Next Time You See Me (18 page)

Mac shook his head. “We had to make it as credible as possible. Rosie made that easy.”

“What are you going to tell them when we get back?”

“And the charges are dropped? Knowing Danny, he’ll have been so drunk he won’t be sure if he
did
kill Mom and Dad. He’ll be happy to be free. Rosie, she’ll welcome me back from the grave. And she’ll thank me for getting Danny sober.”

I could see it. Despite everything, the MacLearys really loved each other. I didn’t doubt that they’d consider Mac’s reappearance a miracle and forget the rest.

“Your job at the bookstore?” I asked Jasmine. “What was with that?”

“I needed to get close to you. I sat in on a couple of your classes at John Jay but you never showed up. Had to find another way.”

“You went to my school?”

“The Psychopath in Criminology and Drama. I had to stop myself from laughing a coupla times. Like they say,
If you can’t do, teach
.”

I couldn’t help a little smile. Having been on the job myself, I knew just what she was talking about.

“I heard you had a stubborn streak,” Jasmine said, “and we decided it was a good idea to get close and make sure you didn’t go rogue. Which you did anyway. But whatever.”

I almost resented the admission that they’d been keeping such a close eye on me, but I did have a reputation for thinking for myself back when I was a detective, and beyond.

“Why you? Why not just let Billy keep tabs? He already knew me. You took a bigger risk doing it yourself.” My mind was ticking, rewriting their strategy to make it better.

“I decided to keep him for myself.” Jasmine flashed a coy smile. “But really: It had to be a woman, someone who could blend in, make a close friendship with you. And most of these special agents—white dudes in aviators?” She rolled her eyes. “Couldn’t pass for human, if you know what I mean. No offense to you personally, Fred.”

“None taken.”

The truth was Jasmine had blended in perfectly, played her part to a T. She must have been a very good agent.

“So what was the job?” I asked Mac. “You went undercover for . . .” Fill in the blank: for what purpose exactly; for how long?

“Until they got something to incriminate Ana directly. It had to be good enough to stick. They wanted her off the street for so long her enterprise would go into disarray and hopefully implode.”

“Did you know she had an heir?” I asked Jasmine.

“Oh yeah. We had our eye on Diego.”

“Did you know he was Mac’s son?”

Jasmine’s eyes popped at that, and so did Fred’s.

“
This
you didn’t tell us,” Jasmine said.

And Fred to Mac: “You got to be kidding me, buddy.”

“It was news to me, too,” Mac said in a gentle, pained tone that succeeded in getting them both to back off. “Even Diego didn’t know. Ana kind of let that missile loose by accident.”

“That’s right,” I said. “But it saved our lives.”

“Diego got Ana’s permission to take us away and execute us. Then he killed his partner and let us go.
He
gave me the ring—and you know as well as I do that with the ring, you’ve got a solid case to put her away. If not for him, you would have found us, but in a ditch. And you’d be no closer to pulling the plug on Ana.”

“You trying to cut a deal for your kid already?” Jasmine asked. At first I thought she was half joking but her straight face told me she meant it.

“Maybe.” Mac stared back at her a moment before looking away.

“Diego’s in it up to his ears,” Jasmine said.

“He’s my son.”

“You get a DNA test on that? Or are you banking on what Ana Maria Soliz, the Wicked Witch of the West, South, East, and North told you in the strictest of confidence?” Jasmine’s tone hardened in a way I had never heard it before. Her identity warp was starting to come a little bit clearer to me: She was the Jasmine I knew
and
she was a federal agent. It was going to take some getting used to.

“He has Mac’s eyes,” I told her, “and Mac’s chin.”

“I’ll take a test,” Mac said. “In the meantime, I believe her. All the balls are in her court. Why would she lie?”

Jasmine slipped out of her shoes and crossed her legs, one bare foot dangling a pretty purple manicure. “She know you were a plant?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What about Diego? Think he followed you after he let you go? Think he might’ve seen
us
?”

Mac and I looked at each other.

“He told us to go,” Mac said. “He wanted us to get away. He seemed sincere.”

“He stayed back to bury the body,” I added. “We didn’t see him again after that. He said he was heading back to his mother to face the heat.”

“Nice guy, huh, doing all that for you.”

“Hey, this isn’t an interrogation,” Fred said. “Cut these guys some slack; we’re on the same team.”

“Just asking a couple questions.”

