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To Robin’s surprise, Mink’s forger was neither sleazy nor creepy. Andy was a slightly nerdy-looking college student with sloping shoulders and the squint of someone who spends too much time staring at an electronic screen. On the phone they’d arranged to meet at the university coffee shop. Feeling overly dramatic, Robin arrived in dark glasses and a wig she’d bought for a Halloween party.
The place smelled like pepperoni and had a constant hum of movement. Andy sat at a corner table, looking like a dozen other students there to use the free Wi-Fi, but he wore the Padres ball cap he’d told her to look for. He was open about his sideline, explaining he earned tuition money by providing documents for a select list of clients. “I know it sounds like a bad thing, but if people deserve a new start, guys like Mink send them to me.”
“And you trust them to send only legitimate cases?”
He sensed disbelief in her tone. “The last person I helped was a seventeen-year-old girl whose parents are in a religious cult. They planned to marry her off to the leader, who already had six wives.” His expression revealed what he thought of the parents, the leader, and the cult itself. “I get a few domestic abuse victims and some who hate their lives and want to start over.” He added a warning. “I don’t help if the cops are involved.”
Keeping her tone neutral Robin said, “There are no arrest warrants out for my friend.”
Not yet, anyway.
She’d brought along things Andy requested: three small, clear pictures of Carter’s face, his physical information, and notes on his age and ethnic background. Glancing at the information, Andy chewed his lip. “The guy’s twenty-two and he’s never had a job?”
“He grew up on a farm.” She wondered whether to explain why Carter needed a new identity, but it seemed like one of those less-said-the-better times.
“Does he have skills I can put into his background, so he can get a job somewhere?”
“Um, nothing I know of.” She supposed feeding chickens and planting onions weren’t things one listed on a CV. According to Carter, he’d been home-schooled after second grade because his mother didn’t like how the other kids treated him. “He can read and do basic math. He knows a little about government and he watches a lot of TV, so he is familiar with social issues.” She sorted through what she’d learned about Carter. His knowledge of practical things surprised her. Using a knife from her kitchen drawer, he’d fixed the dripping shower head she’d been bugging the maintenance guy about. Shocked that she didn’t own a hammer, he’d tacked down a loose corner of carpeting with one of her stiletto heels. Was ingenuity something you could put on a résumé?
“Ask about cars or farm machinery and he can tell you anything. Mention Shakespeare and he’ll probably ask who that is.” When Andy just looked at her, Robin raised her hands in a helpless gesture. “He knows a ton about video games. He won’t eat Chinese food because his mom said they use cats instead of chicken.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’ll see what I can come up with to fill in the gaps.”
An idea occurred to her. “From what I saw, he took great care of his mother in her final days.”
“Okay. We’ll give him a few years’ experience as a private caregiver.” Sliding the envelope into his backpack, Andy rose. “Meet me here at noon in two days and I’ll give you the basic documents. In a week or so he’ll be a new man, with credit cards, a debt history, and all the rest that goes with being an American.”
“Thanks.” Robin fiddled with her fake hair, feeling silly about the distrust that had caused her to wear it.
“No problem.” He waved casually as he walked away, his tablet tucked under one arm.
And it wasn’t. When next they met, Andy gave Robin a driver’s license in the name of Cameron Phillips, along with a believably battered birth certificate and a plastic-encased Social Security card with one corner bent, as if it had been stuffed into a drawer or wallet. “They look real,” she commented.
“As good as, unless you get the FBI involved.” He handed her a slip of paper. “The credit cards should arrive in the mail at this postal box, which I rented in Cameron’s name. He can have stuff forwarded from there to wherever he ends up.” He pointed. “The combination’s on the bottom.”
“You’re amazing.”
He regarded Robin as if deciding whether to say something. “I don’t usually give advice, but here’s what I’ve learned from watching clients either succeed or fail. To be a new person, your guy has to be willing to give up everything in his past. If he collects Fatheads, he has to stop. If he reads the New York Times, he should switch to the Washington Post. He can’t hold onto anything from his past, and that includes you.”
“Me?”
“He’s going to have to give you up, unless you want me to make you a new identity too.” Andy scratched at the back of his neck. “Judging from his photo, he’s quite the specimen, but you’re a good-looking girl. You’ll find someone new once he’s gone.”
The day was chilly, and as she shivered her way to her car, Robin considered Andy’s advice. He was wrong, of course. There was nothing between her and Carter—Cameron, she corrected herself. They’d spent over a week together in her apartment and had hardly touched in passing. Apparently she wasn’t his type, and she’d known for some time that he wasn’t hers.
That didn’t mean Andy’s advice was bad. This new man, Cameron Phillips, had to leave everything behind. After a sheltered life on a farm, could a guy with developmental problems carve out a spot for himself in a place where he knew no one?
“What would I miss?” Carter replied to the question as he examined his new driver’s license. “Mom and me only lived here since November, so I don’t know anyone except you and Mrs. Kane. I missed the farm at first, but they’re going to build a mall on top of it, so I can’t go back there anyhow.”
“But Carter, you’ll never see your friends again.”
“You’re supposed to call me Cameron now, right?” Frowning, he explained, “I only ever had one friend of my own. His name is Jerry, but he moved to California last summer to get into show business.”
“Show business?”
“Yeah.” His eyes remained focused on the screen. “I got a Christmas card. That’s the last I heard of him.”
