Lethal People - John Locke

Quinn said, “Did you ever watch Seinfeld?”

“The television show or the comedian?”

“The show.”

“Sure. All the time.”

“Me, too. Did you ever see the show about Opposite George?”

“Where he starts doing the opposite of everything he’s done before?”

“Right. And everything started working for him, remember?”

“Yes,” she said. “He goes up to the girl in the coffee shop, tells her he’s bald, unemployed, and lives with his parents.”

“Uh huh, and she likes him! Then he has the job interview and does everything wrong and winds up working for the Yankees.”

Kathy said, “Yeah, I love those shows. I still watch the reruns sometimes. But what does this have to do with not wanting to kill me?”

“It’s like Opposite George. All my adult life, I’ve taken these kinds of jobs, never asking questions, never wondering about the motives, never thinking about the people who had to die. What’s it ever gotten me? Nothing but misery. I have to work, and this is all I know. Long story short, your husband called a guy who called a guy.”

“And now you’ve come,” Kathy said.

“Right,” said Quinn. “Only this time, I started thinking, what if I take the money and don’t do the hit? What’s the worst that could happen?”

Kathy didn’t know how to answer that.

“I watched you, and I may be wrong, but I think you’re a nice person.”

“Well thank you, Mr. Purvis.”

“Actually, my name is Quinn.”

“Okay …”

“It’s not your fault that Brad is screwing around on you.”

“What?”

“Yeah, he’s sleeping with this young girl who works at Neiman Marcus in Buckhead, at the jewelry counter. Her name is Erica Vargas. I’m thinking that’s why he wants you out of the picture, so he can fuck her all the time instead of just twice a week.”

“Please, Mr. Quinn. Your language. It’s appalling!”

“Oh, sorry. Anyway, I think Brad’s a jerk and you could do better.”

“Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Quinn, if that’s indeed what it was. But I’m afraid there’s been a terrible mistake. I find it inconceivable that Brad would take a lover.”

“Happens all the time.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure it does, but not to passionless men like Brad. As for him being capable of murder? Impossible.”

Quinn’s hand was suddenly a blur as he snatched Wendy and headed for the sedan. Kathy bolted after him.

“Stop!” she said. “What are you doing?”

“I’m taking Wendy for a little ride. You can join us if you’d like.”

“Please, Mr. Quinn. You don’t want to do this. Look at her. She’s terrified.”

The giant kept moving toward the car.

“Remember what you said about Opposite George!”

Quinn held the passenger door open. “I’ve already explained my position on that,” he said, “but some things must be seen to be believed. Climb in. If we hurry, we can catch them in the act.”

Kathy looked around. “What has happened to our security guard?”

Quinn waved his injured hand dismissively. “He’s, uh, tending to a family emergency.”

Though Quinn had said it casually, he failed to anticipate the terrifying images that suddenly raced through Kathy’s mind. She began shaking so violently, Quinn feared she might slip into shock.

“Kathy, I promise you, everything’s fine. Think about it: if I wanted you dead, you’d already be halfway to heaven.” He patted the seat. “Now climb in and stop worrying. I’ll have you and Wendy back home in no time.”

Kathy didn’t want to go with the giant. In fact, getting in his car would be dead last on her list of things to experience in her lifetime. But she couldn’t bear the thought of losing Wendy. She took a deep breath and reluctantly climbed into the car and hung her hopes on the idea that perhaps one of her neighbors had seen enough to phone the authorities.

Quinn put the car in gear and handed Wendy to her grateful owner. True to his word, Quinn didn’t hurt either of them and was in fact very conversational during the drive to Buckhead. It was not yet noon and traffic was light, and before long, Kathy felt the car stop. She turned her attention away from Wendy and looked out the window.

“What happens now?” she asked.

“We wait.”

Kathy followed Quinn’s gaze to the café across the street, the charming one that offered a view of cozy furniture through the front window—the cozy furniture upon which Brad sat with a young hottie.

Quinn, Kathy, and Wendy settled into their seats for the duration of the lovers’ meal, then watched Brad and Erica stroll hand-in-hand to the nearby hotel. They waited in the car in silence for about an hour. Then Quinn spotted the lovers exiting the hotel. Brad gave Erica one last embrace.

“Can you drive us home now?” Kathy said.

