“Sure,” I said. “That would be great. I’ll text you when I’m done for the day. It might be a while, though. Mosley will probably find something for me to do here at the bank afterward.”
“Okay. Talk to you later. I love you, Finn.”
The warm, earnest sincerity in her voice was another punch to my gut. Just like Gin, Bria had risked her life to break into the bank to save me, and she’d stood by me ever since, despite all the times I’d ignored her when Deirdre had been alive.
“I love you too,” I said in a hoarse voice. “I gotta go now.”
“I know, baby,” she whispered back. “I know.”
We both hung up. I sighed and slumped back in my chair, eyeing the dark, empty space under my desk. When I was a kid, I used to sneak into my dad’s office at home, curl up under his battered old wooden desk, and read my comic books for hours on end. I’d pretend it was my own fort, my secret hiding place, where no one could ever find me. Right now, I wanted to be that happy, carefree kid again, curl up under this desk, and pretend the last few weeks had never happened.
But I couldn’t do that. Like it or not, this was all my fault, and I was going to face every single sickening second of it, including Peter Vargas’s funeral.
I got to my feet, buttoned my black suit jacket, grabbed my long black trench coat from the rack in the corner, and left my office.
The bank was closing early for the service. The other workers were riding together in groups of twos and threes, but I was all alone as I got into my car, cranked the engine, and pulled out of a nearby parking garage.
I left the busy downtown streets behind and drove out to the more rural part of Ashland until I reached Blue Ridge Cemetery. I steered my car into the line of vehicles crawling into the cemetery, pulled off to the side of the access road, and parked on the grass, along with everyone else.
I got out of my car and followed the other mourners to the grave. Several rows of metal folding chairs had been arranged in front of a silver casket with a lovely spray of red and white roses draped over it. A picture of Peter Vargas was propped up next to the casket, and I stared at the face of the man I’d gotten killed. Black hair, brown eyes, friendly smile. Peter and the other guards hadn’t deserved to be murdered just because I’d been stupid enough to trust the wrong person. I should have been the one lying in that casket. I would have been, if not for Gin, Bria, and the rest of our friends. But here I was, still aboveground, while Peter was about to be lowered into it forever. An icy wave of guilt surged through my body, numbing me from the inside out.
In addition to being well liked at work, Peter had been well respected in the community, involved in all sorts of activities, including volunteering as a coach for several kids’ sports teams. More than two hundred people had shown up for his funeral, and the chairs in front of the casket quickly filled. Everyone spoke in soft, sad voices, saying what a shame it was that such a nice, decent, hardworking guy was gone before his time.
I wholeheartedly agreed with them, although I didn’t join in any of the conversations. No one wanted to talk to me. Besides, the bank workers were giving me more hostile stares than ever before, so I decided that the best thing to do was to stand off by myself to the right of the casket, out of everyone else’s way.
A murmur rippled through the crowd, and Isabelle Vargas appeared. She was still wearing the same black pantsuit and heels she’d had on at the bank, along with a long black coat. She’d freshened up her makeup, but her eyes were even redder than before, and I could tell that she’d been crying again.
A man who looked just like Peter walked beside Isabelle, escorting her to the center chair in the first row of mourners. He was Peter’s brother, and I thought back to my conversations with the guard, trying to remember his name. It came to me a few seconds later. Paul Vargas.
But the worst part was the other person walking beside Isabelle, a little boy about three years old. Leo, Peter’s son.
He too looked just like his father, with a messy mop of black hair and big brown eyes. Leo held his mother’s hand, his head swiveling back and forth as he stared at all the people gathered around the grave and the casket. A frown creased his tiny face, and it was obvious that he didn’t really understand what was going on and why everyone was so sad and quiet.
Isabelle sat down, scooped up Leo, and settled him on her lap, kissing his forehead, smoothing down his hair, and hugging him tightly, just like a loving mother should. Emotion clogged my throat, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. All I’d wanted was a chance to get to know my own mother, and all she’d given me in return had been pain, heartache, misery, and death.