“Everything was going well.” Mac leaned forward. “I was getting closer all the time, scratching away, hoping to finally get the one big thing on her. I was prepared to wait as long as it took. I was risking my life by the minute and I would have done it forever if it kept Ana’s people away from my family. But when Karin showed up, the game changed. I didn’t have to think about where my priorities were.”

Jasmine’s pretty almond eyes slid to me and hovered there while she seemed to think something over. Then she sighed. “Yeah. Whatever.”

“You know what?” Fred said. “Here you are, alive and well, both of you. And now we’ve got that ring, so once we extradite Ana Soliz we’ll be able to put her in jail, choke off her network. We’ll get so much junk off the streets it isn’t funny.”

“Won’t another cartel just take over her territory?” I asked.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Fred said. “The Mexican cops will have a chance to get in there now.”

“I got the impression the cops were all bought off.”

“They are,” Mac agreed.

“Still, I’d say we can call it a win.” Fred tapped his fingers on his knees and I noticed that the backs of his hands were covered in freckles.

“Thing is,” Jasmine said, “it’s not like they won’t be coming after you now, Mac. Ring or no ring, that bitch
hates
you. I wouldn’t bet she’s planning to lay low—who knows how scared she really is right now? She
knows
the Feds have got some negotiating to do to seal the deal before Mexico extradites her for murdering your parents. She
knows
the people in her pocket might not go for it.” She wiggled into a cozy position and shut her eyes as if to close the conversation because right now, right at this moment, it was a good time for a nap. Unless Ana had surface-to-air missiles, it was probably safe to take a break from the job up here in the sky.

I had never known Jasmine was so cynical. But then I corrected my thinking once again: Pretty much everyone who worked in law enforcement was cynical to one degree or another.

“Diego’s telling her we’re dead,” Mac said, “so she won’t be coming after us.”

“Oh yeah?” Jasmine yawned.

“I believe him.”

“You’re a nice guy, Mac, aren’t you.”

It wasn’t a question and no one disagreed. But it sent a chill through me. All four of us had at some point in our lives put ourselves on the line for the law. We had all faced down some
really bad
bad guys (who were sometimes women). And we all knew that, when it came to winning the sordid games we had to play to defeat them, the nicest guys lost the quickest and in the worst ways.

Part III

Chapter 14

T
he pallid sky, the spindly naked trees whose branches were etched in white, and the graying slush of a recent snow greeted our return home to Brooklyn. It was the dullest, bitterest time of year and yet I had never been happier for the cold embrace of a frigid New York winter afternoon. It was four o’clock and the late afternoon pall of half light had settled on the neighborhood; the quiet hour when schoolchildren were safely home and rush hour had yet to disgorge itself via the subways and buses onto the local streets, when kitchens were dark and books were opened. The quiet hour of pause. Four o’clock was when Ben was calmest and, having woken from his long nap and finished a bottle or a cup of milk, was just embarking on an avenue of play.

The car slowed as it neared our building, and then eased to a stop.

“You want company?” Jasmine, who sat to my right in the backseat, asked with a hint of humor in her voice.

I lifted my head off Mac’s shoulder, yawning. “Oh, sure, I think we’ll throw a party tonight.”

Mac looked out the window at the brownstone façade of our home. The parlor floor lights were on, two long golden rectangles, beckoning. He put his hand on the door handle. “Give a call if you or they or whoever needs to know anything else.” But his tone was deadpan. We had just spent two hours being debriefed at DEA headquarters in Manhattan. Mac had told them everything he had learned about Ana Maria Soliz and her drug trafficking operations, giving them names, dates, and locations that were sure to spawn new investigations in two countries. And I had told them everything of the little I knew. They had a lot on her and her people now, including a glittering piece of hard evidence. Unfortunately, she had vanished into hiding; before she could be arrested or extradited, she had to be found.

I kissed Jasmine’s cheek. “Thank you.”

“You don’t hate me?”

“I’m too tired to hate anyone.” I reached forward to the front passenger’s side; twisting around, Fred offered his hand and we shook. “Thanks for the rescue.”

“Next time you need to save someone, call us first, okay?”

“I promise.”

“You lie.” Jasmine chuckled. She was the kind of person who liked you more if you gave her a run for her money. And she was turning out to be a truly interesting friend.

“Thanks for the lift.”

Special Agent Hyo Park—Fred’s affable partner who had participated in the debriefing and insisted on driving the car even though having three agents escort us home seemed like serious overkill—turned around and winked. “It’s the least we can do.”

“We’re really sorry for all the pain and suffering this whole deal has caused you, Karin,” Jasmine said.