His cheerful acceptance made Robin wonder if her secret roommate had any idea what his future would be like. Still, she didn’t see any other way to protect him, and besides, a change might be good for him. In a new place, Carter could open up to the world and make friends of his own.
Robin thought for a moment about leaving Cedar herself. She, her mom, and her brother had come here to get away from her abusive father, but even after more than a decade she wasn’t particularly attached to the area. She had friends here, but not close ones, and that was mostly her own fault. Years of hiding secrets – bruises, fears, and actions she was ashamed of – had put her in the habit of keeping people at arm’s length.
Yes, leaving Cedar was a good idea, she decided after some soul-searching and two glasses of white Zinfandel. Once she got Carter—Cameron—settled somewhere, she’d be done with taking risks and breaking laws. She could start over.
***
Robin was unloading the dishwasher and considering life in Arizona—her third choice in the last few hours—when her brother called to say he had a layover of several hours in Atlanta. Thrilled, she offered to drive over and meet him. Metterino’s Restaurant was Chris’ favorite place to eat in the city, so she planned to take him there and celebrate his twenty-eighth birthday a few days early.
The newly-christened Cameron claimed he’d be fine alone. To herself Robin admitted she could use a break after a week of having a 24/7 guest in her apartment. Not that Cam was intrusive; he played video games, watched TV, and had little to say, though it wasn’t difficult to learn what he thought about things. Cam was completely honest, without concern for anyone’s feelings. Robin learned that she was too skinny (his mother had said it so it must be true), the postman had really bad breath (she’d noticed), and boxers are much more comfortable than briefs because “your boys need room” (way TMI).
Cameron’s lack of concern for his safety was about to give her an ulcer. At least once a day, Robin cautioned him to stay away from the window. Each time, he backed obediently away, saying things like, “I was looking at the trees and birds and stuff.” He missed his evening walks, and Robin wished he could take one, if only to give her a little space.
The problem wasn’t Cam, really, it was Robin herself. Used to being alone, a couple of times she’d almost come out of the bathroom nude after her shower, forgetting she had a roommate. Though Cam avoided her bedroom as if it were a radioactive zone, it was weird living with a relative stranger.
Even weirder was all that cash sitting on her closet floor. Cam urged her to take whatever she needed, and she’d used it to pay Mink’s retainer and Andy’s fee. Those things were for Cam’s benefit though, and she thought of the money as his. Still, she talked herself into taking a few fifties from the bag before she left for Atlanta. Dinner with her brother would run late, so after he went on to Indianapolis, Robin decided she’d spend the night in a motel. Time alone would allow her to think things through, and if she and Cam ended up in prison next week, at least she’d be able to say she benefited once from their ill-gotten gains.
Robin picked her brother up at the airport, setting his travel wheelchair in the trunk of her car after he hefted himself into the passenger seat with powerful upper body muscles. The sight hurt every time, but she was proud too. Chris faced the latest blow life dealt him as he had others, with humor and hard work, making himself as independent as possible. Facing the same obstacles, Robin feared she couldn’t have been as upbeat.
Once they were in the car, she leaned over to hug him, feeling the scratchiness of the reddish beard he’d let grow to lumberjack length. “Good to see you, Older Brother,” she said.
“Same here, Baby Sister.”
A horn sounded behind them to hurry them along. Navigating the maze of airport roads, Robin and Chris caught up, falling into the emotional shorthand those who’ve grown up together often use, where a word or a look tells more than any words can. It would be just the two of them at dinner, since her sister-in-law was a U.S. Navy nurse currently stationed in Bahrain. Though Robin liked Annika, she looked forward to having her brother to herself for a couple of hours. As kids she and Chris had united to protect themselves and their mother from the man neither of them called Dad. Their father had simply been “Mark” or “He” when they spoke of him, which they hadn’t unless it was absolutely necessary.
Chris and Robin were still close, but their lives had gone in different directions. Though she’d had boyfriends along the way, no one she met inspired Robin to get married. Chris was disabled military, with a wife who adored him despite the fact he’d been blown literally to pieces by an IED and now lived in a wheelchair. Their story was one of those hospital romances paperback readers love, where nurse and patient fall in love despite his terrible injuries.
Robin’s precarious financial position was due in part to the fact that after their mother died, she’d lied to her brother for the first time in her life. Miranda Parsons, never one to think ahead, had left no money, no arrangements for funeral expenses, and plenty of credit card debt. Believing Chris had all the mental, physical, and financial problems he could handle, Robin had paid the bills herself, assuring him their flighty mother had gotten her act together in her last few years.
They arrived at the restaurant, and Robin stopped out front and retrieved the chair. Chris maneuvered himself into it and went inside while she parked the car. When they were seated, they consulted the menu and ordered, chatting the whole time about their health, the weather, and people they both knew back in Indiana. Once they’d caught up Robin asked, “How is the work going?”
After his injury, Chris had created a website meant to expose corruption in business and in government. “Hardly worth mentioning. I can’t get anyone interested in stopping the crap that goes on.”
“You will.” The waiter set a metal basket of rolls between them, and she peered under the napkin. “Of all the people I know who are capable of spotting cheaters, you’re my number one choice.” She chose a popover, adding, “You stood up to our own personal flim-flam man, and you’ll always be my hero for that.”
Chris’ smile was tinged with sadness. “He’d have beat me to a pulp if you hadn’t threatened to bean him.”
