Grave Mistakes: A Deadly Vigilante Crime Thriller (Affair with Murder Book 3) Read online

  “Hell yeah, like a time bomb.”

  “And now for part two. We need to get someone to go to the police, have them raise enough suspicion to spur an investigation.”

  “Now wasn’t that easy?” Brian asked, sounding satisfied.

  “But what if Robbins finds what you planted?” I asked, unsatisfied and unwilling to concede to his idea as being better than just killing Robbins. “I mean, couldn’t he delete everything?”

  “I never thought of that,” Brian answered. “I’ll have to babysit. I mean, now that I’m in, I’ve got a list of his devices, his white-list. I can hunt around and see if he’s hiding anything else.”

  A woman passed the front of Robbins’ house, a small girl by her side. I recognized the child immediately and dropped from the steps and followed them. Brian went on talking about replanting the garden in case Robbins found his evidence. He then talked about writing a script that would repeat the planting every few hours, ensuring the exploitive files would always be available.

  “So we’re good on part one?” I asked as Natalie entered their house.

  “As long as he doesn’t physically cut the chord, we’re good to go.”

  Satisfied with the progress, I told him, “I might do us one better, I’ve got an idea.”

  “Part two?”

  “Part two, and more.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I SWUNG THE DUFFLE BAG around to my front, cradling it like a baby and stepped onto the street toward the house where I saw Natalie and the woman. Thumping music played, an echo clapping against a row of brick-front homes. I clutched the bag, gripping it until my knuckles went white, the tempo of the song quickening my step. It was the car with the men, and it wasn’t me they were interested in. I got to the front door and rapped my knuckles against the face. I’d have to convince them to let me inside. The music thumped louder, urging me to knock again—a patch of green paint stuck to my hand, the door’s face peeling like the bark on the sycamore trees lining the street.

  I knocked once more, but stopped when the sound of latches clicked and a chain rattled from the other side. The little girl appeared a moment later, her upturned stare was bright-eyed and curious. The woman I’d seen walking with Natalie appeared next. She stood at my height and I could see she was too young to be Natalie’s mother—a sister, maybe?

  “We help you with something?” the older girl said while her baby sister continued her study of me.

  “May I come in and speak with your mother?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder when the music’s clapping echo stopped. The car had turned onto the street and was only a few houses away from me. “It’s rather urgent.”

  “All right,” the girl said, opening the door for me to enter. Was it that simple? Was she not afraid in the least? I walked into a small drab room and understood the lack of concern. What’s there to be afraid of when you’ve got nothing to steal, to lose. “Momma’s on the couch, nursing her sickness.”

  “Well, I won’t take much of her time,” I told the girl, trying not to sound like a salesman. “My name is Amy.”

  “My name is Shri, and my baby sister is Natalie, but we call her Nat, and that one there is my baby brother, Jackson.”

  “You said your mother was sick?” I asked and saw the woman on the couch, her body in a ball with her knees hitched up to her chest. She let out a snore as I made my way into their home, stepping over broken toys and then around the boy whose diaper was full and ready to slip off his skinny frame. There were just the four walls, painted in the same drab color as the front door, the paint peeling or missing in some places. And there was a small kitchen off the far corner, the refrigerator open, the door hanging from one hinge with the insides used to shelve cereal boxes and some macaroni and cheese. A hotplate sat atop a gas stove, plugged into an exposed electrical socket with wires snaking dangerously close to the sink where a leaky faucet dripped into a saucepan. And in the corner, opposite of where the mother slept, an old television—the heavy kind with a glassy face and a wooden body like antique furniture. But this one had a hole where the picture should be. And from the looks of the gaping cavity, I would guess it came from a foot, an angry kick. “Shri, does anyone else live with you?”

  The girl did her best to clean around me, covering up the messes, putting a shirt on her baby brother. She saw my gaze on the broken television screen and answered, “Yeah, he did. But when momma got sick, they got to fighting a lot, and, well, you know.”

  “I know,” I told her, agreeing, as she gently shook her mother’s shoulder, rousing her awake. I held onto the duffle bag, hugging it, and tried to think of all the good that could come from their having the money. Cash is king, I heard in my head.

