Good People

What he didn’t find was the key to a safe-deposit box. A day pla

No drugs, and no clue as to where Tuttle might have stashed them. After three and a half hours, the only thing he was certain of was that whatever the man in the suit wanted, it wasn’t in this house.

THERE WAS ONLY ONE THING to do.

Tom noticed dirt under his thumbnail, and picked at it with the nail of his middle finger. He smelled sour, his dress shirt marked with sweat stains. The clock on the bedside table read just after five. A

The man in the suit hadn’t given a deadline, hadn’t told him to have the “merchandise” in forty-eight hours. But why would he? He would have known Tom would rush right home and tear the place apart. Would have counted on it. He’d probably give him the night, maybe the next day. But there wouldn’t be any point in waiting longer. Either Tom could deliver or he couldn’t. Which meant that very soon, two dangerous men were going to come looking for something he did not have.

He took a breath, held it, blew it out. Tried to steady his thoughts. He was scared, absolutely, but it was more than that. Or beyond that, maybe. This whole situation felt surreal, and he was struggling for context. Trying not to just give in and go with it, hope that things worked out for the best.

He saw Andre’s smile again, wet lips and white teeth, and he stood up, walked into the hallway, rubbing at his neck.

All right. Go through it again. One more spin round.

The drugs weren’t here. And there was nothing that gave him an idea where to look. Worse, because he hadn’t mentioned the robbery, he’d painted himself into a corner. Been too clever. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now if he tried to tell the truth… Jesus: Our house was actually ransacked a couple of days ago. Sorry – didn’t I mention that?

He didn’t even have anything to offer; matchbooks and last month’s cable bill wouldn’t save their lives. He had nothing to give the man in the suit.

Wait. That wasn’t true. He had three hundred thousand dollars in a duffel bag. Tom stood in front of the bay window, looked out on the street. The money was a possibility.

Except, what happened when you gave a sack of cash to a killer? Maybe he’d shoot them just to clear the last ties. Or maybe he’d smile, say thanks, and leave. How the hell should Tom know? This wasn’t his world.

There was only one choice.

Tom walked out, leaving behind the faint smell of fire.

Climbed the steps, limbs heavy with the effort of the last hours. Unlocked his door, and was surprised to hear a short double beep. The new alarm system. A

But nothing would. Over an Italian beef sandwich, his whole life had changed. He was an amateur in a game whose rules he didn’t understand. All he knew for certain was that if he waited too long, the man in the suit would come back, telling tales of Genghis Khan and threatening everything Tom loved.

He set down the glass of water, took the business card from the drawer where he’d stowed it, picked up the phone, and dialed. After one ring, it went straight to voice mail. As he listened to the message, the tone deep and calm, he told himself that he was doing the right thing. Or at least the best thing he could see.

When he heard the beep, he said, “Detective Halden? This is Tom Reed. I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day, as you were leaving. We need to talk. Please call me as soon as possible.” He left his cell number, then hung up and leaned his elbows on the counter, head in hands, trying to imagine how to tell his wife that in order to save her life he had to destroy her dreams.

11

THE INTERIOR OF KAZE was designed in a style Tom thought of as space-age Zen: white walls, white tables, white light, minimalist plates and glasses. They’d ordered a bottle of sake, which the waitress had poured into a funky decanter that was a cross between a vase and a bong. Personally, he could take or leave sushi, but A

Or he would, anyway, once he ma

But A

“Always,” he’d said.

She laughed, said, “Yeah, yeah,” and stepped away with a smile. “Prove it. Buy me di

Her good mood had continued through the evening. She’d hummed while she changed from a T-shirt and jeans into a summer dress and flip-flops with silver bangles. She’d pulled her hair back into double ponytails, a style they joked was her Inga-the-Exchange-Student look. It had been a long time since he’d seen her so happy, so unequivocally in the moment. Knowing he had to smash that was like knowing he had to strangle a puppy.

The evening was warm, and they’d decided to walk the two miles to the restaurant. She was irrepressible, pointing at flowers and smiling at the smell of barbecue, talking about their nephew, describing how big he had gotten, how he giggled when she made fu

“Huh?”

“You’re kind of quiet.”

“I’m just… mellow,” he said. She accepted his explanation without comment, went on talking about Julian, and then about the summer night and their plans to get away for the Fourth of July, while he walked beside her, hating himself for the lie. He decided he would tell her right after they ordered.

But they’d started with martinis. Then appetizers. A short bottle of sake, and a first round of sushi. Another bottle, another round. Tom splurging as if an extra half-dozen pieces of nigiri could somehow make up for the loss of the money and their plans.

Now there was nothing but scraps of pink ginger on the bamboo plank, and he was trying to convince himself that they needed dessert. Some sorbet, or a cheese plate. She looked so lovely by the candle glow, features soft and eyes sparkling.