She tore the roll in half and buttered it more vigorously than was necessary. “We stuck together, Chris; that’s what sent him on his way.”
“I’m not sure Mom ever forgave me,” he said, “but it had to be done.”
Images of what they’d lived through as kids occupied her for a moment. Mark Parsons, a charming con man, had insisted his children assist in his schemes. If they did as he wanted, he told them how clever they were. If they failed to perform to his standards, he smacked them around. “The smartest and strongest are meant to survive, not the nicest,” he’d often told his family. “It’s how the world works.”
Their mother, a sweet but weak-willed person, accepted her husband’s faults with a shrug and a comment: “At least he provides for us.” Even when he slugged her for not getting his eggs right, she seemed unable to imagine life without him.
When Robin was thirteen, she’d come home to find her fifteen-year-old brother toe to toe with her father. Their mother sobbed in the background, one eye almost closed from a blow she’d received. Chris ordered Mark to leave and never come back, but he’d only laughed in response. Terrified for Chris, Robin had picked up the nearest weapon—a frying pan—and threatened to smash in her father’s skull if he hit Chris or her mother again. He hadn’t taken her seriously at first, but when she and Chris stood together, he’d stormed out, calling them “ungrateful bastards” and predicting they’d soon beg him to come home. It was the last time any of them ever saw him.
Her brother’s comment about forgiveness rang true. Though she loved her pretty, clueless mother, Robin knew Min Parsons would have stayed with Mark no matter what he did. When Chris took his stand, she’d had to move away from Indianapolis, get a job, and raise two kids on her own. Somehow she’d blamed her son but not her daughter for her changed life. It was no wonder Chris joined the military as soon as he possibly could.
Chris’ thoughts were focused on more recent history, and his voice brought her back to the present. “I went to Richmond yesterday to meet with a whistleblower, but the whole trip was a bust.”
The waiter set drinks before them, and Robin sipped her wine before asking, “Why’s that?”
Chris tasted his beer, sighed with pleasure, and wiped foam from his lip. “There’s a state senator who seems to be selling his votes to the highest bidder.” He arranged the condiments on the table more neatly as he spoke. “He has an exorbitant life-style and a drug habit. My source was supposed to provide evidence.”
“The guy was going to help you nail the man he works for?”
“It’s a woman,” Chris corrected. “She claims he’ll be paid to torpedo an upcoming bill in committee.” His brows descended. “The proposal is to build a new veterans’ center in the western part of the state, so you can guess it interested me.”
“What happened to change your whistleblower’s mind?”
He shrugged. “She won’t take my calls, so I can’t even ask her.”
Robin felt a familiar sense of outrage. “What do you have on him without her help?”
“Just old allegations. Nothing I can prove.” Chris folded his arms at his chest. “This was a chance to actually catch him with his hand in the cookie jar.”
“How can one guy kill a bill?”
Chris made yapping motions with his fingers as he parodied politician-speak. “‘It’s fiscally irresponsible to begin new projects in tough economic times.’” He bit into a breadstick with more than necessary ferocity. “They send guys like me to get blown up in foreign countries but claim the support we need afterward is too expensive for overburdened taxpayers. Apparently we can afford fancy planes and lots of bombs, but not wheelchairs and prostheses.”
“Sounds like a great representative for the people of his district.”
The waiter brought their salads, and when he’d set them down and moved away, Chris returned his silverware to exactly ninety degrees from the table edge. “I can’t prove what I know, so there’s no sense talking about it.”
Robin took up her fork. “He’ll slip up someday, and you’ll be there to catch him.”
“Who’ll even notice?” Chris asked. “People are sick of all the mud elected officials throw at each other for political gain. They stop listening—stop caring.”
“Can you blame them? Lies get picked up by the media and tossed around for days or even years because they’re supposedly ‘news.’” She made quotation marks with her fingers.
Chris brushed a few breadcrumbs from his beard. “This guy—Buckram—will look sad and tell how his conscience dictated his vote, but it will all be a lie.”
Robin leaned her elbows on the table, suddenly tired. “Is our government really that terrible?”
“No. There have always been people who get away with stuff they shouldn’t, Rob. You know that.”
She frowned. “Who bribes a senator to stop a veterans’ center from being built?”
“Well, fiscally conservative groups don’t support any new spending, but beyond that, you’d be surprised.”
Her mouth full of salad, Robin made a rolling hand gesture to indicate, Explain.
After a sip of beer, Chris obliged. “If the government has decent, well-administered programs for vets, there’s no incentive for donors, big and small, to support private organizations.”
“Those groups that make TV ads showing disabled vets that break your heart?”
“Exactly. Some are legitimate, but others spend way too much on ‘administrative costs,’ huge salaries for their top people and big bucks for celebrities who make more of those heart-tugging commercials.”
“Using veterans to make money. Yuck.” She deepened her voice to approximate Mark Parsons’ tone. “Life isn’t fair, kiddies; never has been, never will be. Grow up and deal with it.”
Chris smiled ruefully. “We can’t fix the world, Rob, so let’s just enjoy our meal.”
As if on cue, the waiter arrived with their entrees. Shifting his wheelchair closer to the table, Chris said, “Steak. Can’t beat it.”
“Pasta,” Robin replied in a familiar refrain. “Better than dead cow.” Her meal smelled divine, and she took a moment to savor it.