He did. Before getting out of the car, Kathy said, “You know that thing you were telling me about, the whole Opposite George thing? I think this just might work out for you.”

Quinn wondered what Donovan Creed would have said to keep the conversation going. He came up with, “How so?”

“I’m the one with all the money in this relationship, not Brad, but there is a pot full of insurance and a big inheritance coming Brad’s way if something happens to me.”

Quinn knew where this was going.

Kathy continued. “You can keep the fifty thousand dollars from my husband,” she said, “and I’ll add another fifty thousand to it. Do you understand what I’m asking?”

“You want me to kill your husband.”

Kathy laughed. “Heavens no! I’ve got far too much invested in the prick. Plus, I really do love him, and I certainly wouldn’t welcome the close scrutiny the media and police would bring.”

Quinn was wrong. He had no idea where this was going and told her so.

“Don’t you see?” asked Kathy. “I want you to kill Erica.”

Quinn nodded absently. “I know a guy who says we all have at least two people in our lives who we wish had never been born. These two people changed the course of our lives for the worse, and we never got over what they did.”

Kathy said, “Your friend is probably right about that.”

Quinn said, “Apart from Erica, was there anyone else in your life who you wish had never been born?”

“Oh heavens,” said Kathy. “What a horrible question to ask!”

“Just hypothetically.”

“Well, I hate to speak ill of the dead,” she said, “but did you see that media circus about Monica Childers a few weeks ago?”

Quinn nodded. “Did you know her?”

“She was my step-daughter. She made my life a living hell.”

After helping Kathy achieve a peaceful demise, Quinn placed her into a shallow grave in the North Georgia woods, went back to the mall, and waited for Erica to leave her station. The store wasn’t busy, but there were people milling around. Quinn waited until the area around the jewelry counter was vacant. He placed a small package by the cash register and walked out of the store.

Erica finished up in the bathroom, walked back to her station, and checked the area to make sure the fill-in girl hadn’t left any paperwork for her. Satisfied, she turned her attention to the small gift-wrapped package with her name on it. There was a note: “Please accept this with all my love. I’m filing for divorce today. Love, Brad.”

Erica let out a squeal of delight. This was her dream come true, what she’d been working for all these months. Working the jewelry counter at Neiman’s, she was tired of watching other women casually make purchases that eclipsed her annual salary. Her friends chided her for always dating married men. She couldn’t wait to show them the fruits of her labor!

She carefully unwrapped the package, slowly lifted the lid.

And days later, cleanup crews were still finding remnants of her flesh in the strangest places.

CHAPTER 53

I woke up first, so I went into the kitchen and set the oven to four hundred. While it preheated, I filled a blender with milk, flour, eggs, butter, salt, and vanilla and almond extract. I let that churn on high a full minute, found Kathleen’s muffin pan, and sprayed it with nonfat cooking spray. I poured the batter into the muffin slots, popped them in the oven, and set the timer for twenty-seven minutes. Th en I placed some butter on a plate to soften and headed back to Kathleen’s bedroom, where I belonged.

“What was all that racket?” she asked.

“I’m making us popovers for breakfast.”

“You can’t make popovers at home. They always fall before you take them out,” she said.

“Not mine.”

“Only fancy restaurants can make popovers that stay puffed up.”

“Only fancy restaurants and me,” I said.

“If you’re wrong and I’m right, will you take me somewhere fancy for breakfast sometime?”

“Do you have a place in mind?” I said.

“I’d like to have breakfast at Tiffany’s,” she said.

“Actually, I think Tiffany’s is a jewelry store, not a restaurant.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I’ve never seen the movie. I just always assumed …”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “My popovers won’t fall. We won’t have to eat somewhere fancy.”

“Darn,” she said.

Somebody famous once said that you can kiss your friends and family good-bye and put a lot of miles between you, but you’ll always be with them because you’re not just a part of the world; the world is a part of you.

Or something like that.

The point is, I never missed anyone the way I missed Kathleen this last trip. When I found my way back to her modest duplex with the faded green siding, half attic, and half basement, and she jumped into my arms and wrapped her legs around me and squealed with joy—well, I knew this must be what all the poets make such a fuss about.

“How long do we have before the popovers fall?” she asked.

“Forever, because they never will. I have it down to a science.”