Leo looked around at all the people again, then smiled, perked up, and pointed to the portrait sitting next to the casket. “Daddy!”
That one innocent word shattered my heart.
And it must have done the same to Isabelle’s, because she brought her hand up to her mouth and choked back a sob. She quickly wiped away a couple of tears that streaked down her cheeks, bent her head, and whispered something to Leo. The boy squirmed around and rested his head on her chest, and Isabelle started rocking him back and forth, trying to soothe him and herself.
The funeral went the way they always did. The minister saying prayers and offering words of comfort, people staring solemnly at the casket, friends and family wiping away tears of grief. I just stood there, too cold and numb to do anything else. I couldn’t even cry. I didn’t have the right to cry. Not when Peter was dead because of me.
The service only lasted about twenty minutes, although it seemed like an eternity. The minister said a final prayer and tipped his head at Isabelle.
“Isabelle would like to invite everyone back to the house for a celebration of Peter’s life,” the minister said in a solemn voice. “There will be food and refreshments, and Isabelle would appreciate hearing stories and memories of Peter.”
My heart twisted, and I looked through the crowd of mourners at Stuart Mosley, dreading what I would see. Sure enough, the dwarf gave me a sharp nod, a clear sign that he expected me to go to the gathering, even though I wouldn’t be any more welcome there than I was here. But it wasn’t a request, so I sighed and nodded back.
A line formed in front of the casket, with each person taking a rose from the spray and saying their final good-byes to Peter. Isabelle went first, holding Leo’s hand again, Paul right behind her. Tears streamed down her face as she stared at her husband’s portrait; but she squared her shoulders, gripped her son’s hand a little tighter, and moved into the waiting crowd of mourners, accepting their condolences and good wishes.
Isabelle glanced over at me as she walked by, surely thinking that I was just another person who’d come to pay his respects. When she realized who I was, her lips curled with disgust, as even more tears cascaded down her face. She hurried away from me, gently pulling her son along in her wake.
Paul Vargas also knew exactly who I was. He too gave me a disgusted look as he followed his sister-in-law and helped her into a waiting car. And he wasn’t the only one. Pretty much every single person except Stuart Mosley gave me an angry glower as they all left the grave and headed for their vehicles, but I lifted my chin and stood my ground, accepting their hate, disgust, and loathing.
I deserved it.
The crowd thinned out quickly, and soon I was the only one left by the grave. I swallowed down the hard knot of guilt in my throat, walked over to Peter’s portrait, and studied his smiling face again.
Peter Vargas had been a stand-up guy who loved his family more than anything else. He was always picking up books, chocolates, and other small gifts for Isabelle, just because he wanted to do something nice for his wife. He’d been so proud when Leo had been born, and he’d shown me dozens of photos of his son over the years. Ever since Bria and I had gotten together, Peter had always kidded around with me, saying that it was time for me to start my own family
. I’d laughed and told him maybe I would someday.
All of Peter’s somedays were over.
He’d had a family, and he’d been taken away from them. He’d never buy Isabelle a present again or read his son a bedtime story or do any of the other small, thoughtful things that made a family, well, a family.
Hot, sour bile rose in my throat at the unfairness of it all, but I choked it down. I didn’t get to feel sad or sorry for myself. Not anymore. Never again.
Instead, I stared at Peter’s portrait, my gaze locked with his distant, frozen one. “I’ll do everything I can to watch out for your family,” I said in a hoarse voice. “It’s the least I can do for you.”
It was the same promise I’d made at the graves of all the other guards who’d been killed during the bank robbery. And just like with all the others, it didn’t make me feel any better. Peter and the other guards were still dead, and nothing I said or did would change that or take away their families’ pain and grief.
But it was all I could do. So I nodded at Peter’s portrait a final time and left the grave, carrying my guilt and heartache with me, the way I always would now.