  “What you want Shri, baby?” she asked, stirring awake. “Jackson need a change? Go on now, you can do it.”

  “Momma?” the girl whispered. “There’s a lady here to see you. I think she from the city.”

  “Who you?” the woman asked, sitting up, bleary eyed. “Come on babies. Come on here to momma.”

  “My name is Amy,” I said, realizing the girl mistook me for someone official. I felt like a social worker, sitting across from the single mother—the woman’s hair pushed off to one side, her eyelids still adrift with sleep. And added, “Ma’am, I’m not with the city.”

  As the woman wrestled to wake up, her children came to her and hung from her arms and shoulders, their gaze stuck on me as if I’d fallen from the sky. I’m the only interesting thing to see, I considered given the state of the broken television.

  “You say that you ain’t from the city?”

  I nodded. “I’m here on other business.” I looked to Natalie. The mother caught my gaze and pulled her younger daughter closer, protectively. “I need to ask your daughter some questions.”

  “Not from the city, then what do you want?”

  I cut to the chase and pulled a picture of their neighbor from the bag, handing it Natalie. “Has this man ever . . . well, has the man ever touched you?”

  “That’s Mr. Robbins?” the little girl laughed.

  “Yes it is. Has he ever hurt you?” I asked, thinking direct was prudent.

  Natalie shook her head, a grin fixed on her face. Shri took one look at the picture and turned away.

  “He likes hugging and kissing. Only he call it smooching,” Natalie said.

  Shri pinched Natalie’s arm, her face filled with anger. “Told you not to go near him.” Natalie cried out and rubbed her arm.

  “What you mean, smooching?” the mother barked. Both of the girls jumped, afraid.

  “He’s nice, Momma,” Natalie confessed, her eyes telling Amy that she didn’t recognize the danger. “Mr. Robbins, he nice.”

  “Shri?” the mother asked, demanding to hear more from her oldest. Shri’s expression filled with shame, embarrassment. Her mother grabbed her arm, “Baby?”

  “Sometimes he does more,” she answered, her eyes wet and teary. She went quiet then, turning away.

  It was Shri’s silence that told me everything I needed to know. It told her mother the same too. I was right to suspect the girls being a victim of Derek Robbins. I didn’t know the extent.

  “We can do something about it,” I said, encouraging them to look at me. “We can make sure he never does anything again.”

  “What you think?” Shri’s mother asked. “You think I will go to the police, risk them nosing around my home, and get child services involved?”

  “You only need to file a report. I’ll take care of everything else,” I told her and pulled a stack of fifty-dollar bills from inside the bag, fanning the money until the inky smell wafted upward. The children studied the bundle, their eyes round and unblinking. I held the stack, and said, “I’ll do the leg-work, make sure you and your children are safe.”

  “And that?” the mother asked, looking at the bundle of cash skeptically.

  “You file a report, and this is for your troubles.”

  “You saying we got troubles
coming?” she asked, ignoring the money perched in my hand.

  “Not troubles,” I answered, trying to explain, wishing I’d picked my words better. I revealed another bundle of cash, sweetening the pot. The children’s faces filled with awe, as did their mother’s.

  She pinched the lip of the duffle bag, and asked, “Lady, how much you got in there?”

  “This money will help you. It’ll help so you can take time off from work and tell the police about Mr. Robbins touching your daughters inappropriately.”

  “He was just fooling,” Natalie said again. “He a big old teddy-bear.” she answered. Shri pinched her sister’s arm again, only to have her hand swatted like a fly.

  “Girls!” the mother yelled without breaking her stare. She remained skeptical and glanced over to the broken television set. She leaned back and shook her head, “Nah. Ain’t worth the hassle.”

  I doubled the bounty again, pulling another crisp stack from the duffle bag. This time, I extended my arm until the money was within her reach. The mother eagerly latched on, but I held the bundle, refusing to let go. She pulled on the bundle as if we were in an awkward tug-o-war. I inched closer, finding the woman’s eyes, and said: “I’m giving you twenty-thousand good reasons to do this. And trust me when I tell you, this man, this teddy-bear, he will rape your little girls the first chance he gets.”