As they ate, she told Chris about losing her job, admitting she’d given in to rage and said things she shouldn’t have. “I ruined any chance I had of getting a decent reference. It was dumb, but I couldn’t believe what they’d done.”
His eyes had turned hard. “They let one worker go so they can hire someone else. Can they do that?”
She shrugged, trying to keep her voice light. “They did.”
“I’m really sorry to hear it, Rob, but that job wasn’t for you anyway—making nice with people who’ve got more money than humanity. Take it as an opportunity to find what you really want to do with your life.”
“Yeah. The Greens did seem to believe I wasn’t quite human, being female and lacking a law degree.” She washed down some noodles with wine. “It’s still not fair to screw someone over like that though.”
Chris salted his carrots as he talked, and she winced at how many shakes that required. “People shouldn’t be able to use their position to hurt others.” Setting down the salt, he took up the pepper. “I hate that the bad guys win way more than they should.”
Robin was tempted to tell Chris about the blow she’d struck for justice, but she didn’t. He’d worry if he knew she’d committed a crime—actually several crimes. And besides, she had to protect Cameron.
A thought tickled the back of her mind, but she brushed it away. It was dumb.
The thought fluttered back. You did it once. You could do it again.
No.
Chris’ hard work would achieve results.
No!
Chris is here, eager to share what he knows. It can’t hurt to talk about it.
Setting her wineglass gently on the tablecloth, Robin smiled innocently at her brother. “Tell me more about the senator with the drug problem.”
***
After a semi-restful night in the motel, Robin returned home to a crisis. At first things seemed normal enough. TV gunshots rang out as she unlocked the door, and she guessed Cameron was watching a cop show. When she entered, however, she found him perched nervously on the edge of the sofa, turned away from the screen. Facing him, her back perfectly straight in Robin’s saggy old recliner, was their neighbor, Ms. Kane.
“Good morning, Miss Parsons.” The old woman’s voice approximated the sound of a talking crow. “Carter and I have been waiting for you.”
Robin began explaining, mostly to give herself time to think. “I drove to Atlanta to meet my brother then spent the night at the Hampton Inn. The traffic this morning was brutal.”
“I see.”
Emily Kane reminded Robin of a teacher she’d had in middle school who could make the most innocuous comment seem like an accusation. With iron-gray hair and a chin that suggested silliness would not be tolerated, Ms. Kane wore glasses a decade out of style and spotted with what was possibly white paint. She hobbled around the building, speaking to other residents in homey clichés about rain coming down in buckets or sun so hot one could fry an egg on the sidewalk.
Ms. Kane smelled of arthritis cream and wore polyester everything: pants that bulged at the waist but drooped in the seat and pullover shirts in solid colors, always with a collar and two-button placket. She was seldom seen without a cardigan sweater, and today’s was navy blue. Sometimes she wore the garment; other times it draped over her shoulders. Today it lay folded over the arm of the chair. Apparently her body temperature was subject to frequent, violent changes.
There was a moment of silence as Robin considered her options. Carter/Cameron seemed frozen in place. Emily Kane waited, her mouth a straight line above her long chin.
Finally Robin chose her course of action. “Well, Carter, I want to thank you for checking on the apartment for me.” Turning to Ms. Kane she confided, “I’m kind of a baby about coming home after a trip. I always imagine someone has broken in while I was gone and—”
“He’s been living here.”
“Oh.”
Oh-oh.
“You’re not a couple.” She nodded at the blankets Cameron slept in, neatly folded at one end of the sofa. “He told the landlord he’d moved to California.”
“Colorado,” Cameron supplied, but a glance from Ms. Kane caused him to clamp his lips together and look down at his lap.
“My hearing is excellent, and your television has played for days, all day, even when you’re out. I saw him leaving here late last night.” One gray brow lifted slightly. “I get up several times at night to pee.”
Cameron turned to Robin, his expression guilty. “I needed to get outside for a while. I didn’t think—”
“It’s okay.” Turning a resolute face to Ms. Kane she said, “What he and I do, where we sleep, and how much TV we watch is none of your business.”
Surprisingly, the old woman nodded agreement. “That’s correct, except for two things. First, a man has come around asking about Carter.”
“Cameron,” he said helpfully. “I changed my name.”
Don’t tell her that!
Before Robin could decide how to react, Ms. Kane said, “It isn’t what they call you that matters, I suppose. It’s what you answer to. All right then, Cameron. The other reason for my concern is your welfare.” She adjusted her glasses, though when she finished they still sat crookedly on her ultra-thin nose. “When I moved in here, your mother was good to me.”
Cam nodded. “She said you were odd as two sticks but nice enough. I-I think that means she liked you.”
Ms. Kane accepted the comment with no apparent rancor. “She was a little drifty, your mother, but she had a good heart.” Turning back to Robin she said, “I won’t have Doreen Halkias’ only son used for some purpose of yours that will break his heart or his bank account.”
“It’s nothing like that, Ms. Kane.”
“From what I understand, it’s worse.” Her cane thumped sharply on the floor. “Carter tells me you’re hiding him here so he won’t be taken to jail.”
Feeling trapped, Robin gave the briefest possible explanation. “Cameron had an argument with someone—a misunderstanding really—and things got a little rough. The other party is kind of a big shot, and he’s liable to press charges. Since jail wouldn’t be a good place for Cameron, I decided to let him stay here for a while.”
“That’s why the private detective is looking for him? To charge him with assault?”
“I guess so.”
