“Oh, come on. If I’d wanted to break the damn agreement, I would have. I wouldn’t have bothered with an emissary.”
“You shouldn’t have bothered with anything. Just lain low and played dead.”
“Like my baby brother Roland?” She smirks. “I know you met with him. And I’m pretty sure he gave you a sob story—that he was just awittle victim,” she sneers. “Did he cry, protesting that all he’s guilty of is being the baby of the family?” A snort. “But that’s bullshit. He’s a fucking liar. A usurper. Why elsewould he have played dead for so long?” She seethes with hatred. “Whatever he promised, he won’t honor it. You think I’m bad—he’s far worse.”
“At least he hasn’t tried to kill us or sicced spies on us,” I say coolly, even as she stirs up doubts. “People like Roland and you don’t understand friendship or loyalty, just self-interest. He doesn’t benefit from messing with me and the family, but you do. That fact alone makes him far palatable than you.”
Something flickers in Mom’s eyes, but then vanishes. She gives me a pitying look. “He isn’t as innocent as you think. Do you think Kenna works for me? She works for Roland. She’s smitten, and so is he, even though he tries to hide it. But I can tell. He treats her differently.”
“Guess he has a heart, unlike certain people.” I give Mom a disdainful look.
“Think what you will, but you’ll know I’m the only one you can depend on. You say I only care about self-interest, but mine aligns with yours—I want to keep you and your brothers safe. I’m even giving you something that’ll make Roland behave.” She pulls a memory stick out of her purse and places it in my breast pocket. “You and I share the same blood—I love you and your brothers very much. I want the best for all of you, for our family of five.” She lowers her voice. “When I get rid of the assholes in my way, we’ll be together. Until then, just remember I’m always proud of you.”
*
My gut knotted tight, I return to my office and close the door. I reach into the bottom drawer and pull out a separate laptop without anything on it except an Internet connection, a browser and the standard apps that come with the operating system. I have no idea what’s on the memory stick, and I’m not using my work laptop for it. Who knows what kind of virus or Trojan is onit? Wouldn’t surprise me if Mom tried to hijack the firm’s entire system.
At the same time, I’m curious to see what she thinks can control Roland. The man didn’t give off an easy-to-bend vibe.
Two files. One video and one text. So far, everything looks innocent. I click on the text file first. A random string of numbers occupies the top line. Right underneath it reads:A drum with the parts and the bat, caught in an abandoned fishing net and ropes.
What does that mean?
I play the video next. No sound. A grainy but decent enough resolution to be able to recognize the players.
A younger version of Kenna Miller is standing near a dumpster under a street light. She grabs something that looks like a baseball bat and hits a man who looks to be at least twenty years older than her in the temple. The man raises his arms to protect himself, but too late. He drops. She continues to beat him over and over again. She doesn’t stop even after the man quits moving. A dark pool of blood slowly expands on the pavement around his head, but she keeps going.
The entire clip is a little over two minutes with nothing but her smashing his face. A lot of fury. Very personal. No wonder Mom’s been able to use it to control Kenna. The man in the video isn’t exactly small—a few inches taller than her. The area seems a bit seedy, and it’s nighttime, so it’s possible he made some kind of threat or tried to assault her. But there’s nothing else in the clip, so the motive would be unprovable. Whatcanbe proven is that she killed a man in a frenzy.
I go back to the text file. If the drum’s “accidentally discovered,” it’ll provide the body and the weapon. Cops and the DA can assign the worst possible motive, claiming her secretly disposing of the victim and the bat means she knew what she did was indefensible.
I copy and paste the string of digits into a Google map. It shows a location on the Pacific coast, near the Bay Area. Kenna was probably too frazzled to be methodical about disposing of the body and weapon. I tap my fingers on the space next to the mousepad. What was the story after the video?Either Roland or Mom helped her hide the evidence. He might’ve fallen for Kenna’s pretty face, but Mom would’ve tried to use her.
I close the laptop and put it back in the bottom drawer. Mom’s been plotting for a long, long time to come to this point. For what? Just to take over Vincent’s crime family?
My gut says it’s not that simple. A woman this devious, patient and thorough wouldn’t have waited this long. She might’ve known for a while that Roland wasn’t dead as well.
The fact that Mom’s motivation might not be what my brothers and I have been assuming sends chills down my spine. I don’t believe for a second that our meeting outside the deli was a coincidence. She wants something from me.
But what? Maybe threaten Roland and make him back off?
If Mom’s correct, she should’ve used the evidence to control him because he might do whatever’s necessary to keep Kenna out of jail. Or maybe Mom wants to throw me a bone. A show of goodwill. She might believe I might soften my attitude toward her.
Another scenario is that she wants me and Roland to turn on each other. Wouldn’t it please her to know Roland and I had become enemies over Kenna?
A couple of knocks on the door yank me out of my darkly spiraling thoughts. “Come in.”
The door opens and Klein sticks her head in. “You haven’t gone to lunch yet?”
I point to the bag from the deli. “About to start.”If I have enough appetite for a sandwich after my encounter with Mom.
The smile on Klein’s face is as sunny as the bouquet of violet Thai orchids in her hand. “I saw these on the way back to the office, and decided to grab them for you. These other guys aren’t looking so great anymore.” She pulls the pink carnations and yellow tulips from the vase. The tulips’ petals are starting to discolor at the edges. She replaces the water and sticks the fresh orchids in the vase.
As she busies herself brightening my office, the clammy darkness over my mind recedes. It’s amazing what her mere presence can do.
She finishes arranging the vase and retreats a step, casting a critical eye over her work. Then, instead of heading back to her workstation, she clasps her hands and studies me.
“Is there something else?” I ask.