“So what you’re saying, you’re a chef scientist.”

“We all have a specialty,” I said.

“My specialty is math,” she said.

“Math?”

She gave me a sly smile. “That’s right. As in, how many times can one thing … go into another.” She arched an eyebrow seductively.

“Before a cooking timer goes off ?” I asked.

“Hypothetically,” she said.

“I’m not certain, but I’m willing to expend a great deal of effort toward helping you solve that equation.”

And so we did.

The bell interrupted our research, and we agreed to continue the experiment after breakfast. Kathleen took a blanket ff the bed, wrapped it around her, followed me into the kitchen, and watched me take a pan of perfectly formed popovers from the oven. We filled them with softened butter.

“Oh … my … God!” she squealed. “I’ve always wanted a man who could cook, and now I’ve got something even better: a man who can bake!”

We each ate two, and afterward, Kathleen looked as though she wanted to say something.

“What?” I said.

“I want to tell you something, but I don’t want to run you off.”

“You won’t run me off. Unless you’ve got another lab partner.”

She took a deep breath and said, “I want to adopt Addie.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just said, “Really.”

“I love her, Donovan, and she loves me. I’ve always wanted a child of my own, but Ken beat that physical possibility out of me years ago. Anyway, it’s like I’d be choosing her over all the other children in the world, you know? And she needs me.”

“What about Aunt Hazel?” I asked.

She lowered her eyes. “That’s the problem,” she said. “Hazel doesn’t want her, but she doesn’t want me to have her.”

“Why not?”

“She thinks I can’t provide for Addie. She thinks Addie should be turned over to an adoption agency where she can be placed with a proper family.”

“You mean like a husband and wife?”

She nodded. “And enough money to adequately care for her needs.”

“What did you say?”

Kathleen took my hand in hers. “I told her the chances of a perfect family adopting Addie were slim and that I might not have a husband or money, but I can give her all the things a little girl needs.”

“Well said.”

“But she still won’t sign off on me, even though Addie begged her to.”

“You want me to have a talk with Aunt Hazel?”

Kathleen said, “Would you mind terribly?”

“I’ll do it today,” I said.

We sat there in silence awhile. Then Kathleen said, “Donovan?”

“Uh huh?”

“Will you still see me if I adopt Addie?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“A lot of men would rather date gorgeous, young, big-boobed women that aren’t single mothers.”

“Yuck,” I said. “Not me!”

On my way to Aunt Hazel’s, I reflected on the enormity of the accounts I’d seized from Joe DeMeo. He was far wealthier than I’d anticipated, and in fact, money was still pouring in at a healthy clip. I supposed the contributors hadn’t yet heard the news of DeMeo’s fall. After paying all costs of the campaign, I had enough left over to give a million dollars each to Lou, Kimberly, and Janet. Janet seemed quite pleased to get a share, I thought, even though she said it was a drop in the bucket compared to what I’d cost her in misery.

I thought about Garrett Unger and how he was scheduled to be arrested this morning. I hadn’t said anything about it to Kathleen, and I hadn’t mentioned the million dollars that would be wired into her personal account by 2:00 pm today, or the trust I was setting up for Addie that would be funded with the initial ten million I’d clipped from DeMeo. These were all surprises that were sure to make breakfast at Tiffany’s seem pale by comparison. Not to mention the biggest surprise of all—when Kathleen finds out I’m not just a baker, but an accomplished cook as well.

Traffc was moving, but slowly. I looked out the window and saw the small piles of black snow, the only visible remnants of a brutal winter. We plodded our way under a bridge, and I noticed several bums huddled together under blankets, trying to sleep. I wondered what had happened in their lives that brought them to this bridge on this day.

I had my driver pull over. I got out of the car and approached the bums. “I’ve got something for you,” I said.

It took a minute, but the three men roused themselves to sitting positions. There was no way to tell how old or young they were, but they were equally filthy. I handed each of them a hundred dollar bill, and they all said “God bless you, sir.”

The first guy held up a small bottle of blackberry brandy. There was maybe a sip left in it. “You want to sit and have a drink?” he asked.

“Another time,” I said, but I didn’t leave.

“That’s mighty generous of you mister,” one of the guys said. “Mighty generous, indeed.”

Another one said, “Know what I’m gonna do with my hunnerd?”