Ms. Kane studied Robin with faded-blue eyes. From the way her lips twitched, it seemed she was thinking.
Robin was thinking too, wondering how fast Andy could make her a new identity. We’ll take a train to D.C. and lose ourselves there. Or maybe we’ll take a bus west, to—“You haven’t done badly for amateurs,” Emily Kane said, “but you still need my help.”
What?
“Help? Um—”
A bony hand stopped her protest. “Do I look like I just fell off a turnip truck?”
“No, but Ms. Kane—”
“Then don’t try to string me along. And call me Em, like the aunt in The Wizard of Oz.” She squinted toward Robin’s tiny kitchen. “You’d better make a pot of coffee. My life story takes some telling.”
Having no idea what else to do, Robin rose to obey. Digging her almost unused coffeemaker out from under the sink, she located a packet of Hawaiian coffee she’d received as a Christmas gift from her Secret Santa. As the aroma of the brew filled the apartment, she put sugar into one plastic storage container and poured a half cup of milk into another, creating an impromptu condiment set. As Robin worked, Emily Kane talked.
“I retired from the FBI in 2006, after thirty years on the job. I spent most of my career in the Midwest, Michigan, Wisconsin, and Ohio.” She glanced at the snowless expanse outside the window. “I moved here so I’d never see another winter.” Her lips tightened. “Snow is pretty, but I miss that bitter cold about as much as I’d miss a chapped hind end.”
Robin was trying desperately to decide if Em Kane’s background hurt or helped the situation. If she’d spent years enforcing the law, her sense of duty might overcome any fondness she felt for her neighbor’s son. Hoping to generate amity, Robin said, “You must have had some interesting times.”
Em chuckled. “I certainly did. Female agents had to prove we could cut the mustard every single day.”
It was hard to imagine the seventy-plus Ms. Kane kicking down doors and chasing bad guys through the streets of Cleveland. Still, Robin reminded herself, old is what everybody gets to be if they don’t die first.
Pouring a cup for their guest and setting the sugar, milk and a spoon on the end table, she wondered if politeness demanded she have coffee too. Having never developed a taste for it, Robin instead got sodas for herself and Cam. Popping hers open with a hiss she asked, “What did you mean about us needing your help?”
“The private detective is good at his job, and he’s as determined as a blue jay at a bird feeder. He’s all over the building asking questions, and he’s come to my door twice.” She raised one gray brow. “I didn’t tell him anything, but I doubt he’ll give up easily.”
“Ms. Kane—Em—Cam plans to relocate soon. If you could keep his presence here a secret for a few days longer, he’ll be gone and the detective will go away. “We hate to ask you to lie, but—”
Em Kane’s smile was slightly feral. “Oh, I don’t mind lying, Honey, as long as it’s in a good cause.”
***
Robin went through the rest of that day and the night that followed with a war going on inside her head. The idea of subjecting the senator Chris had described to the same treatment they’d given Barney Abrams was crazy. But the lawyer she’d consulted hadn’t seemed outraged by her actions, and Em Kane had calmly offered to help Cam avoid the private detective who’d been poking around. Though neither of them knew all of it, the support of objective outsiders made Robin believe that her actions had been laudable, though certainly not legal. The next question was could they possibly get away with taking action against a second target? It meant they’d both have to go on the run, but they might accomplish something good in the process.
Senator Buckram was a con man who cheated others the way her father once had. Though Robin had felt sorry for her father’s victims, she’d been unable to help them. She guessed Chris’ current crusade to expose corruption stemmed from the same feelings of guilt and shame she had about their past. Now Chris had discovered a crook he really wanted to take down, but he was at an impasse. Robin wasn’t sure she was capable of following through for her brother, but she wanted to try. And that meant she needed to ask someone for objective advice.
Someone who will talk you out of this.
Robin took a seat on the same battered wooden chair in Mink’s cluttered office. In the outer room a couple argued in tones that suggested the disagreement was old and well-rehearsed. When Mink had peered out to see her in the waiting room, his weathered face creased in a smile, and Robin saw—hoped she saw—sympathy in his gaze. Maybe the lawyer felt sorry for everyone whose lives hadn’t turned out the way they imagined.
“Would you be interested in hearing a story, Mr. Mink?” she said when he was seated behind the desk.
His brow furrowed. “A story?”
“It’s a suspense novel I plan to write.” She swallowed. “It’s about clowns who want to fight corruption and dishonesty in America.”
Mink’s face lengthened as his brows rose. “You’ve come here to tell me a story?”
“Yes.” She met his gaze directly. “I need legal expertise in order to make the plot believable.”
He tilted his head to one side. “All right. Let’s hear this fictional tale.”
“My main characters are two clowns,” Robin began, “Bozo and, um, Clarabell. They have an acquaintance who’s in a position to hear of corruption in business and government. We’ll call him Ronald.”
“Of course.”
Her smile was brief. “Ronald doesn’t know he’s providing a basis for the actions of the other clowns.”
He nodded. “Is Bozo aware of Ronald?”
“Not specifically.” She made a waggling gesture with one hand. “Bozo pretty much trusts Clarabell to make decisions for both of them.”
Mink regarded her for a moment with his head tilted to one side. “Miss Polk—”
She almost turned to see who’d come into the office but realized after a moment that Polk was the name he knew her by.
“—are you certain this is a book you want to write?”
