Hidden Vices (3 page)

Four

I glanced over at
the main house. Of course no lights were turned on. I hardly expected there to be. I must have read through the newspaper ten times before I searched the Internet about the woman in the store who was on the front page of the day's paper. Only then did I realize she'd been in the newspaper quite a bit recently. I felt quite badly for her. Her eyes were sad. They matched her somber demeanor. I found myself thinking that we all go through hell at one point or another, suffering. But hers—hers seemed a unique torment. And now I knew why.

Megan's nightmare on the dock hit too close to home. Figuring she wouldn't get to sleep again soon, she decided to unpack. The first item she took out she placed on the bedside table. It was a photo of her parents before the Alzheimer's, before the incidents. Unpacking one large bag doesn't take long, and when the task was completed, Megan found herself exhausted. She closed the day by collapsing in bed. Amazingly, it was mere seconds before she fell asleep.

When Megan turned over, she thought the clock would read nine or ten in the morning. Not one in the afternoon. She hadn't slept that late since college. And that was usually due to an evening of good ol' freshman college debauchery. She felt slightly hungover but was sure it was from transition and not self-indulgence. She could have stayed in bed for another few hours, and would have if her stomach hadn't reminded her she'd missed a few meals.

Reluctantly, she got up, showered, and decided to buy the bare necessities at the store she'd passed when entering town. Megan had walked up through the garage and started the Range Rover when she saw a young female jog by. She was only feet behind the truck when Megan looked in the rearview mirror and noticed the jogger dropped something. She quickly got out and picked up a cell phone. “Hey! Hey! You dropped your phone! Miss! Your phone!”

“Hey, who are you?”

Megan turned. There was a teenage girl standing at two o'clock leaning against the mailbox, one dangling earbud blaring music, carrying a backpack.

“Lady, you can yell all you want, she's not going to respond.”

“Why?”

“Apparently Mensa missed your application,” Rude Teenage Girl responded.

Rude little shit
, Megan thought.

“She's deaf. The phone is for texting.” Rude Teenage Girl had medium-length hair, the perm nearly gone, rings on every finger, and multiple bracelets lining each wrist. She was pale, lean, and made every teenage girl's mistake: blue eye shadow and thick dark mascara.

“Oh. I didn't know,” Megan answered.

“Obviously.”

Megan took a deep breath. “Well,
lovely
young lady
, do you know where she lives so I can get it back to her?”

“Maybe.” She folded her arms, speaking to Megan in a suspicious tone, with a stare that implied she was going to need some questions answered first. “You related to the Macks? It's their house ya know.”

Megan gave as bratty of a tone back. “
No, I'm not related to them
.”

“That your truck?”

Now this kid is getting on my nerves
, Megan thought. She held the girl's gaze and kept silent.

“Just you here?”

Megan snapped her head back and forth looking up and down the street. “I hope you're not the welcoming committee.”

Rude Teenage Girl stood unimpressed, rolling her eyes. “Answer, please.”

“Who wants to know?” Megan asked in the surly detective tone she was so accomplished at.

Rude Teenage Girl brought it down a few notches. “Sorry. I'm Billie. I live down about fifteen houses.”

Megan nodded. “I'm Det—I'm Megan. I'm renting the Macks' house for the winter.”

Billie raised her eyebrows in that wiseass teenage way. “You're
Det-Megan
? Don't you know your own name?”

Megan didn't have children, and, in this moment, she most certainly didn't want any. “Good to know rudeness travels tri-state. I'd hate to think Manhattan was being blamed for the whole brunt.”

Billie rolled her eyes and pointed down the shoreline to a large estate. “See that house? She lives in the gatehouse on the property. I'll write down the house number for you. It's like two minutes away.”

“Thanks,” Megan replied.

As she was getting into the Range Rover, Billie yelled down the street, “Hey Det-Megan?”

Megan turned, knowing she was in for a smart-ass comment.

“
Welcome
to the neighborhood.” Billie bowed, opening up her arms.

Megan shook her head and whispered to herself, “That girl is my birth control for the next three years.”

Five

Megan used Billie's directions
and found the location of the deaf woman's house, or rather gatehouse. There were no cars in the driveway. The property felt like a cemetery: cold, quiet, void of life. She rang the doorbell, feeling a bit stupid, since a deaf woman couldn't hear it, but flickering lights from inside the home explained that. When she got no answer, Megan assumed the woman was still on her run. She tore off a sheet of paper from a pad she'd kept in the glove box and wrote a note explaining that she'd found the phone when the woman jogged past her, and Megan wanted to return it. Megan signed her name and then left the page on the doorstep under a stone from the lawn edging.

As she turned back from the door, a feeling tugged at her. Her gut told her something wasn't quite right here.
Not your job to follow that instinct anymore, Megan
. She chose to ignore it. As she opened the car door, she glanced up and realized she wasn't actually alone. Perched on the top of a phone pole was a hawk. The way it peered down at Megan made her feel challenged. The predator possessed an air of self-confidence that bordered on arrogance.

