Page 24 of The Accomplice
Ever since I was a little girl, sitting on my parents’ couch in our little house in Cleveland watchingShowboat,Guys and Dollsand42ndStreet, I wanted to sing and dance. Like so many others, I came to New York with a big dream and little money. Shared terrible apartments with people I barely knew, worked three jobs, and racked up an impressive number of failed open auditions. When I didn’t get the job of Chuckie the Chicken for a children’s playday, I decided the entertainment business wasn’t for me.
I quit the three waitressing jobs, got a better position as a customer sales agent in a leather goods store at the corner of East 26thand Madison, and started making my rent on an apartment that wasn’t so crammed with strangers. I didn’t have to feel around the cushions on the couch, looking for lost nickels so I could buy some noodles. And that was my life for a year, until Daniel Miller saw me through the window, stopped and came inside. He didn’t want to buy a briefcase, or an overnight bag, or even a wallet. He wanted me. Said I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and he would regret it until his dying day if he didn’t ask me out to dinner that night.
He said his name was Daniel Miller that day, in the store. Like it meant something. I would learn that his name did mean something to rich people in the city. He managed a private hedge fund, and he made a lot of money doing it. He was tall, well-built, handsome, charming, and on our first date that night I wondered what was behind that gorgeous smile. I didn’t know he was rich when we first started dating, but on our fourth date, when he booked a jet to take us to Vegas, I kind of figured it out. It wasn’t the money that made me fall in love with him. It was the way he made me feel. Like I was the most important person in the world.
My life up to then had always been uncertain. My father couldn’t hold down a job and he would fight with my mom a lot. Alcohol played a part for sure, but lack of money was the root of it. I was nineteen and tending bar when he drove his truck through a barrier on the highway. Mom was in the passenger seat. He was drunk. They both were. And they never made it out of that truck. Losing my parents made me try for an acting job in New York. Life seemed fragile and chaotic.
But Danny gave me security, warmth and certainty. I would wake up every day knowing he cared for me, that I didn’t have to worry about money, or a place to stay, or anything really.
I don’t have to work anymore, but I volunteer at the animal shelter to keep me busy when Danny is not around.
I got home around four-thirty this afternoon and showered. Daniel was still at the office. I’d just come back down to the kitchen in my sweats to start a birthday dinner when the doorbell rang. I opened the door to a young man in a suit with a clipboard and pen in his hand.
He said his name was Detective Mike Stone. He asked if Daniel Miller lived here and was I Mrs. Miller ?
I said I was.
He asked what kind of vehicle Danny drove.
I started to shake. A wave of panic rising up through me with memories of the cop who came to my house to tell me my parents had died in a car wreck. Just then, Danny pulled into the driveway and I ran to his car and threw my arms around him. He was confused as to what was going on, then I told him the guy was a cop and he’d been asking about Danny’s car and I had put two and two together and made five. I’d panicked.
Danny knew what had happened to my parents, and he understood immediately how I’d reacted. I was still shaken up, so he explained what had happened to the bemused cop who suddenly looked really embarrassed. He apologized, said he just wanted to check if Danny owned a dark-colored van. Danny said it was owned by one of the companies he owns.
The cop then asked where Danny had been last night.
He said he was home, with me. The cop looked at me. I was still choked up. I couldn’t really speak, I just nodded and managed to mumble, that he was home with me.
The policeman thanked us both, apologized again for scaring me and then quickly left.
It was only when we got back inside the house, and I’d had some water and calmed down, that I thought again about what Danny had said. I asked him why he’d told the cop he was home last night when he’d been out late.
He said he had seen how upset I was and he just wanted to get rid of the cop so he could look after me, and that whatever the cop was looking into it had nothing to do with Danny.
He came over, held me close, until the warmth of him had made everything feel okay. I was safe.
I was loved.
CHAPTER TWELVE
EDDIE
It was eight-thirty in the morning by the time Bloch and I stumbled out of the FBI office in Federal Plaza into the morning sun. I had a headache, and we were both hungry. Our hands were clean, but both Bloch and I had wet cuffs on our shirts, faded pink now that we had washed our friend’s blood off them. In the men’s bathroom that morning, I’d seen a copy of theNew York Timesunder the arm of an agent. He put it on the shelf above the sink while he washed up.
All of the newspapers today would have front page news on the murder of an FBI agent by the Sandman. Except one. A copy of his letter had found its way to theNew York Times. The slogan at the top of the banner on theTimesreads,All the news that’s fit to print.This phrase has been on the gray lady for one hundred and fifteen years. It never looked more out of place than today. They had printed his letter in full. It was short, and to the point, and should not have gotten the attention.
I am a killer. My wife is not.
Let her go or more will die.
On the street outside the FBI office, a man in a wrinkled shirt, creased pants and jacket, shaded his eyes from the morning sun and stared at us as we came out of the building. If I hadn’t known those clothes looked that way the night before, I would’ve sworn he had slept in them. None of us had slept. Gabriel Lake raised a hand, said, ‘Can I buy you folks some breakfast ?’
Eating in a Manhattan diner is one of life’s great pleasures. Lake said he knew somewhere nearby. Two blocks brought us to an old-school diner. They had booths and laminated menus and a big guy behind the grill with five-day-old stubble who swore a lot and spoke in a language I couldn’t place. In other words, it was perfect.
Bloch ordered the grilled cheese with a side of eggs and chorizo. I took a chance on the pancakes and bacon and Lake ordered hot water with lemon.
‘I don’t do caffeine,’ he said, and then proceeded to interrogate the waitress about the muffin he was thinking of ordering. Where had it come from ? What was in it ? Were those ingredients organic ? The wait staff in diners don’t make a lot. They are there to serve with a smile solely so they can make their tips, and consequently, their rent. Lake wasn’t trying to piss her off. He genuinely wanted to know all this stuff. The waitress’s name was Halina. She watched Lake’s fingers tapping on the table as he talked, punctuating her answers with a forceful thump of his thumb when he liked what he heard. The booths were pretty full, and there were customers waiting at the door to be seated. Halina cocked her hip, put a fist on it, and started tapping her foot. She had reached the end of this conversation, even if Lake hadn’t yet realized it.
‘And are the poppy seeds grown organically ?’ asked Lake.
