Into the Dark Read online

  Finally, she wedged the phone between the seat cushions behind her. Done. Of course, she had no idea who was on the other end of the line, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, could they?

  “Where are you taking us?” Brenna said, as Bo’s laughter finally died down. She ventured a quick glance at him in the rearview. He had the look of an aging football player—fat on top of muscle on top of more fat, while Diddley—what she’d seen of Diddley anyway—was younger, more wiry. Both had stern faces and military-style crew cuts—Bo’s graying, Diddley’s bleached blond. And both wore very dark sunglasses, which, intimidating though it was, gave Brenna hope. They cared whether Brenna and Trent saw their faces. They might let them live.

  Or maybe they just didn’t like the sun in their eyes.

  “I said, where are you taking us?”

  Diddley leaned forward, put his lips to Brenna’s ear. “We’re taking you to the bottom of the river,” he said quietly, “if you don’t tell us where RJ is.”

  “Who the hell is RJ?” Trent blurted.

  “Aw, Veronica. You really don’t want to mess with us, trust me.” Still the smile in Bo’s voice, but he was breathing harder. Brenna heard a click—the safety on the Smith and Wesson.

  “Please . . .” Trent whispered. “Please. I’m . . . I’m driving the car.”

  Brenna took a breath. Stay calm. “He isn’t messing with you,” she said. “We honestly don’t know who RJ is.”

  Diddley’s grip tightened around her neck. “Bullshit, Betty.”

  “I wouldn’t lie about that.”

  Bo said, “RJ’s mommy wouldn’t give his ’puter to a couple strangers.”

  Brenna swallowed hard. Best, RJT. “RJ is Robin Tannenbaum.”

  “Bravo, Betty,” Bo said. “I’d clap for ya, but as you see my hands are full.”

  “Please put the safety back on,” Trent said.

  “Say pretty please.”

  Trent drew a breath, deep and shaky. “Pretty please.”

  Bo clicked it back into place, and Brenna allowed herself to exhale.

  “So you’re gonna stop lying now.”

  “Listen. We have never met RJ Tannenbaum, and only met Hildy for the first time today.”

  “Then why did she tell our boss you were RJ’s friends?”

  “Your boss?”

  “Hildy wouldn’t lie to him. She knows better than that.”

  Brenna frowned, her thoughts casting back into the Forest Hills apartment, Hildy rushing for the kitchen to take her call. At the time, Brenna assumed she was simply trying to avoid her questions, but replaying it again, Brenna recalled the spark of fear in her eyes when the phone rang, the quaver in her voice as she spoke. Oh, hello Mr. Pokrovsky. No, no, I’m fine . . . “Mr. Pokrovsky is your boss?”

  Bo said, “Yeppers. And he wants his investment back, with the interest incurred. Pronto.”

  “Robin Tannenbaum borrowed money from him? What for?”

  “Pull over, Veronica, and bear left.”

  At the side of the highway, Brenna saw a row of white Greek columns. “Greek columns. Where are we? Inwood Hill Park?” She thought of the phone wedged into the seat behind her—her only hope and it such a frail, dim one. Probably a telemarketer, probably long off the line . . .

  “You ask a lot of questions, for someone who don’t know how to answer any.” It was Diddley talking, the voice quiet, purposefully menacing.

  “Mr. Pokrovsky invested in RJ’s business venture back in October,” Bo said, as Trent made the turn. “Your buddy hasn’t paid back a dime. And with interest, he now owes . . . Tell us how much he owes, Diddley.”

  “Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  “That’s a lot,” Brenna said.

  “Bet your sweet, skinny booty, that’s a lot,” Bo said. “So either you two bring us to him . . . or we’re going to have to make ourselves more convincing.”

  “Oh God,” Trent whispered.

  “Hang a right, Veronica sweetheart. We’re gonna take that path all the way down to the river.” He chuckled a little, then began to sing, very softly. “Take me to the river, drop me in the water . . .”

  “Nice,” Diddley said.

  “We sing the blues, too, don’t we, Diddley?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Brenna glanced in the rearview and saw the Magnum following, at a distance. Outnumbered.

  “Washing me down, washing me down . . .”

  “Look,” Brenna cut in, “we’re not friends of RJ’s. We’re private investigators, and we’re looking for a woman he may have had contact with, and that’s why we have his computer. We never met Hildy Tannenbaum in our lives before today. We’re trying to find RJ. Just like you.”