4
The Vargas home was a nice two-story house in a new subdivision, not too far away from Jo-Jo Deveraux’s beauty salon. It was situated on top of a small hill at the end of a cul-de-sac, the first one to be finished in the neighborhood, although the framework for two other houses had been erected nearby. Everyone else had already arrived, filling the cul-de-sac, and I had to park down at the very end of the street behind a black SUV.
I started to get out of the car but stopped and stared at the vehicle in front of mine. I pulled out my phone and called up the photo I’d taken of the SUV outside the bank earlier today. Sure enough, the license plates matched. Bart the Butcher was here.
I frowned. Stuart Mosley carefully screened all the bank guards, making sure that they didn’t have any bad habits or vices that might affect their job performance or compromise bank security. Peter Vargas had worked at the bank for years, and he’d been squeaky clean from top to bottom. There was no way Peter had been involved with someone as shady as Bart Wilcox, but here the bookie was, all the same, at the man’s house right after his funeral.
I wasn’t as insanely paranoid as Gin, but it was obvious that something was going on here—something bad.
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, thinking. Then I got out of the car, went around to the back, and popped open the trunk, revealing several black cases. I glanced around, making sure no one was out on the street watching me, then opened one case, pulled out a loaded gun, and stuck it into my trench-coat pocket, along with an extra clip of ammo.
Was taking a gun to a mourners’ gathering in poor taste? Absolutely. But in Ashland, it was always better to be safe than sorry, even at a funeral.
I shut the trunk, locked my car, and headed toward the Vargas house.
It was your typical suburban home, painted a light, cheerful blue, with white shutters and a wide, white wraparound porch. The attached garage was also blue, with a white metal door that was rolled up, showing a minivan and a sedan inside, Isabelle’s and Peter’s vehicles. I stepped onto the lawn and headed up the hill toward the front porch steps—
Crunch.
My foot slipped on something hard and metal, and I had to windmill my arms to keep from falling on my ass. It took me a few seconds to regain my balance. I looked down to see that I’d stepped on a bright red toy fire truck half hidden in the thick grass. A couple of plastic firefighters lay next to it, along with the tiny figure of a grinning Dalmatian. Still more toys, everything from foam footballs to stuffed animals to building blocks, were scattered throughout the yard. Cruel reminders of a little boy who didn’t have a father to play with him anymore.
I carefully stepped over the fire truck, walked up the rest of the lawn, and trudged up the front-porch steps. Through the wide picture windows, I could see people moving inside the house, eating, drinking, and talking somberly. More guilt and tension surged through me, tying my stomach into knots. This was the very last place I wanted to be, but Mosley had insisted, so I reached for the knob so I could go inside and pay my respects to Isabelle again—
“You said you would have my money today,” a low voice growled.
“And I will! I swear I will!” another voice, higher and whinier, chimed in. “Only I’ll have it tomorrow instead. Or in another day or two at the very latest.”
I knew a shakedown when I heard one. The voices were coming from around the far side of the porch, so I moved away from the front door and headed in that direction, walking slowly so no one would hear my wing tips tapping against the wooden floorboards. I reached the end of the porch, eased up, and peered around the corner.
Bart the Butcher was leaning against the white porch railing, still in his dark gray suit, his gold rings sparkling in the winter sun. Two giant goons, also in gray suits, flanked him, their arms crossed over their chests in their best tough-guy intimidation poses. But Bart didn’t need them to intimidate anyone. He was plenty menacing all on his own.
And he was currently menacing Paul Vargas.
Paul was standing in front of the other giant, shifting back and forth on his feet and making the floorboards creak under his weight. Bart gave him a hard, flat stare that had Paul slowly backing away from him.
“Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow,” Bart said, making his voice a high, mocking imitation of Paul’s. “That’s all you ever tell me. I’m tired of tomorrows. I want the money you owe me, Paulie—today. Or there will be consequences. Very painful consequences.”
