Tell No One

Helio looked back over at Tyrese. 'What is this, man?'

'I need to know the truth,' I said.

'You think I killed that Scope guy?'

'I know you didn't.'

That surprised him.

'What the hell is going on here?' he said.

'I need you to confirm something for me.'

Helio waited.

'Were you with my wife that night, yes or no?'

'What you want me to say, man?'

'The truth.'

'And if the truth is she was with me all night?'

'It's not the truth,' I said.

'What makes you so sure?'

Tyrese joined in. 'Tell the man what he wants to know.'

Helio took his time again. 'It's like she said. I did her, all right? Sorry, man, but that's what happened. We were doing it all night.'

I looked at Tyrese. 'Leave us alone a second, okay?'

Tyrese nodded. He got up and walked to his car. He leaned against the side door, arms folded, Brutus by his side. I turned my gaze back to Helio.

'Where did you first meet my wife?'

'At the center.'

'She tried to help you?'

He shrugged, but he wouldn't look at me.

'Did you know Brandon Scope?'

A flicker of what might have been fear crossed his face. 'I'm going, man.'

'It's just you and me, Helio. You can frisk me for a wire.'

'You want me to give up my alibi?'

'Yeah.'

'Why would I do that?'

'Because someone is killing everyone connected with what happened to Brandon Scope. Last night, my wife's friend was murdered in her studio. They grabbed me today, but Tyrese intervened. They also want to kill my wife.'

'I thought she was dead already.'

'It's a long story, Helio. But it's all coming back. If I don't find out what really happened, we're all going to end up dead.'

I didn't know if this was true or hyperbole. I didn't much care either.

'Where were you that night?' I pressed.

'With her.'

'I can prove you weren't,' I said.

'What?'

'My wife was in Atlantic City. I have her old charge records. I can prove it. I can blow your alibi right out of the water, Helio. And I'll do it. I know you didn't kill Brandon Scope. But so help me, I'll let them execute you for it if you don't tell me the truth.'

A bluff. A great big bluff. But I could see that I'd drawn blood.

'Tell me the truth, and you stay free,' I said.

'I didn't kill that dude, I swear it, man.'

'I know that,' I said again.

He thought about it. 'I don't know why she did it, all right?'

I nodded, trying to keep him talking.

'I robbed a house out in Fort Lee that night. So I had no alibi. I thought I was going down for it. She saved my ass.'

'Did you ask her why?'

He shook his head. 'I just went along. My lawyer told me what she said. I backed her up. Next thing I knew, I was out.'

'Did you ever see my wife again?'

'No.' He looked up at me. 'How come you so sure your wife wasn't doing me?'

'I know my wife.'

He smiled. 'You think she'd never cheat?'

I didn't reply.

Helio stood up. 'Tell Tyrese he owes me one.'

He chuckled, turned, walked away.

Chapter 34

No luggage. An e-ticket so she could check in by machine rather than with a person. She waited in a neighboring terminal, keeping her eye on the departure screen, waiting for the On Time next to her flight to evolve into Boarding.

She sat in a chair of molded plastic and looked out onto the tarmac. A TV blared CNN. 'Next up Headline Sports.' She made her mind blank. Five years ago, she had spent time in a small village outside Goa, India. Though a true hellhole, the village had something of a buzz about it because of the one-hundred year-old yogi who lived there. She had spent time with the yogi. He had tried to teach her meditation techniques, pranayama breathing, mind cleansing. But none of it ever really stuck. There were moments when she could sink away into blackness. More often, though, wherever she sank, Beck was there.

She wondered about her next move. There was no choice really. This was about preservation. Preservation meant fleeing. She had made a mess and now she was running away again, leaving others to clean it up. But what other option was there? They were onto her. She had been careful as hell, but they had still been watching. Eight years later.

A toddler scrambled toward the plate-glass window, his palms hitting it with a happy splat. His harried father chased him down and scooped him up with a giggle. She watched and her mind scrambled to the obvious what-could-have-beens. An old couple sat to her right, chatting amiably about nothing. As teenagers, she and Beck would watch Mr. and Mrs. Steinberg stroll up Downing Place arm in arm, every night without fail, long after their children had grown and fled the nest. That would be their lives, Beck had promised. Mrs. Steinberg died when she was eighty-two. Mr. Steinberg, who had been in amazingly robust health, followed four months later. They say that happens a lot with the elderly, that – to paraphrase Springsteen – two hearts become one. When one dies, the other follows. Was that how it was with her and David? They had not been together sixty-one years like the Steinbergs, but when you think about it in relative terms, when you consider that you barely have any memories of your life before age five, when you figure that she and Beck had been inseparable since they were seven, that they could barely unearth any memory that didn't include the other, when you think of the time spent together not just in terms of years but in life percentages, they had more vested in each other than even the Steinbergs.

She turned and checked the screen. Next to British Airways Flight 174, the word Boarding started to flash.

Her flight was being called.

* * *

Carlson and Stone, along with their local buddies Dimonte and Krinsky, stood with the British Airways reservation manager.

'He's a no-show,' the reservation manager, a blue-and-white uniformed woman with a kerchief, a beautiful accent, and a name tag reading Emily told them.

Dimonte cursed. Krinsky shrugged. This was not unexpected. Beck had been successfully eluding a manhunt all day. It was a long shot that he would be dumb enough to try to board a flight using his real name.

'Dead end,' Dimonte said.

Carlson, who still had the autopsy file clutched against his hip, asked Emily, 'Who is your most computer-literate employee?'

'That would be me,' she said with a competent smile.

'Please bring up the reservation,' Carlson said.

Emily did as he requested.

'Can you tell me when he booked the flight?'

'Three days ago.'

Dimonte leapt on that one. 'Beck planned to run. Son of a bitch.'

Carlson shook his head. 'No.'

'How do you figure?'

'We've been assuming that he killed Rebecca Schayes to shut her up,' Carlson explained. 'But if you're going to leave the country, why bother? Why take the risk of waiting three days and trying to get away with another murder?'

Stone shook his head. 'You're over thinking this one, Nick.'