  “You know what? You are really starting to piss me off.”

  “Now Diddley, they’re just scared is all. You kids oughta quit lying, though, if you don’t want to—”

  “We’re not freakin’ lying!” Trent yelled.

  “Easy there, Veronica.”

  “The name’s not Veronica. It’s Trent or TNT if you were a friend instead of a total jank-ass fat loser which you are.”

  “Trent,” Brenna hissed. “Stop.”

  “No! I’ve had enough of this crap. If this dickwad wants to shoot me in the head just because I don’t know where friggin’ RJ is, he can just go ahead and do it! I’m tired of the mind games!”

  Brenna heard a click—the safety releasing again.

  Diddley’s grip loosened. “Don’t shoot him while he’s driving,” he said, his breath at the back of Brenna’s neck, and in seconds she was back into October 2, the stitches fresh in her abdomen, lying in the hospital bed in Columbia-Presbyterian, and the soft knock on her door as Trent pokes his head in, holds up Brenna’s suitcase, smiling at the wall behind her. She knows he’s trying not to look at her wounds. And it isn’t out of politeness—Trent’s hardly ever polite. He doesn’t want to look because he doesn’t like seeing her hurt.

  “Don’t hurt him,” Brenna said, back in the car now. “Please.” Diddley wasn’t being as diligent with the knife and so she shifted around in the seat, looked at Bo. “We don’t know where RJ is, but you can take the computer. That’s gotta be worth close to the amount he originally borrowed, right? Before interest? Just let us pull over so you can take it.”

  “Wait—what?” Trent said.

  “You can take the car, too.”

  Trent said, “No friggin’ way!”

  “Excuse me?”

  Trent made a sudden hard right. The car jumped the curb and careened over the grass, throwing Brenna back into her seat. Bo’s gun exploded in a sudden, shattering roar. No, Brenna thought, No, no, no, no . . . Brenna closed her eyes as the car veered off to the side and began to roll down the hill in slow motion, the thought becoming a prayer, the prayer becoming everything, the gunshot ringing in her ears so she couldn’t hear. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no . . .

  Brenna felt a thud and the car came to a stop. She opened her eyes and saw the cracked windshield, the trunk of a tree. And then the air bag deployed, socking her in the face. She didn’t feel it, though. She was numb, outside herself. Trent, she wanted to say, but she couldn’t speak, until finally her ears stopped ringing and she struggled to move.

  She heard a moaning behind her. Bo. Or Diddley. She wasn’t sure which, didn’t care. Trent, oh God, Trent, I’ll kill them, I swear, if they hurt you. Kill them with my bare hands . . .

  Brenna struggled around the air bag. The left side of her face was tender, the whole of it a bruise radiating from the half-closed eye, the vision blurred—a shiner. Where are you, Trent . . . She needed the thick bag out of her way, needed to touch him to check his pulse, to see his face, please let him have a face . . . “Trent, are you there?” she said.

  Nothing.

  “Trent . . .”

  Brenna heard movement in the backseat, a door opening behind her. Bo or Diddley. Moving. Alive. She hated them both.

  Brenna pushed at her own door. She f
ell out of the car and onto the wet grass, her knees buckling, eye throbbing, but still the hate coursed through her, pressing against her skin until she vibrated with it, making her stronger. Kill them with my bare hands.

  She stood up, and he flew at her. Diddley—that’s who it was. His face full of blood, clumsy from his injuries, his teeth glistening red, knife still clutched in his hand. He was bigger than she, but all that lost blood made them equals. Shiner or not, Brenna was grateful for the air bag, grateful for Diddley pressing that knife to her throat before the car rolled, because no one could have done that while wearing a seat belt, and if he’d been wearing a seat belt she wouldn’t have a chance.

  An animal sound came out of him—a gurgling howl. He slashed at her left shoulder, but the hate was so strong, she barely felt it. Trent. She brought her right hand back, jammed the heel of it into his eye. Diddley screamed, his arm dropping.

  She balled the hand into a fist and socked him in the gut. He stumbled back. Her hand hurt. Dots of light swam in front of her eyes. He still had the knife. She stared at it in his hand and a memory tugged at her—October 2 . . . but Trent was enough to bring her back. The thought of him in the car, his silence . . .

