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

  “I was actually on my way out,” I started, my voice wavering.

  His brow furrowed, “My turn to ask. Is everything okay?”

  “Um—” I began, but struggled to find the right words. “It’s Snacks.”

  “What?” he asked. “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing,” I answered, putting my hand on his arm, trying to downplay the concern in my voice. “She was supposed to come over and never did. And now that I’m saying it aloud, I don’t know if I’m over-reacting or not because I might have gotten my feelings hurt.”

  His expression lightened with a casual smile, “Amy, our daughter is young, aloof, and she’s always breaking commitments she doesn’t remember making.”

  “Really?” I asked, wincing with doubt. “Then it’s not just me?”

  Steve shook his head, “It’s all her. And I’m sure you’ll hear from her soon, and probably with some lame excuse. You’ll get used to it.”

  “You said you had something to talk about?” I asked, my spirit lifting, the concerns for my daughter waning.

  “I do. But maybe we could go inside? If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Sure, sure,” I answered clumsily, turning around to open the door. I fumbled with the phone and the digital lock—the two needing to be lined up for the lock to work properly. I was suddenly nervous. I raised my phone, adding, “Still getting used to this.”

  “Here, let me,” he offered, taking my hand in his, steadying and holding the phone near the metal display plate above the door’s handle. I heard the latching release and roll back, freeing us to go inside. “See, nothing to it.”

  “Nothing to it,” I repeated as he followed me into my home. I tried to remember if he’d ever been to our office. “So this is Team Two?”

  “You never been, have you?” I asked.

  He shook his head, and said, “Cozy.” He craned his neck to look around. “Are you calling this home?”

  “Home,” I answered.

  “Even with all your money?”

  I grinned, realizing he’d done his homework and figured out what the T2 company was worth. I asked, “Has someone been checking up on me?”

  “I’ll admit to being a little curious.” I pulled two glasses, lifting a bottle of wine, showing the label and sought Steve’s approval. “Yes, thank you.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” I asked, feeling as though I should pull out a checkbook, write a number accompanied by a few zeroes and donate. “A campaign donation?”

  “No, that’s not it at all,” he answered flatly, his gaze unfocused, wandering. “I wouldn’t accept it, anyway.”

  A warm flush rushed over my skin. “What’s wrong with my money?” I asked, feeling embarrassed.

  Steve sensed the hurt in my voice and answered, “Oh Amy, it’s not like that at all.”

  “Than what’s it like?” I asked, curious, but not sure if I wanted to hear the answer.

  He walked from my desk to the kitchenette, his steps slow like a saunter, holding his words until he was closer. “I’d never want you to think I had any interest other than you,” he answered, setting the glasses aside.

  “Well, maybe I’ll donate anonymously then,” I answered in a snarky tone. Heat rose on my neck and chest, taken aback by his words. I repeated my earlier question, “Surprised you’ve never been here?”

  “Never,” he answered, his tone sounding regretful. He inched closer. I could smell him, not just his aftershave, but the man I longed to sleep with again, the father of my children, the man whose face I saw every night while laying awake in prison. Steve put his hand on my arm, a familiar want in his eyes that made me feel anxious and restless. I moved closer, hoping what I was sensing from him was right.

  My mouth was dry, but I spoke, “This is my home now—”

  “—I should have come sooner,” he said, moving my hair with his fingers. “I should have been more involved with your life, instead of concentrating on mine and my career.”

  “Really?” I asked, thinking the idea absurd as I pressed my body against his. “You had a bullet in you and you nearly died.”

  “But, if I’d known more, if I’d known what Williams was doing, I could have—”

  “Shh,” I said, pressing my fingers against his mouth, and taking up his earlier dare, standing on my toes until our lips touched. Our kiss was twenty-years waiting. It was electric, and I held him with a passion and heat that had been pent up for years. He pressed his body into mine while I grabbed hold of his arms, inviting him. He obliged and lifted me onto the kitchenette counter where we eagerly undressed each other, knocking over a wine glass, and laughing at the sight of the spill without ever leaving the passion of our kiss.