Like looking in a mirror
, she thought to herself.

Megan climbed into the truck, refusing to break eye contact with her contender. When she closed the car door, the hawk took flight. She stared until it was out of view, then started the engine and flicked on the seat warmer. Best invention in the world. If the heat in the lake house ever gave way, she'd sleep in the Range Rover. It would cost more than a room at the Four Seasons in gas, but it was an option, if in dire need. The gas light lit up on cue as she pulled out of the driveway. She remembered passing a gas station a little less than a half-mile from the gatehouse.

The station looked as deserted as the property she'd just left. The garages were pulled shut and there were no cars or even an attendant within sight—not that she could blame them. She glanced at the Range Rover's temperature display.
Nineteen degrees isn't an enjoyable temperature, unless you're a polar bear.
She caught a glimpse of movement in the main office area. Megan climbed out of the Range Rover with as much grace as a pig skating on ice holding a glass of champagne.

A woman in her fifties emerged from the station. She walked out to the car with a small smile on her weathered face, having seen Megan's dismount of the truck. She wore tan work boots, faded jeans, and a denim shirt underneath an army jacket. Here was a woman in touch and incredibly comfortable with her masculine side.

“Looks like a parachute might come in handy next time you get out of that truck.” She smiled. “Going on safari with this monster?”

Megan raised her eyebrows looking back. “Not a bad idea, actually.”

“What can I get you?” The woman reached for the gas pump.

“I can do that,” Megan assured.

“Sorry, hon, not in New Jersey. Only attendants can work the pump,” she answered while unscrewing the gas cap.

“Why?” Megan asked, though she was more curious why the woman referred to her as
hon
. Megan would be lying to herself if she said introducing herself as
Detective Megan McGinn
didn't stroke her ego a bit. After all, she'd worked damn hard for that title. Being referred to as
hon
, especially by another woman, felt belittling. It was too familiar.

The attendant waved off the question. “It's a state thing. Been that way ever since I can remember. So, how much?” she asked again.

“Fill it, please. Regular.”

“I half expected a Navy Seal to come flying out of this beast, not a petite thing such as yourself.”

“Yeah, I didn't realize the previous owners put on such large tires before I bought it.”

“You're not from around here, are you?”

“How can you tell?” Megan asked.

“You have all your teeth,” she said with a hint of sarcasm. “I'm just kidding.” She pointed to the rear of the truck. “New York plates.”

Megan nodded.

“What brings you out to a New Jersey lake town this time of year?”

“I love the winter.” It was a partial truth. She did enjoy the change of seasons; it just wasn't her reason for being there.

“Well, you'll get a lot of that around here. You have the right vehicle with the amount of snow we get. You're in pickup-and-plow country. Gets real quiet over the next few months.”

Thank God.

“Did you buy a place nearby?”

Jesus, what is it with the people around here? Are you ex-Stasi?

“No, I'm just renting. Down the street.” She nodded in the direction she'd come from. “McGregor Avenue.”

“McGregor. That wouldn't be Will and Elizabeth Mack's place, would it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“The Macks are good people. I run into them once in a while at the pub down the street. You passed it if you came in off Route 80.”

Megan nodded. “I remember that place.” As if she could have missed it. The only other buildings in the small stretch of town were the mini-mart, the post office, the bar, and an Elks Club with the sign informing the town of the pot roast dinner at the end of the month. Oh, and the town municipal building, which was slightly smaller than the mini-mart. Megan envisioned the same person working at all the places, running from door to door with a mere change of a hat depending on which building they serviced at the time.

The gas pump finally clicked off at $75. Jesus. Megan could have used a small sedative before paying that tab. Naming the truck Arnold wasn't a bad idea, given it seemed to terminate all the money in her wallet.

“Need help getting back in?” The woman smiled while watching Megan climb into the driver's seat using effort similar to rock climbing.

“I'm good.”

The attendant walked up to the driver's side window and handed Megan a receipt and a slip of paper. “Here, it's a coupon for twenty percent off your next oil change.”

“Thanks.”

“I'm Lynn. If you need any help maintaining this monster while you're here, my son does a lot of work on 'em.”

“Great, thank you.” Megan rolled up the window and made a quick U-turn out of the parking lot, noticing in the rearview mirror Lynn standing, staring at the back of the truck as she drove off.

A man stood a few feet back from the windows in the garage. He'd stopped working on the carburetor he'd been in the process of rebuilding when the woman pulled in for service. He lit a cigarette and finished the beer he held, then chucked the empty can into the corner bin. Like the owner of the station, he'd noticed the New York license plate. Her looks definitely interested him, but her purpose for being there interested him more. After all, he did pick up a newspaper once in a while and had recognized her immediately.

