“Dad set it up,” she said. “He set the whole thing up. He paid Howard a quarter of a million dollars to go to the FBI. He said he was closing the business and turning himself in. Howard needed the money. He had a son who was in bankruptcy. There never was any sting by the FBI. It was all my father. He did it himself.”
Greg sat up, his expression both incredulous and worried. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“I know. Why would he want to hurt us like this? Why would he want to bring this on himself? It was like it was all part of some kind of plan. I don’t know what to fucking believe anymore. My mom is dead. We’re hiding out like animals. I’m starting to think they’re right, the FBI. That he did kill that agent. I loved my father, Greg. He was everything to me. But I know now … he came home every goddamn night my entire life and he lied to us. Who the hell was my father, Greg?”
Greg came over and sat beside her. He cupped her face in his hands. “Why are you doing this, Kate?”
She shook her head, glassy-eyed. “Doing what?”
“Putting yourself right back in the middle of all this again. Sharon’s dead, baby. You’re just lucky as hell you weren’t killed yourself. These people are animals, Kate. They tried to kill you, too.”
“Because I have to know!” Kate shouted, pulling away. “Don’t you understand? I have to know why my mother died, Greg. What she was trying to tell me …?
“No one ever went to jail, Greg. Not Concerga, not Trujillo. None of the people my father testified against. No one except Harold, his stupid friend. They all got away—everyone the government really wanted. Doesn’t that seem strange to you? Then he just disappears after a couple of months and that woman agent ends up being horribly killed. He lied to us, Greg. For what? Wouldn’t you want to know?”
Greg put his arm around her shoulders and held her close. “We can’t just keep living with this hanging over our heads our whole lives. All that’s going to happen is you’ll get yourself killed. Please, Kate, let’s get back to our lives.”
“I can’t.…”
“And I can’t go there with you, Kate. Not like this. Not forever.” He lifted her face. “I tried to reach you a while ago. I have some news.”
“What?”
“New York – Presbyterian called. They offered me the position.” His face widened into a proud grin. “I got in!”
As an attending. In children’s orthopedics. The Morgan Stanley Children’s Hospital was one of the best programs in the city. This was great news. A few months before, Kate would have leaped for joy. But now she just put her hand on his cheek and smiled. Now she wasn’t sure.
“We can stay in New York. We can start a life. I love you, baby, but I can’t do this every day and think of you putting yourself in danger. We have to set this aside. If we stay, we have to face the future. Both of us, Kate. They want to know if I’m taking it. Are we going to stay or leave, honey? Are we going to go forward and live our lives? It’s up to you, Kate. But I have to give them an answer soon.”
The laundry truck turned down the sleepy street for its last stop around 8:00 P.M. It braked in front of the blue-shingled ranch, blocking the navy Taurus parked on the curb. One last delivery to make.
With some shirts draped over his finger, Luis Prado climbed out of the cab.
The street was dark, illuminated by a single streetlamp. People were in their homes, cleaning up after dinner, watching American Idol on TV, chatting online.
Luis had already killed the young driver with a single shot to the head, stuffing his body in a pile of dirty linens and laundry bags in the back of the truck. He nodded with a wave to the two figures hunched in the Taurus as if he’d seen them before, heading up the walk toward the neighboring house. Then, as he came even with the Taurus, he drew his silenced Sig nine-millimeter from behind the hanging shirts.
The first shot splintered the passenger window with a muffled thud and hit the agent closest to Luis in the forehead, just as he exhaled a plume of smoke, leaving a round, black burn between the agent’s eyes. He keeled silently into his partner, whose face became a contorted mask of alarm, groping inside his jacket for his weapon, reaching for the radio with some garbled, final cry.
Luis squeezed the trigger two more times—the nine-millimeter bullets crashing squarely into the agent’s chest, spitting blotches of red over the windshield, immobilizing him with a gurgling groan. Luis yanked open the door and placed a final round in the agent’s forehead, removing any doubt.
He glanced around. The street was clear. The laundry truck was blocking anyone’s view. Luis took the shirts and headed up the steps to the blue-shingled house. Concealing his gun behind them, he rang the bell at the door.
“Who’s there?” someone called from inside. A woman.
“Cleaning, señora.”
The window shade nearest the door was drawn back, and Luis spotted a blond woman in a tan suit peering out at the white truck. “Next house!” she called, pointing to the left.
Luis grinned like he didn’t understand, holding up the shirts.
The front-door lock turned. “Wrong house,” the government bodyguard said again, barely cracking the door ajar.
Luis rammed his shoulder into the door, smashing it open, sending the blond agent reeling onto the floor with a startled cry, frantically fumbling for her gun. He squeezed two silenced slugs into the white of her blouse, her hands involuntarily pushing out to stop them.
“Sorry, hija,” Luis muttered, shutting the door. “I’m afraid it’s right.”
A dog came out of the kitchen, the white Lab he’d seen a few days before. Luis dropped it with a shot into its neck. The dog whimpered and fell silent on the floor.
Luis knew he had to work fast. Any second, someone walking by might spot the bloody agents in the Taurus. He didn’t know how many people were in the house.
He went into the living room. Empty. He lifted a phone off the hook. No one on the line.
“Pam,” a woman called from inside the kitchen. Luis followed the voice. “Pam, did you tell them it’s the next house?”
Luis stood facing the lady he’d seen emptying the trash a few days before. She was at the stove in a pink robe making a cup of tea. She dropped the cup onto the floor, ceramic shattering, as her eyes fell on the gun. The gas burner was left aflame.
“Where is he, señora?”
The woman blinked, taken by surprise, not sure what was happening. “Chowder? Here, boy! What did you do to Chowder?” she called, louder, backing close to the fridge.
“Don’t play with me, mama. I axed you where he is. Your fucking dog is dead. Don’t make me ax you again.”
“Who?