Silence stretched between them for perhaps thirty seconds. Mink waited with a patient expression. When she finally spoke, Robin told him something she’d never told anyone before.
“My father was—probably still is—a con man, a grifter, whatever you want to call it. He’s always on the con, and he doesn’t do it because he needs money or sex or your grandmother’s brooch. He does it because it makes him happy to take something away from someone else.” She stopped, but Mink remained silent. His expression revealed interest and nothing more, neither the disgust or the pity she’d feared.
“When I was a kid, he used to make me help him.” She paused to choose a typical example. “We’d go to a rest area, and he’d tell me to stand by the entry door and cry.” Her hands clenched in her lap. “If I couldn’t cry, he’d give me something to cry about.” Now Mink’s eyebrows approached each other, but he said nothing. “Sooner or later someone would stop and ask what was wrong. That’s when Mark would hurry over, put his arm around me, and explain that I was sad because my mom had been in a horrible house fire. He’d smile this really sad smile and tell them we were on our way to see her at the burn center when our car broke down. Then he’d look embarrassed and say he didn’t have any money, since payday wasn’t for two more days.” She brushed a hand through her hair. “At that point he’d manage a tear or two of his own, and seven times out of ten, the person who’d stopped forked over a twenty—sometimes a fifty.”
Mink leaned his face on his fist. “You felt like you helped him cheat those people.”
Robin gave a sniff that was half anger, half determination to keep from crying. “Mark had a dozen different scams, and we—I—was part of half of them.”
“So your, um, book is about righting your father’s wrongs?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think the things he did can ever really be made right, but I’d like to do what I can—in my story, I mean—to stop people like him.”
“What’s the next chapter going to be about?”
Robin described her “antagonist,” a politician who used his position to line his pockets. While she recounted the scenario that would bring the man face-to-face with his deeds, Mink listened, leaning back in his chair with a sneaker-clad foot on the handle of his desk drawer. “Just the two clowns plan to accomplish this?”
She smiled. “Well, there’s a lawyer whose advice would be useful.”
“And the lawyer’s job will be what?”
“Consultant.” She leaned forward in her chair. “In the first chapter, the clowns made mistakes. From now on they’d like to avoid them if possible.” Scooting the chair closer, she punched Mink’s stress toy with a finger and watched it return to shape. “You’ve seen criminals come and go. You know what works and what doesn’t.”
Mink’s expression seemed doubtful, and Robin said, “It’s all fictional, so you aren’t responsible if Bozo and Clarabell get caught.” When he still didn’t reply, she added, “Of course, I expect to pay for your advice.”
“Will the clowns demand money from the target?”
“Yes,” she replied. “For two reasons. First, they need money to get started in a new place. Second, when a person has to pay for something he’s done, the lesson is more likely to stick with him.”
Mink smoothed his ponytail with one hand. “Indulgences.”
“What?”
“In the Middle Ages, priests made sinners pay for forgiveness. Most today see that as corruption in the church, and they’re probably correct. But the priests might have known what you just said: losing something he cares about—money, for example—as a result of wrongdoing makes a person less likely to sin again.” He chuckled. “At least he’ll be more cautious about it.”
“These clowns aren’t priests,” she cautioned.
“True.” His tone turned warning. “They have no structure supporting them, and society is against vigilantes, though some see the value of, um, de facto justice if it’s applied with caution.”
Robin felt some of her tension dissipate. Her idea wasn’t crazy—well, it was, but not so crazy that Mink couldn’t see the value in it. “I like that. De facto justice.”
His manner turned businesslike. “Since money has never been my reason for doing what I do, I’ll advise your fictional clowns pro bono.” He reached out a hand, and they shook to seal the deal—his cool, dry palm meeting Robin’s warm, slightly damp one.
“We—the clowns—have agreed to give half the money to charity. Anonymously, of course.”
“What part of your novel do you want advice on?”
Now that they’d agreed to work together, Robin wasn’t sure how to begin. “What’s your first concern when you look at my plot?”
“Amateurs,” Mink replied without hesitation. “Your clowns were lucky the first time out, but they simply don’t know much about being criminals. How will they stay out of police data bases? How will they avoid facial recognition, which grows daily in scope and sophistication? If one of them is caught, will that lead to the capture of the other?” He spread his hands. “It doesn’t take much effort to become a criminal, but it takes a great deal of effort to be a criminal who remains uncaught.”
“All right,” Robin said thoughtfully. “I’ll work on those things. You said something before about telling the target that we—the clowns—will be watching them.”
“Yes. The clowns might claim they’ll monitor electronically or say they’ve bribed someone on the target’s staff to tattle if he returns to his old ways. That will depend on the situation. The prospect of electronic bugs is unnerving, and not knowing who can be trusted among his own people would make anyone think twice.” He considered for a moment. “You might want to establish some sort of communication that requires them to check in with you periodically. It’s easy to backslide when one doesn’t think anyone is paying attention.”
“Okay, so we need an email address or something where they have to report in. What else?”
Mink tapped his chin with his fingers. “They need an escape plan that covers all possibilities. Most criminals are caught because they simply can’t imagine things won’t go as they expect.”
“All right.” She rose. “I might not see you again, Mr. Mink—”
“Tell you what,” he interrupted. “If you need to speak with me, send me an email or a text with—” He scribbled some letters on the blotter until he found a combination he liked. “Put KNP in the heading. That way I’ll know it’s you, no matter what address or phone number it comes from. I’ll respond as soon as I can.”