The man walked up to the window, exhaling his cigarette smoke against the dirty glass and watching the truck until it was out of sight, and then dialed on his cell phone.

“Hey, someone new in town. I'm pretty sure it's her.”

Six

Megan bought more supplies
at the mini-mart before returning to the lake house: milk, bread, frozen pizza, two pints of ice cream, chocolate chip cookies, more wine. All the elements to a new diet quite possibly called Food Baby Coma. She noticed a tiny Chinese take-out restaurant on a side street and decided to stop and order. The decor was not even close to minimal and she wondered if the health department made even annual inspections, but it smelled incredible. Again, not adhering to a let's-fit-into-those-skinny-jeans-by-spring regimen, she ordered barbecue ribs, two egg rolls, and General Tso's chicken with fried (not steamed) rice, and chicken lo mein.

Once back at the house, she changed into a pair of loose-fitting pants and made herself comfortable on the couch. She turned on the widescreen television, ignoring any and all news channels.

Let the hermitic evening begin.

Megan channel surfed and, oddly enough, ended up on a channel she had zero respect for in her state of gluttony: a fitness channel. She raised her glass of Cabernet. “Here's to you ladies. C'mon, work it. That looks pretty fucking tiring, if you ask me. You're probably a size zero, but who is having more fun? Me or you?” She was halfway through her dinner and wine bottle when her cell rang. She glanced down. She let it ring three times before answering.

“Yeah.”

“McGinn, I'm surprised you answered,” Nappa said.

“Yeah, so am I.” Megan threw back another sip of wine, truly not wanting to have this conversation. But her Irish guilt over dodging his calls had reached critical mass.

“How is lake living treating you?”

“Nappa, I must get over eight hundred channels on this television.”

“What are you watching on your eight-hundred-channel television?”

“Some fitness show.” Megan started to channel surf again, finding a boxing match. She thought it was fitting, for she was sure the conversation was about to take a turn. “Why haven't I ever made time for this before?” She began to gnaw on a rib.

“Maybe because you were working?” Nappa offered. “Remember work?”

“Yeah, it's that thing that eventually killed my father and is responsible for a sick fuck attempting to murder my mother. You mean that work, right? Did you call me for a reason? And by the way, I
just
got out here; why are you pressuring me?”

“That wasn't my intention, I'm just checking in on my partner during her time off.”

“I'm not your partner anymore.”

“Right now, sure. But you'll bounce back, and if you keep eating whatever it is you're devouring on the other end of this phone call, you'll probably be able to bounce to a few other places.”

Megan threw the sucked-to-the-bone rib on the paper plate. “Funny. Very funny, Nappa.”

A moment of an uncomfortable silence led to Nappa clearing his throat before saying, “Doing a lot of background on the Worth case, still looking at cold cases that might be connected.”

The last thing Megan wanted to hear about was the Worth case. That case landed her at the top of her game as an NYC Homicide detective, but it was also the beginning of the unraveling of her life.

“I also called because you received a letter from Mrs. McAllister.” Mrs. McAllister was the mother in Megan and Nappa's last homicide case. “It looks personal. Do you want me to forward it to you?”

Megan clicked the remote a few more times and an angry man with slicked back hair waving a Bible stared into the camera. Veins popped out of the side of his temples as he shouted. She was happy she'd had the television on mute.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Give me your address.”

She did and then quickly ended the call. “I have to go, Nappa.”

After her gluttonous evening was over, Megan found herself unable to sleep. She sat up in bed with her arms wrapped around her knees. She listened to the wind as it came off the lake, blowing through the trees on the property and setting off the sensor lights positioned on each side of the house. Their shadows moved across the bedroom walls. The sound of water having yet to freeze slapped against the lake wall and echoed her inner state. She was attempting to transform her pain into healing, but it felt as though she'd just
begun the 500-mile Camino de Santiago pilgrimage. She wondered if she'd ever see the end in sight. Because right then, she couldn't.

A strong gust blew up outside and Megan heard something crash down on the deck. Her detective instinct prompted her to grab her gun from the bedside table. She leapt off the bed and slowly walked to the front of the house, her gun at the ready. Megan didn't need to turn any lights on; the sensor continued to light up the front deck. She first positioned herself to the right of the room and peered out. Nothing. She moved to the left of the bay window. A large ceramic garden pot filled to the brim with old dirt lay smashed in front of the glass.

There is no way the wind could knock over something that large,
she thought to herself.

Megan double-checked the locks and windows of Chez Mack, as well as the alarm. All was secure with the exception of her peace of mind. The rest of the night she slept with her gun beside her and her senses heightened.

There was very little light illuminating McGregor Avenue as the figure walked away from the steep driveway. Only the burning end of his cigarette and a street lamp a few yards away guided him to his car. He walked by the Range Rover with a grin on his face.