  We went to the bedroom, reconnecting, rediscovering, acting like young teens eager to learn and explore, fixed in an intimate bubble that magically filtered out the world. I didn’t want the evening to be over, but with all great things, I knew it would have to. I waited for him to say the words I longed to hear, but the words never came. I held back any proclamation too, but knew the love was there, and the words would come to us.

  ****

  Steve left my place later that evening—a satisfied smile on his face, matching my own. I felt content and let myself wonder about our future. He wasn’t gone ten minutes before a knock came from the door. I jumped up from the couch, my robe swinging open, the night air rushing over my naked body.

  “Guess he wants to talk some more,” I giggled, feeling young, in love as I opened the door. But the other side was empty, and I threw the front of my robe over my breasts before searching the street. No cars. No people.

  At my feet, I found a note and immediately thought it was another invitation from Carlos. But the paper was torn roughly and folded haphazardly. This wasn’t any note Carlos would have written. It was simple and creased and uncaring. My body tensed as I opened the folds and revealed the writing. I found just a single word, Bear. My intuition had been right all along. My daughter was in trouble.

  THIRTY-TWO

  WITHIN THE HOUR, I PARKED across from the White Bear. It was a few hours before dawn and the night was still ripe with an inky midnight sky, clouded and hiding the stars. A street cleaner pushed a broom and picked up litter, shoveling it into a pale. Two joggers passed with their dog, all of them wearing clothes with warning lights, pulsing bulbs, and matching their stride. And there was the scent that came with summer evenings, of humid air laden with the remains of the day. Only, I had just one activity in mind. Find my daughter.

  The face of the Bear was quiet, solemn, the windows dark, save for first floor where I knew the long oak bar to be. There was activity inside, the silhouetted shapes of the Wilts gang members moving about. I imagined them in the throes of a rousing party, getting their fill in before hitting the road and weaving a path across the countryside. I imagined the dusty grit in their teeth, washing it down with the Bear’s whiskey, and playing games with the local girls, fooling them into doing things they’d regret later. And I imagined Snacks amongst them. But I couldn’t see anything more—I had no idea what I’d be walking into.

  The door opened just as I reached for the handle. A man tatted from his shoulders to his fingertips walked into me, his breath pouring out of him with the sour smell of beer. He took hold of my shoulders, bracing them, bracing himself, and nearly toppled over. I gripped his leathery arms and helped to keep him upright while his buddy took hold from behind.

  “This way, Chuck,” the other man said, giving me a wink, his eyes looking drunkenly weary beneath a blue kerchief on his head. “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” I said, making my way around them.

  “Closed,” he added as his friend leaned precariously over a hedge. He motioned to the music pumping and the loud screams. “Private party.”

  “That’s fine,” I answered. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  “Suit yourself,” the drunkard said and then fell over.

  “Chuck!” the man yelled,
“Stupid mother—”

  I went inside, bracing myself for the worst. A paralyzing fear struck my heart and spread outward like a virus, infecting every part of me. I suddenly felt exposed, naked, and cursed myself for not having come prepared. I had nothing to defend myself if there was a need. As the door closed behind me, the room quieted briefly like a hush over spectators at a baseball game. When all eyes were satisfied with what they saw, the partying resumed. My fears eased—the expectations of being accosted immediately had vaporized. There was nobody waiting. I stood alone, unnoticed. I scanned everything I could see, but there was no sign of my daughter. And other than the sun and the moon having traded places, the Bear looked exactly as I’d left it a few days earlier.

  In one corner, the members of Wilts gang hovered around a pool table—some with cues in hand, others throwing plastic rainbow colored darts at the wall. And in the other corner—smoke filled and dimly lit—a tail of cigarette embers danced up and down, a conversation between some elder gang members and a few men dressed in suits with ties and jackets. Across from me, the White Bear bar, the oak finish standing nearly the length of the room, glinting a shine from overhead bulbs strung up like holiday lights, their curly filaments glowing amber and gold. The same Wilts family member tended to the bar, his hands covered in a towel and glassware as he eagerly cleared the evening’s messes and made way for the next day.