“Great. Thank you very much.”
As they shook hands, he met her gaze. “Be careful,, Miss Polk. I’d hate to see your book end in tragedy.”
Robin promised she would, but she left Mink’s office with more questions than answers. How was she supposed to devise some genius escape plan? How could she set up a system that could track Buckram’s behavior after they released him? And how goofy was she, agreeing to secret codes and cloak-and-dagger conferences?
By the time she got home, Robin was half-angry with Mink. He could at least have tried to talk me out of it.
On Monday Robin was still a nervous wreck. She’d spent most of Saturday and Sunday at the large window in her small living room. She watched the sun rise over the buildings opposite, turn the parking lot below them to brilliant white, and retreat until street lights made circles in the darkness of night. No one came to arrest them.
That didn’t make her feel safe. Carter was guilty of kidnapping. She’d aided and abetted him, adding to the seriousness of the original crime. They were in possession of fifty thousand dollars that wasn’t theirs, no matter how moral their actions had been.
Still, it felt kind of good too. Robin Marie Parsons had struck a blow against corruption. She’d made a greedy, conniving businessman pay—not enough, apparently, but something.
What should she do next? The money was still in the black bag, stuffed at the back of her bedroom closet between her winter boots and her vanilla-scented sachet from Mexico. They hadn’t even counted it, though Carter had checked the stacks to make sure they were real. “Hundreds,” he reported. “We should have asked for fifties and twenties.”
She almost laughed out loud. That was the least of what we should have done.
Every possibility she considered created new fears. Robin herself was fairly safe, since no one knew she was involved, but she felt responsible for Carter. He’d started the mess, but she’d dragged him farther in.
She might open negotiations with the police on his behalf. He hadn’t meant any harm to Abrams, and they’d probably take his mental difficulties into consideration.
And lock him up as a violent mental defective, if Abrams has any say in the matter.
Could she take the blame onto herself and go on the run? Her career was in ruins anyway. She could start over somewhere new, and Carter could have his life back.
But Abrams knows Carter was there. He’ll insist Carter is punished, no matter what I say.
Robin wished she had someone to talk to about it. It would have to be someone who knew what they were faced with. Someone who knew the law.
That was it! She needed to find a lawyer and pay him a retainer. Once hired, he’d have to provide advice but couldn’t turn her in to the cops.
While Carter played Mines under Therla (which she’d gotten by sneaking into his apartment at three a.m.), Robin went through a mental list of the lawyers she’d met since moving to Cedar. The Greens were out, since they were jerks, mostly concerned with corporate law, and mad at her.
A man had come to the office once, a criminal lawyer who worked mostly for poor people. She’d pegged him as an old hippie, the kind who never trusted anyone over thirty until one day he woke up and realized he was twice that. He hadn’t looked particularly impressive, but from the grumbling the G’s did after he left, he’d managed to best them somehow.
What was his name?
Taking up her phone, she typed in Lawyers, Cedar GA. She got a long list, and after scrolling for some time, stopped at a name: R. Butler Mink. How could she have forgotten a name like that?
***
Butler Mink had an office downtown, up a flight of stairs and over a bakery. The odor of freshly-baked bread from below must have made it hard not to gain weight. Robin climbed the narrow steps to find a half-dozen people seated on battered folding chairs in the reception area. Beyond them the lawyer stood beside a metal desk in a closet-sized room with the door open. He had risen to escort a tough-looking young man out, and when he saw Robin in the entry, he waved her in, closing the door on the scowls she got for moving to the front of the line.
“I don’t get many appointments,” Mink said, waving at a slightly crooked wooden chair opposite his desk. “Mostly people just show up.”
The office smelled of perspiration and desperation, as if those who’d occupied the chair before her left the scent of their fear behind. Mink was friendly and reassuring, and she imagined him calming nervous parents and worried wives with his knowledge of the system and concern for their welfare. Though he was much as she remembered him, Mink seemed more at home here than he had at the Greens’ office. He wore corduroy jeans with a Falcons jersey, but on a hook near the door was a tweed jacket, a rather beat-up white shirt, and a plain black necktie. His hair was buzzed to an easy-to-keep half-inch on top, but a thin braid about a foot long ran down his back. His graying beard was trimmed short, and half-glasses sat almost at the end of his nose. Taking them off, he tossed them on the desk. “Have we met before?”
“A year or so back. I used to work for the Greens.”
One eyebrow rose. “Used to?”
“I got pushed out so they could move someone else in.” The confession and the bitterness in her voice surprised her. She hadn’t even told her brother yet about losing her job.
Mink touched a yellow legal pad near his right hand. “You want to sue them?”
“No. It’s something else.” Now that she’d come, Robin didn’t know how to begin. Mink waited, a look of polite interest on his uneven features. She guessed plenty of people had trouble getting started, probably because they knew they were guilty.
Just like I am.
“I want to hire you.” Opening her purse, she took out ten one-hundred dollar bills she’d taken from Barney Abrams’ bag. “Here’s a retainer.”
He glanced at the money and returned his gaze to her face, studying her for a moment. With an abrupt motion he slid open the center desk drawer, causing a metallic grate, rummaged in it until he found what he wanted, and slapped a receipt book on the table. He picked up the glasses and put them back on, squinting despite their helpful power. Scribbling an entry, he tore the white copy out of the book and handed it to her. “There. I’m officially your lawyer. Now you can say anything, and unless you’re planning a future crime, I can’t tell a soul.”