  The woman went wide-eyed and shrank back, and wrapped her arms around Natalie and Shri, trying to cover their ears. She answered me, “I say he touched them inappropriate like?”

  I placed the money on her lap with a nod, adding, “It’ll be enough to get the police interested. It’ll be enough to put him where he belongs and to protect your daughters.”

  The mother gave a firm nod, “I’ll do it.”

  “And when it’s confirmed—” I began, and lifted the duffle bag, opening its mouth wide enough for her to see the cash inside. “I’ll bring you more.”

  “Lady, who are you?”

  I thought to tell her I was a concerned citizen, but answered, “Just a part-time guardian angel.”

  “Got that right,” she said as her interest drifted to the money sitting in her lap.

  “You take care of your girls,” I said motioning toward the outside. “That man is a monster, and he will do exactly what I told you if we don’t stop him. This is our chance.”

  I left their home without looking back—for good or bad, depending on which way to look at what I was doing, saving the girls meant one less tumor on my soul. I’d like to think that, anyway. I went straight to my car, no deviations, and with no interruptions from the locals who’d stalked me earlier. When I was back inside, and safe, I texted Brian to let him know Derek Robbins would receive a visit from the police soon.

  This better work!

  It will, he replied in his text, and told me he’d made minor updates in Derek Robbins’ garden, planting a few more pieces of evidence that would surely put him behind bars for life, and leave nothing to chance.

  You’re enjoying this aren’t you? I asked, typing fast, sensing the pleasure Brian was having.

  Oh you have no idea how much fun this is. So much better than a work meeting.

  I think we might have saved two girls today, I texted. I think we saved them from this guy.

  You should see what else I did, he texted.

  “Computer, home,” I requested from the car.

  And no worries about Robbins deleting the garden we planted.

  You added a script to persist the data? I asked Brian.

  That, and I linked the planted evidence to a known crime ring that’s under investigation for trafficking. Genius.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I FELT GOOD. SCRATCH THAT. I felt amazing. I was certain Brian’s idea would fall flat, leaving us with option two, killing Derek Robbins. But I had to admit to wanting to see Brian’s plan in action and see a Team Two that could be just as effective without killing. That’s not to say my murdering ways wouldn’t be missed, but maybe that’s not who I am anymore, that’s not who I need to be.

  My phone gave my leg a buzz, ringing from my pocket, interrupting my plan for a small celebration.

  “Computer,” I requested, feeling lazy. “Answer phone.”

  “Amy?” I heard Steve’s voice call my name. I opened my eyes and searched the car’s dashboard and console, seeking my husband’s face. It was only his voice. I pushed my hair back, grateful he couldn’t see me.

  “Steve?” I asked, surprised to hear from him. My mind raced with thoughts of paperwork, of court documents and lawyerly agreements. I had none of these with Steve—not that I was aware, having settled up decades earlier. My mind went to the kids next, “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes. Fine, yes. Uh.” He began, but struggled with the words.

  “Steve,” I exclaimed, feeling awkward and thinking he had something to say about my impromptu, regretful, house call. “If you’re angry about my stopping by, I’m sorry.”

  “No, no. That’s not it.”

  I pulled the phone from my back-pocket and searched the clear surface, wishing his face was showing so I could see what was really going on. My heart thumped, and a flutter woke in my belly. “I’m here Steve. What is it?”

  “I was wondering if we might meet?” I closed my eyes and pressed the phone against my chest and took in a huge breath. I could hear my pulse race in my ears as the nerves hit me.

  Don’t overthink it, Amy. I told myself, reminding myself that any meeting could simply be for more paperwork. But he sounds different, doesn’t he?

  “Amy? You still there.”

  “Sorry, I’m in my car and not sure if I’m supposed to talk into the phone or the car’s console.”

  He laughed, and said, “You never were good with phones.”

  “Or any technology,” I added. “Sure, I can meet.”