  She heard another car door.

  Bo.

  Diddley was stumbling toward her with the knife, worse for the wear but still deadly—him and the knife both, the blade dark with Brenna’s blood, and now Bo coming. Fat, grinning Bo and his gun, she couldn’t see him but she knew.

  The car door slammed.

  A voice said, “Drop it.” But it wasn’t Bo’s voice. It was Trent’s.

  Diddley froze, dropped the knife.

  Brenna turned to see her assistant, alive, standing next to the wrecked car. His face was pale, blood trickling down the side, staining the collar of his cowboy shirt. He was unsteady on his feet, but the gun made up for his weakness—Bo’s gun, held straight in front of him, just the way she’d taught him to hold a gun on April 5, 2003. You can’t shoot, fine. At least let me show you how to look like you can . . . Brenna bit her lip hard enough to come back from the memory. Trent gave her a tired smile. “Hi.”

  Diddley said, “Don’t shoot, please.”

  “Blow me.”

  Relief washed through Brenna. You’re still here. Trent’s still here. “Are you okay?”

  Trent looked at her. “You hurt your eye, Bonnie.”

  Bonnie? Okay, so Trent needed a doctor. But he was alive and he could stand and he could speak . . .

  “Check it out.” He nodded at the front pocket of his bloody cowboy shirt. “I got the phone back, too.”

  Brenna saw the rectangular outline. RJ’s cell phone.

  “Fell on me when the car rolled. How’s that for irony? The gun, too. Got me in the head.”

  Brenna took a breath, but before she could use it to say anything, she heard an engine approaching and remembered the Dodge Magnum. “Trent, listen to me.”

  “Who else am I going to listen to?”

  “Don’t let go of that gun, okay? Don’t move.”

  Brenna spun toward the sound, the left whole side of her body aching as she did. The eye, the cheek, the stinging slice at her shoulder. Get ready . . .

  But it wasn’t the Magnum approaching. It was Morasco’s Subaru Impreza. It was Morasco screeching to a halt, Morasco jumping out of the car, shouting, “Police!” Morasco rushing up to Brenna, taking her in his arms—Morasco saying, “You’re okay.” Saying it, again and again, like a prayer.

  Chapter 10

  There was a reason that Trent hadn’t been able to speak for so long in the car. It was the same reason that he’d called Brenna Bonnie, and it was why, when with the help of one of several uniformed cops who had shown up moments after he did, Morasco had taken the gun, put an arm around him and helped him into a waiting ambulance, Trent had looked at the forty-year-old, childless detective and said, “Dad? What are you doing here?”

  He had suffered a concussion, apparently caused by Bo’s gun flying out of his hand and hitting him in the back of the head. The paramedics said it was probably a grade two—not very serious, seeing as Trent hadn’t been unconscious for more than a few seconds, knew who the president was, and could count to ten without any help. But it wasn’t wise to underestimate a head injury, and so they were taking him to the hospital anyway for observation, probably an MRI. Brenna, too.

  “Maybe I just happen to look like his dad,” Morasco said to Brenna, as they rode in the back of Trent’s ambulance to Columbia-Presbyterian.

  Brenna held an ice pack to her black eye. Adrenaline gone, her whole face ached, the ice about as worthwhile as a Band-Aid. But it could have been worse. Everything could have been so much worse. “You don’t look like Trent’s dad,” Brenna said. “Believe me.”

  “Dude, I’m right here and I love my dad.”

  “I wasn’t being insulting.”

  “Tell that to your tone of voice,” Trent said.

  The paramedics shushed him. “You really shouldn’t talk or get agitated right now,” said one of them—a young, serious-looking woman in delicate, wire-framed glasses.

  Trent turned to the paramedic, noticing her for the first time. “Hot librarian alert!”

  She actually smiled at him, which only proved how much you can get away with when you’re an injured person in an ambulance. Well, an innocent injured person, anyway. Bo and Diddley had been rushed to the hospital as well, but in their case, cops were riding along to arrest them once they were patched up and released.

  Amazing, Brenna thought. Because life rarely worked out like this. More often than not, life was random, brutal, unfair. It passed from one moment to the next without rhyme or reason, the good suffering just as much as the evil, usually more so for the shock of discovering that the world is not a safe, just place. Children disappeared, innocent people died, young girls got into blue cars as their sisters watched, and the cars drove away, never to be seen again . . .