“I have no plans for crime in the future, but I need to tell you about the crime I did commit.”
She told the story she’d concocted, a blend of truth and fiction. A friend had been cheated. She’d found out who cheated him and got revenge by waylaying the cheater and making him pay a fine in return for his freedom. Unsure if lawyer-client privilege extended to Carter, she made herself the lone criminal.
It did no good. “Who’s this friend?” he demanded.
“I can’t—”
Mink regarded her over the glasses. “I need to know everything if I’m going to help you.”
She set her lips. “I don’t want to implicate anyone else.”
The huff he made might have been humor, might have been disgust. “Okay. Tell me the real story this time, but use...um, Bozo in place of the other person’s name.”
“The clown?”
“I’ll picture him with a white face and a crazy hairdo.” He leaned back, folding his arms on his chest.
The papers hadn’t reported that Abrams was kidnapped. Robin had given a false name when she made the appointment with Mink, and she’d paid in cash. He had no way of knowing what they’d done, no way to learn her identity.
Too late she recalled mentioning she’d worked for the Greens. Operating outside the law is harder than I imagined.
Rubbing her hands together, she gave Mink a second, more truthful account, this time admitting she hadn’t instigated the crime but merely exacerbated it. When she finished, he asked questions that were perceptive, to the point, and probing. She thought about each one before answering, trying to be as honest as possible without revealing details that might identify Carter or Abrams.
“So this person you and Bozo kidnapped and held for ransom. He’s important?”
“Um, yes. You could say that.”
“And now you’re afraid he’s going to call the cops on Bozo.”
“Yes. The man knows Bozo’s name and address.”
“But you recorded his confession.”
“Yes. But Bozo is...different. He couldn’t stand up to this guy in any sort of verbal battle.” Robin scrubbed a hand across her forehead. “I’m afraid he’ll end up in some institution, and that’s not right. Bozo isn’t violent, and he’s actually pretty smart as long as he can take things slowly and do them his own way.”
Mink turned his chair from side to side for a few seconds, causing the oil-parched base to make cries of distress that were almost human. Just as Robin concluded she’d made a mistake showing up there, the lawyer’s face broke into a grin. “Miss Polk, you’re a heck of a woman.”
She sat up straighter in the chair. “What?”
“Don’t get me wrong. The courts in this county would string you and your friend up for this, calling you vigilantes and worse. But sometimes I don’t think much of the way the law operates these days. We protect the privileged and squirt grapefruit juice in the eye of the poor.” Leaning one elbow on the opposite arm and setting his chin on his fist, he asked, “You didn’t set out to commit a crime, did you?”
“Well, no.”
“And you didn’t hurt the guy.”
“Of course not.”
“Then I say, ‘Good for you.’ You let him know he can’t always get away with crap.” Mink frowned. “Now if it had been me, I’d have demanded better behavior in the future.” Apparently speaking from experience he added, “It’s all well and good to teach guys like that a lesson, but the lesson doesn’t stick as often as we’d like to think. In a month or six, he’ll be at it again.”
Robin grimaced, conceding the point. “I wasn’t thinking of anything but getting justice for—Bozo.”
Mink waved dismissively. “Your guy probably laughed out loud the next morning when he woke up in his own bed, still owning land he’s going to get rezoned commercial and sell for a million dollars.”
She bristled a little at the implied criticism. “We didn’t do it for the money.”
Mink’s expression turned serious. “Right, you were helping Bozo. If the police weren’t called, that’s good, but there’s no guarantee the, um, target won’t arrange to get back at Bozo some other way.”
Robin shuddered. “That’s why I’ve got him hidden.”
His nod signaled cautious approval. “But what’s your long-term plan?”
“I guess that’s why I came to you. I don’t know—” She stopped and smiled sadly. “I don’t even know what I don’t know.”
Mink covered the whole lower part of his face with the palm of one hand then slid it down to his neck. “You say the guy’s got no relatives?”
“Nor friends. That’s why he called me when he needed help, though we’re just neigh—acquaintances.”
It really is hard to be consistently dishonest.
He ignored her mistake. “If he had a new identity, could Bozo relocate and live on his own?”
The suggestion surprised her. “Is that possible?”
The lawyer—her lawyer—picked up a spongy stress reliever shaped like the head of former President “Dubya” Bush and began squishing it in his right hand. Robin wondered if he was feeling torn between his obligation to the justice system and his desire to help her.
“I have a former client who deals in such things.” He shifted in the dilapidated chair. “Of course I can’t give you his name, because I’d be encouraging a criminal act for both of you.”
Robin had felt a ray of hope when he mentioned a new identity for Carter, but the ray faded.
Mink stared at the ceiling as he squished the ex-president’s head. “This former client’s name is in my address file there.” He pointed at what was possibly the last remaining Rolodex on the planet. “At least I think it is. I’d better check.” He flipped through until he found the name he wanted, picked up a pencil, and jabbed it between two cards. “There. Now I can call him later and see how he’s doing.” His eyes said what his voice didn’t, and the ray began to shine again.
Rising, Mink said, “I need to go out and bring in my next client. I’ll be gone a few minutes, so you should gather what you need and be on your way.” Stepping past Robin, he pulled the office door closed with a parting comment. “Fifty thousand dollars will buy Bozo a lot of anonymity.”