“We couldn’t see a better way to do it,” Fred said. “The good news is you’re both safe.”

“And the bad news?” I asked, not actually expecting any.

“If Ana surfaces, if there’s trouble, we might have to move you.”

“Move us where?”

“It would be for your protection.”

“How much warning will we get?”

Fred and Jasmine glanced at each other. Hyo stared straight ahead through the windshield. No one answered.

Mac got out first. I followed, slammed the door shut, and watched the car slowly drive away. Then we crossed the sidewalk to our house.

The front stoop was coated with ice and so we went to the downstairs door. Stroller tracks in the frozen snow told me that my mother had been coming and going this way. Inside, the house was warm and we could hear Mom singing to Ben as she moved around the kitchen clanking something, preparing an early dinner. And then we heard Ben’s voice.

“Gamma gimme bang-bang poon!” He wanted Grandma to give him a spoon for a drumstick.

Mac’s eyes widened, and he said, “He speaks in sentences now.”

I nodded, my face screwing up; I had missed my Ben these past days. And I had missed Mac unspeakably—
and now he was here, back in our home
—and it felt almost unreal. We turned to hold each other; our breath came into sync. And then there was a pause, footsteps above us nearing the top of the stairs, and my mother’s voice calling down, “Hello?”

Unable to contain myself, I went running up the stairs.

“Mom,
he’s home
.”

“I was
so
worried about you both.” Mom opened her arms and as we embraced I noticed that the parlor floor was mostly unlit except for a single lamp in the kitchen, which seemed odd since the lights had just been on. There was a sound of something falling and Ben tottered quickly toward the top of the stairs, grinning from ear to ear. Mac came jogging up the stairs, patted Mom’s shoulder in passing, and swung his little boy off the floor into an aerial spin—Ben screamed in delight—and Mac held him fiercely, restraining tears.

And then the lights flicked on to a cheer of “
Welcome home!
” in a chorus of voices, and a loud
pop
heralded the opening of champagne. Before I knew what was happening, my brother Jon was putting a glass into my hand, filling it and kissing my cheek, seemingly all at once. I recognized the bottle I’d bought for Mac’s and my abandoned anniversary celebration, five whole months ago. Had it been sitting in the fridge all that time? (The cake had long since been defrosted and eaten.)

Soon everyone was talking, hugging, laughing, drinking: Mom; Rosie and Larry and their kids; Jon, his wife Andrea, and their children, Susanna and David (who had flown all the way from Los Angeles); and Danny, who I couldn’t help noticing forwent champagne for orange juice. Danny,
sober
, was tearfully smiling, beaming at his big brother. If he was angry about having sat in jail when Mac knew who had murdered their parents, it didn’t show.

Finally, light-headed from exhaustion and champagne, Mac and I retreated to the couch. Ben snuggled on his daddy’s lap and the family gathered around us, inspiring an immediate and elemental sensation of renewal.

“Smile!” Mom’s camera flashed before I realized she was standing there, aiming her lens.

Squinting, I raised a hand to cover my eyes. Mac, however, complied with a smile so effortful my mother released the camera to dangle from a wrist cord.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just so thrilled to see you two home.”

“I looked through your photo album,” Jon said to Mom as he slung his arm around my shoulders. “Wow.”

“It tells the story of our wait,” Mom said, patting Mac’s knee.

I sniffed back tears, trying not to cry. “I can’t believe you guys came all the way from California.”

“Are you really such an idiot?”

He succeeded: I laughed.

“Mom called everyone last night as soon as she heard you were both safely out of Mexico.”

“Jasmine e-mailed me from the plane,” Mom said, “and I got right on the phone.”

Mom had pulled up a chair and sat beside Rosie, who was on the floor with John, her five-year-old, plunked in her lap. Danny sat cross-legged beside Rosie, and Dave, her eldest, sat beside Danny. The other children—Lindsay, Alice, Susanna, and little David—filled the floor space, wiggling in excitement. Jon’s wife, Andrea, was on the couch beside Mac, her hand rubbing his back in steady circles. I sat there, amazed and grateful, trying not to think about how many times in the last forty-eight hours I had been convinced I would never see any of them again.

“So what was it like, Uncle Mac?” Lindsay asked. “They said you were, like, held
prisoner
in a
dungeon
by some evil lady!”

“
Lindsay
.” Larry shut down his tween daughter’s outsized enthusiasm with a stern tone.

“But
Dad—
”

“You smell!” five-year-old John shouted.