Paul’s dark gaze dropped to the gold rings glinting on Bart’s fingers. He swallowed and took another step back. At least, he tried to. He was already pressed up against the side of the house, so there was nowhere for him to go.
Paul realized that he wasn’t going to get any sympathy from the other giant, so his head snapped to the left, looking at someone I couldn’t see. “Tell him, Izzy. Tell him I’ll have his money tomorrow.”
A soft sigh sounded, and Isabelle Vargas stepped into view, standing between her brother-in-law and his bookie. “I told you before, when you picked me up at the bank. Stuart Mosley said the money from Peter’s life-insurance policy will be here any day now. As soon as I have it, I’ll give it to you. I promise.”
“Funny, but that’s the same thing Peter said,” Bart replied. “He told me a month ago that he was going to take out a second mortgage on this house to pay for his little brother’s gambling debts. But it never happened.”
“Because he was murdered,” Isabelle snapped back, her hands clenching into fists. “Not because he wasn’t going to go through with it.” Her body trembled with fresh grief, and tears shimmered in her eyes, but she blinked them back.
Bart let out a low, ugly laugh. “The grieving widow. Aw, isn’t that sweet? At least you actually cared about your husband. Too bad Paulie doesn’t feel the same way about his dearly departed brother.”
Isabelle frowned. “What do you mean?”
Bart shrugged his massive shoulders. “I mean Paulie here has still been texting me this whole time, ever since Peter got whacked at the bank, placing more bets on those football games and fantasy teams that he loves so much—and losing more money. Why, he even called me bright and early this morning, before the funeral, asking about Sunday’s games.”
Surprise and anger sparked in Isabelle’s eyes, and she whipped around to Paul. “You promised Peter that you’d quit this time. You promised me!”
“But Izzy,” Paul said, his voice creeping up into another high whine. “I was just trying to win back Peter’s money for you. I’ve looked at all the stats, and I’ve got a matchup this weekend that’s surefire—”
Isabelle’s hand shot out, and she slapped him across the face. Paul’s mouth dropped open, probably to spout some more nonsense about how he jus
t couldn’t lose this time.
Isabelle slapped him again before he could utter a single word.
Her brother-in-law staggered back, his hand snapping up to the bright red welts on his cheek as if he couldn’t believe they were there. He opened his mouth again.
“Don’t you dare say a word to me right now,” Isabelle growled, pointing her finger at him. “Not one single word.”
Paul slowly shut his mouth and crept back another step, out of slapping range.
Bart laughed again. “Looks like we have ourselves a little spitfire here. Nice.”
Isabelle glared at her brother-in-law a moment longer, then faced Bart again, her shoulders slumping with weary resignation. “How much does he owe you now?”
The bookie casually scratched his chin, as if he were running the numbers in his head, even though he already knew the exact amount down to the last cent. “Oh, I figure Peter’s life-insurance policy should just about cover it.” He grinned. “Along with whatever money you get from selling your nice new house.”
Isabelle’s face paled. “You can’t take our house too. My son and I have nowhere else to go. Please, I’m begging you—”
Bart pushed away from the porch railing and started cracking his knuckles, making all of those gold-and-diamond-crusted rings on his fingers gleam with a cold, sinister light. “There’s one thing you should know about me, Mrs. Vargas. I absolutely hate beggars. They just make me want to hit them that much harder.”
For several seconds, the only sound was the crack-crack-crack of the giant’s knuckles, each one as loud as a gunshot ringing out across the porch, each one making Isabelle flinch with fear, dread, and understanding.
Bart finally dropped his hands to his sides, although he kept staring at Isabelle. “You have until the end of the day to get me my money.”
“Or?” she whispered.
The giant smiled, baring his teeth like an animal about to strike its prey. “Or I’ll make sure that the only thing Paulie bets on is how long he’ll be slurping up his meals through a straw. Trust me when I tell you that it will be a long, long time.”