  “The connoisseur of fine home-made whiskey returns,” he said, giving me a smile and a nod as I approached the bar. He recognized me, but I didn’t sense there’d be a problem. “I’m sorry, but afraid we’re closed to the public. State law. After hours and all.”

  I ignored what he told me and took to a barstool, ordering, “Couple of shots. Line them up.”

  He gave me a coy look, and I wondered if he noticed I was shaking like a leaf. My voice was gravelly, and I cleared my throat as I pushed the folded invitation with the bar’s namesake toward him. The bartender stopped what he was doing and grabbed a pair of glasses from his pocket, donning them. He gave his head a shake when he saw the writing on the paper. His smile faded, and he motioned to another corner toward the broom closet beneath the stairs. It was too dark for me to see anything but I suddenly felt danger like I’d never felt before. He stepped away from the bar, his eyes widening and adjusting to focus behind me.

  I smelled a change in the air and felt it on my skin, and at once I knew they’d been waiting—their private party was for me. I’d walked right into the mouth of the dragon, gift-wrapping myself like a tidy bounty and plunked myself onto their salivating tongue. I followed the bartender’s eyes as footsteps came from every direction along with the suffocating smell of cigarettes and alcohol.

  “I got your invitation,” I said and turned around. Tommy Wilts greeted me with a broad, toothy grin. And standing next to him, a short biker with a round face and salt and pepper beard. I recognized the man almost immediately—he’d tried to pick me up while I waited outside Holmesburg prison. Tommy continued to grin. Frustrated, I repeated, “I got your—”

  But there were no additional words. And no snarky remarks from Tommy Wilts like there’d been days earlier. In fact, there was only an explosive flash of light and a deadening thud that rocked the back of my skull.

  Fucking bartender, I thought as I fell into Tommy Wilts’ arms. I wouldn’t have considered the friendly bartender as being the violent type. But I guess blood is thicker than water. Or should I say, it’s thicker than whiskey.

  There was blackness then, followed by a few flickering lights and the sense of being moved. Confused and nonsensical, I told myself that I was seeing lies. That it had been cloudy when I arrived, and the moon and the stars were hidden behind a veil. But the White Bear had been veiled too, leading me to enter, leading me inside, and into the face of danger. I tried to make sense of what was happening, tried to wake myself.

  Time passed and there were brief glimpses of the White Bear’s ceiling that came and went from my sight like an old movie reel stuck on a scene, burning the frame’s emulsion, turning it into ash and smoke. My legs were jerked, wrenched and twisted, flipping me onto my side and then onto my belly. I lost all sight at one point when a coarse fabric was draped over my head and covered my eyes, wrapped tightly in a tie behind my head. They didn’t cover my ears though, and before blacking out, I heard my daughter’s voice.

  “Oh Momma, you shouldn’t have come.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  A FLASH OF WHITE AND a sudden sting on my cheek watered my eyes, causing me to blink, to regain consciousness and focus. The cover over my face was gone. I peered out through the slits of my eyelids and tried to make sense of where I was. The room had a dingy smell of dust and damp concrete. And there was a cold, hard press of a floor beneath me. Only, this wasn’t the White Bear’s basement. It was the broom closet beneath the staircase. I recognized it immediately—unfinished, exposed wiring, a single lightbulb hanging precariously from the ceiling, the wiring snaking overhead and down the side to a light switch where someone had hung a small crooked sign, “Don’t forget the light.”

  “Look who woke up,” I heard Tommy Wilts’ voice, followed by a slap and punch, and the muffled cries of a woman. Snacks. “Wakey, wakey, you’ll wanna see this.”