  “Any interest in dinner at Romeo’s?”

  While I loved Romeo’s, it was our restaurant, our go to place, and it was from another lifetime. It was also a favorite of my best friend, Katie. I caused her death, and I was certain her ghost would be there—the memory of her would be, anyway. If this was something new, then maybe meeting him somewhere new was best.

  “Would you mind if we ate somewhere else?”

  “No, not at all. I don’t mind,” he answered. “I’ve got to get to a meeting, but how about you send me the address?”

  “I’ve got a great place. Quiet and easy going,” I told him with the Diner in mind. The Diner felt better. It felt right. I could be myself with him there. “I’ll send you the address.”

  “That will work. And I know it’s kind of short notice, but do you have any plans?”

  “You mean for today?”

  “My meeting is short, end of the day and all. Want to eat in say an hour?”

  My pulse quickened, and my eyes went to the bag of cash on the passenger seat. What would he think if he saw me like this? “How about an hour, maybe an hour and a half? Give a girl a chance to freshen up.”

  “I’ll see you then,” he answered.

  “Bye Steve,” I said, ending the call and then sent him the Diner’s address.

  I had all the money in the world, yet I didn’t have a damn thing to wear. I glanced in the rear-view mirror, finding a head of hair I wouldn’t put on a mannequin. “Fuck,” I mumbled, thinking through what was at my house, what I could throw together.

  I decided that raw was best. No need to dress up or get my hair done. Why should I get made up if I wasn’t chasing him? The last thing I wanted to do was to get my hopes up when I didn’t know what it was he wanted. But still, the thought of him calling, of him wanting to see me, it made my heart race enough to want to blow out my hair and put on a little makeup.

  TWENTY-SIX

  I’D BE KIDDING MYSELF if I said the first of the nerves hit me when I saw the Diner. If I’m being honest, my insides hadn’t stopped shaking since Steve’s phone call.

  “Too nervous,” I said, instinctiv
ely and stepped over a sidewalk crack. And then I reminded myself, “It’s Steve. Your ex-everything. It’s probably just stupid paperwork.”

  But if there was room to talk, to tell him the truth about what happened, I’d want to do it. For twenty years, I’ve wanted to do it. I only needed to get the balls to go through with it.

  I ran my hand along the Diner’s silver belly—the metal felt warm to the touch, a leftover from the bright day. The sun eased out of the sky, kissing the horizon and leaving orange blossoms that gave way to the first of the night’s stars. Behind me, the T2 skyscraper glowed brightly and looked like a red sword shooting up into the heavens. It was a sight that would take a lifetime to get used to and I was certain Brian planned the location just to capture moments like this.

  I followed the sound of a hollow knock and found Steve already sitting in the booth, his hand against the Diner’s window, knocking on the glass beneath the letters spelling out the namesake, Suzette’s. When our eyes met, he gave me a smile, just briefly though. I could tell the smile wasn’t intentional, but it felt good to see.

  “Guess you’ve got a little muscle memory too,” I mumbled, thinking about how I’d reached for his hand the day before. My legs stopped, my feet stuck to the sidewalk, and my toes seeming to sprout roots and dig into the concrete and the dirt. I couldn’t move. I waved to Steve, telling him I’d need a minute. He didn’t notice the tree trunks sprouting from my legs though. My nerves were getting the better of me. Steve gave a nod as though he understood and went to his phone where he stayed while I worked through the sudden wave of stage fright.

  “God you look good,” I said, unable to look away. He looked even better than he had when I first saw him—television perfect hair, a dark suit, his tie loosened and his shirt-collar unbuttoned.

  “It’s the face babies love to kiss.” I heard in a memory, recalling the words of a guard from an afternoon many years earlier. I think it was my ninth or tenth year inside and the guard had dropped a newspaper on my bunk. They did that sometimes, showing glimpses of the world outside, showing how life was moving on without you. I hated when they did that. On the front page of the paper, I saw my husband. The headline showing that Steve had just won his first major election. Another guard joined the first, sharing, “He’s got the sympathy vote. And the women love him.” The guards let me keep the paper.