“
John
.”

I sniffed my armpit and made a face. “Ew! He’s right.”

“Karin, Mac, I apologize for them,” Rosie said, breaking into a smile; it was no secret that she encouraged her children to be spirited. “They’re spoiled little cretins.”

“I think they’re very smart,” Mac said. “And we
do
stink. We could both use a shower and a change of clothes.” He stood up, trembling, and kissed my mother’s cheek. “Thank you for everything.” He edged through the seated group, stopping to place a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Danny, listen . . . I don’t know how to tell you I’m sorry.”

“For what? In the end, it was better than rehab, you know? Not that I want a repeat performance.”

“Actually,” Rosie said, “
I’m
sorry. I’m the one who drove in the nail. I gave that detective reason to doubt you.”

“But I could have pulled the nail out at any time,” Mac said, “and I didn’t.”

“Both of you,” Danny said, “I mean it: I love you. All that’s in the past, okay?”

“Okay.” But Mac’s voice was barely a whisper. And Rosie fell silent. None of them would forget what had happened for a long, long time; but at least they were being civil about it. It was a start.

I felt everyone watching us as we headed down to our bedroom and bathroom. When we reached the bottom of the stairs and were out of sight, Mac stopped suddenly and buckled over, cradling his face in his hands, silently weeping. Snippets of conversation floated down:

“They look great!” Andrea.

“They look
terrible
.” Dave.

“I meant
considering
.”

“They’re
alive
.” Rosie. “Kids, get cracking: There’s a table to set.” And a flutter of footsteps that told us life would inevitably go back to normal.

T
he days drifted by as we settled back into our life together, feeling bruised and weary, but adjusting and happy in the way you are when you wake up from a nightmare and realize that everything is actually okay. The thing that loomed behind us, that terrible sequence of close calls, was over; and yet it wasn’t. Ana was still out there . . . we had escaped, and yet we hadn’t. Mac jumped every time the doorbell rang. And I kept having the same disturbing dream:

They are together on a beach in the rain—Mac and Ana—making love with languid pleasure, carefree and relaxed, as if they are not engulfed in a storm. They are not young; they are middle-aged. The bubble of their delight comes from the fulfillment of a circle that has closed. It is the celebration of a reunion. She reaches up to touch his face and he turns to lick water off her fingers. Her neck arches, her head burrowing a nest in the sand, as his back straightens and his shoulders open . . . and they fuse, becoming a single organism, a huge bird that rises off the sand as the rain stops and all the wetness instantly evaporates. They soar into a vivid purple sky as a black crow appears and follows them. The crow’s feeling of hopelessness becomes
my
feeling and the crow becomes
me
, a bird with my face and then my body who suddenly can’t fly and spirals down out of the sky . . .

Which was always the moment when I woke up, startled awake by a sensation of freefall. It had happened three or four times since arriving home from Mexico. The first night we slept deeply with Ben between us, delirious with exhaustion. But on the second night, the dream arrived and kept arriving thereafter.

I had never been jealous before but now every time I looked at Mac I thought:
Did they sleep together again?
Did he enjoy it?
Whenever I thought we had settled onto firm enough ground to delve into such risky territory, so many questions swirled through my mind that I couldn’t decide where to begin. I kept waiting for the right moment and it kept not coming, until finally I realized it would never appear on its own; I would have to create it.

“Mac?”

He folded down a corner of the newspaper to acknowledge me.

“Did you and Ana sleep together?”

He laid the paper on his lap but didn’t answer.

“Not that it matters.” I pulled my robe together, warding off the chilly air in the living room. “But I think I want to know.”

Mac put the folded paper beside him on the couch and scooted forward to its edge. Clasped his hands between his knees and looked at me intently. He was wearing plaid pajama bottoms and an old T-shirt whose neckline sagged below his collarbone, revealing the top of his faded tattoo and half a dozen hard white scars.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“I’ve been thinking it over, and I wasn’t going to ask, but I keep having a dream about it and I want it to stop. So just tell me.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I already told you the beginning: how when I found her in Playa at first she acted like we were old friends, we had dinner, she gave me a room, and the next day she told me I was going to work in her so-called business again.”

“ ‘Like old times.’ ”

“That’s right. And I refused, stupidly, so she shot me up and threw me in the hole, just like they did to you.”

I shivered recalling its dank mildewy darkness; and then later, realizing I’d been drugged. Mac had already told me about his time in the hole. “She left you in there for two days.”