  Alertness came to me like a drug, springing my eyes open. I tried to speak and found the cover they’d used to blind me stuffed in my mouth. Tommy pinched my chin, ripping the gauzy wad from my lips. I focused on my daughter’s voice, narrowing my eyes in the dim light until I found Snacks. She was recovering from the blow to her middle, crying as a gurgling sound came up her throat. She spat a glob of blood through her swollen mouth and let out a cry. Her hair was stiff with blood and clung to her sweaty face. Her right eye was swollen and nearly black, and her nose was caked dried with blood. Her breaths came rapidly, her chest rising and falling like a small, frightened animal caught in a snare. My girl had been beaten and I couldn’t bear to think of what else they might have done.

  “Mom!” she yelled and was immediately punished for saying anything. Tommy jabbed his fist into her gut. She wheezed a single heave, pushing the air from her lungs. She spat up, dry-heaving while trying to recover.

  “You don’t speak until spoken to,” he laughed and then helped her sit up, and tidied her hair, brushing it back, wetting the tips of his fingers with his tongue before dressing an errant lock behind her ear. He wagged his finger in her face, “There, that looks much better. What fun we’ve got planned.”

  “What do you want?” I asked and pulled myself up from my side. I moved my mouth, then my nose, and then my forehead, trying to feel any bruising, any bleeding. I was clean, untouched, except for the lump on the back of my head. When I was fully upright and able to get to my knees, I demanded, “What is it you want?”

  “Tone?” Tommy Wilts answered. “Unacceptable.” His arm sprung forward, punching Snacks in the chest. Her face went blue. I tried to show as little emotion as possible, but couldn’t hold it together. I knew his type, knew that he wanted me to feed him the right lines so he could believe he was controlling everything.

  “I’m sorry about the tone,” I offered. His brow lifted, and he stepped closer, lowering himself until we were closer. It was uncanny how much he looked like his father. “What is it I can do to change our circumstance?”

  “Nicely worded.”

  “I have money,” I offered. He had no idea how wealthy I’d become. “I have more money than you can spend in a lifetime.”

  “Mm. Tempting.” He gave me a wink and stood, returning to Snacks and opened the door, yelling toward the bar, “Robbins, get in here.”

  Robbins? I thought crazily, my mind blanking of reasoning, of ideas as to why I was here, why my daughter had been beaten, and why our lives were hanging precariously on the whims of a wild man. A moment later, Derek Robbins filled the door frame.

  “Is that her?” he asked.

  “Don’t speak,” Tommy commanded, snapping his fingers and shutting De
rek’s mouth like a puppeteer. “Do you have any fucking idea how hard it was to get you bail? I killed a lot of favors pulling off that miracle.”

  “Wasn’t me,” I keep telling you. “I was hacked—”

  “Derek! Not another word!” Tommy yelled. Robbins shrunk back, his lips pressed tight.

  Tommy’s attention turned back to me. “This here is an asset. A valuable, albeit stupid mother fucker, Wilts’ asset. And for at least the next week, he is a very important to us. In fact, a good part of our future is based on his being where we need him to be and at the right time.”

  “Asset,” I said with a nod, repeating his words, pretending to follow along.

  “It seems your ex-husband—I’m sorry, where are my manners?” he began and then waved, interrupting himself. “You need to know that I know.”

  “And you know what?”

  “I know who you are, I know who your husband is. Shit. I know your entire family,”

  “So you can read the newspaper,” I chimed sarcastically. “Big, fucking deal. Anyone can read about us.”

  “On the contrary, not just anybody can browse the dark archives of certain business and managed services,” he exclaimed with an emphasis on the word dark. I was sure he was referring to Team Two. “And I know what you used to do too.”

  “Not so sure about that,” I mumbled, hoping I was wrong.

  “What’s he talking about?” Snacks asked, confused.

  Tommy laughed, asking, “She doesn’t know? Does she?”

  “What? Who is she?” Derek asked, also confused.

  “We have a bit of a celebrity here—in some circles that is,” he answered.

  “So you know. So what?” I said, losing interest in what he thought he knew. But then I saw a someone I recognize pass behind Robbins, his face a memory of the portly man in the old car outside of Holmesburg prison. I recalled seeing him with Tommy before I was struck by the bartender too. The Wilts had been waiting for me. “You knew I was being released?”