were biking down the street in tank tops, letting their full faces tan. She thought of the chef’s wife and his children. Did that woman wish she’d let him choke on the peanut oil? Oksana wondered. Was Imani regretting having directed the paramedics to where he’d fallen or pointing them to his EpiPen in the kitchen?
Now Philip’s wife would have to deal with the fact that he still existed—but in prison. Even if by some miracle the man got off on self-defense for Nate’s murder, he would still serve time for kidnapping the guy’s wife and attempting to kill both her and the waitress. From the coverage, Oksana was guessing he’d serve at least twenty years. Perhaps more.
If it were her, she’d have left him to die. But the chef’s wife had been a therapist. Probably, she was the forgiving type. The kind of person who would rationalize and make excuses, who’d avoid confronting who she’d really married.
Oksana chuckled to herself. People incapable of deep darkness didn’t recognize it in others. They were like deer befriending wolves, unable to spot the difference in the teeth. Fortunately, she didn’t have that problem. Life had taught her exactly where to look.