  That said, Brenna was alive. Trent was alive. And of all the people who could have called her cell phone when she hit send and hoped for the best, it had been Morasco. Not a telemarketer from Idaho or India. Not Brenna’s mother or some half-sane potential client or Kate O’Hanlon wanting another five-thousand-calorie breakfast or anyone else who might have just sat there on the other end of the line, frightened and confused and doing nothing to help. She had hoped for the best, and that’s exactly what she had gotten.

  “You do realize you saved our lives,” Brenna told him.

  “Nah.”

  “No, seriously. Those two idiots got out of a Dodge Magnum to jack our car, but the Magnum kept following us. If you hadn’t shown up when you did, whoever was in that car would have finished us off pretty easily.”

  Morasco said nothing.

  “So what I’m saying is, it’s a good thing you called.”

  “No, Brenna.”

  Trent said, “Jeez, take a compliment, dude.”

  “No you don’t understand,” Morasco said. “It wasn’t me who called.”

  “You’re right,” Brenna said. “I don’t understand.”

  “Maya called your cell phone.”

  Brenna stared at him. “Maya?”

  “She got home from her sleepover and wondered where you were,” Morasco said. “She was worried, and so she called you.”

  “Maya was on the other end of the line.”

  “She called me from her cell phone while she stayed on with you on the landline. She could barely hear what you were saying—something about Inwood Hill Park. But I called the 34th Precinct and they pinged your cell and got a location.”

  Brenna swallowed hard. “I was going to call Maya when we got to the hospital. Come up with some excuse so she wouldn’t have to know . . .”

  “Well, she knows.” Morasco stared straight ahead. “Your daughter loves you,” he said, “very much.”

  “Does she know I’m all right?”

  “I told her you were,” Morasco said. “I don�
��t know if she believed me, though. At the time, I wasn’t sure myself.”

  Brenna tried to sort all this out in her head—her daughter on the other end of the line, her daughter, who shouldn’t be exposed to scenes like the one in the Taurus, not ever. Maya, who still kept her copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar and clomped up the stairs in her high-tops, Maya, who loved to draw and was still a child and shouldn’t know fear like that. She never should know.

  But then they were arriving at the hospital, Trent chatting up the paramedic as she helped him into the stretcher. “You sure you haven’t done any modeling?” he was saying now, such a child himself—risking his life, as he had, for RJ Tannenbaum’s computer, a high-priced toy. Morasco and another paramedic helped Brenna out of the ambulance, and she realized how much she ached—the bandaged shoulder wound, the swollen eye. “Let me see,” Morasco said.

  Brenna removed the ice bag. He flinched.

  “You need to work on your poker face.”

  He brushed a lock of hair out of her eye. “I’ve seen worse,” he said. “On you, in fact.”

  Brenna smiled. It hurt. She flipped open her phone to find a text from Maya: R U OK??? All caps. Three question marks.

  She texted back: I am fine. At hospital with Trent. Will be home soon.

  “You can’t use your phone here, ma’am,” said another paramedic, leaning against a wheelchair—a big, olive-skinned guy with glossy black hair and sweet eyes. “Hey, wait. I know you.”

  “You can’t possibly.”

  Morasco said, “She doesn’t forget a face.”

  “Me neither,” he said.

  “Yes, but she’s infallible.”

  “You were unconscious,” the paramedic told Brenna as he helped her into the chair. “Knife wound, early October.”

  Brenna looked up into his face, and fell back into October 2, when, so close to figuring out the Neff case, she’d gotten stabbed near Pelham Bay. Again she felt the blade as it socked into her abdomen, the damp pavement against her body, the slicing pain beneath her ribs as the life drained out of her. She felt it all and smelled the brine of the bay in the air, until she was devoured by the memory, fear coursing through her and then that same weird stillness . . . Breathing is hard, now. Brenna’s breath frail like a baby breathing, her body needing more air than she is able to give it. She puts her hand to her pain and feels her shirt—wet, sticking to her. She brings the hand up to her face and sees blood—so much of it, it looks black, like oil on her skin. I’m dying. The cell phone. She reaches for it, touches it . . . Call 911.