Placido leaned over Pete. Checked his pulse. Satisfied the deed was done, he let go of Pete’s neck and let the corpse flop to the floor. Product leaked from Pete’s ears, eyes, and mouth. His entire head glistened under the harsh fluorescent light.
Placido crouched and yanked the electrodes out of Pete’s ass in a single motion. A cartoonish pop sounded. “They call me Leiteiro. Do you know what that means?”
“No.” Fantine stared at Placido.
Placido frowned and stood up, still holding the wires. “I guess that doesn’t matter, but what does matter, Miss Park, is a simple fact.” He pointed a finger at Pete’s body and then back to her. “Nobody fucks with the Leiteiro. Am I understood?”
Fantine found the strength to look down at Pete’s corpse. The urge to vomit returned. Her eyes felt like they were on fire, but the tears had stopped. There was a faint smell of bleach in the air—or at least she thought that’s what she smelled.
“Do you understand, Miss Park?” Placido walked over to a sink and washed his hands. Opened a garbage can next to him and disposed of the electrodes—as if this was business as usual. “Your things are back by where we left your father. Minus your knives, of course. Be sure to say whatever you need to say to him in case this doesn’t go your way. I will not accept half-assed work. You hold up your entire end, and I will let your father live. If it is not to my satisfaction then you and your father die.” He pulled two squares of paper towels from the roll above the sink and dried his hands thoroughly. “This is no threat, but a promise.”
Fantine nodded. “You’ll get it by tomorrow night.”
12
There would be no more planning, not like there was much before.
Fantine went straight from Placido’s stud farm downtown to Long Island. She’d emerged from the sperm bank and into the early Sunday morning hours. It wasn’t a normal Sunday afternoon, though. People were moving, going to destinations to avoid the storm. It felt like a typical Monday morning commute.
Two subway trains and the Long Island Railroad. The subway was packed with city pilgrims, all headed north or west. The trip into Long Island was the opposite—she even had an entire two benches to herself. She heard a few people chatting about “storm of the century” and “coastal surge,” but she ignored it. There was so much more to worry about than wind and rain. What would she do if Aleksei was there? Not like she’d kill him—even if she would have been overjoyed at the prospect. No, his neighborhood was right on the water, surely they would have been evacuated.
The loss of Peter hadn’t settled into her head. Fantine found herself thinking of him, but couldn’t find a moment that his death that wouldn’t replay for her. She closed her eyes and saw him twitching—weak—with his head dunked into that tank. What a pathetic way to die. Even with those visions in her head, she didn’t feel like she was mourning. Maybe something was wrong with her. Maybe she didn’t really have it in her to feel any sense of loss for the one friend she ever had. Fantine wished she could be mad at anyone else, but it was impossible. Every single bad decision she made led her right here. The only person she could be angry with was herself.
“Ticket?” One of the train conductors walked over and held a hand out.
Fantine handed the conductor her ticket and watched him punch holes into the row of numbers printed along its front. It felt strange that this guy might be one of the last people—not involved in this mess—to interact with her while she was alive. She wondered if she should tell him—have him bring her to the cops and explain everything. That would be the smart thing to do, right? If she worked fast enough, they could save her father and then they could disappear.
“Miss?” The conductor held the punched ticket to Fantine.
“Thanks.” She took the ticket and turned to stare out the window as Kew Gardens flew by. The sky was heavy and grey, but it didn’t look like anything bad was on its way. It felt like a typical, dreary New York afternoon—almost normal. She closed her eyes and tried to stop thinking about what would be in store for her, or worse, her father.
There was nobody at Aleksei’s house. No cars in the driveway—no open curtains. Fantine was surprised by how normal it looked. She’d expected wrought-iron gates or a massive wall, but her expectations came crashing down when she spotted the two-floor colonial on a side street in the middle of Amityville. Brick-face. Those fancy windows that pop out just a little bit—Fantine didn’t know what they were called. The mailbox looked like a smaller version of the house.
“How fucking quaint,” Fantine said as she checked the mailbox. There was still mail inside. This was good. Nobody had been home since Saturday.
She jogged up the three steps towards the front door. There was a sticker on the frosted glass of the front door advertising a home security system, but she knew it was bullshit. The name of the company was a goof—there was no company called USA Secure anywhere. No surprise Aleksei would be so cheap as to not have an alarm system, but confirmation worried her. Would he be dumb enough to keep anything important at home? If he didn’t, would she be able to find a lead to where he did keep sensitive materials? Fantine busied herself with the what-ifs while she pulled her picks from her jacket. She looked around to see if anyone was watching. Not a soul in suburbia was out. Most people were either hunkered down and watching the weather reports or ducked out for a long weekend someplace land-locked. Fantine envied the latter group.
She was in the house quickly. The layout felt familiar—even if she’d never visited before. Aleksei had an office on the first floor with a computer and a safe sitting on another desk. Fantine chose to crack the safe first. Inside, the deed to the house, passports, and social security info. There were a few flashdrives as well. In the back, a little .22 and three boxes of bullets. She shoved everything but the gun into her bag, choosing to keep the firearm in her pocket in case of an emergency. When she bent over to inspect the undersides of shelves, she felt the knife she secreted in her bra poke her. Fantine forgot she even packed the knives before Placido got his hands on her. The other two were gone, but her bet on people being a little too prudish to give her a proper pat down paid off.
“So far, so good,” she muttered as she slid into the comfy leather chair in front of the computer. No password barred her from accessing any files, but there wasn’t much to find except for family pictures.
Fantine sighed and went through the desk drawers. Old papers and empty bottles of random liquors made up most of the contents. Then she hit pay dirt. In the very back of a bottom drawer, a little black book. Within, lists of numbers—telephone and other kinds. The non-telephone numbers were all nine digits long. Routing numbers. Fantine’s heart fluttered. This was good—very good. With nothing else to find in the office, she made her way through the rest of the house. Made the master bedroom her last stop. It was gaudily decorated—like the rest of the house. All paisley textiles and furniture with gold paint. Over-large frames held family portraits and paintings of old sailing vessels. If this were a robbery, Fantine figured she could make a killing pawing off the tchotchkes alone.
The master bedroom didn’t have much beyond clothes, but a painting of horses caught her eye. “Don’t tell me you’re this typical, Aleksei.” Fantine grabbed the lower edge of the painting and pulled—of course it was on hinge. Another safe. Electronic this time. No worries, Fantine knew these types. She examined the keypad. The software for these locks usually had a reset key in case a person forgot their input key—and a lot of the idiots that bought these safes did. Judging by the make of the safe, she figured it couldn’t be older than five years. There were a handful of reset keys she knew off the top of her head, so she entered each in order as she sang the numbers.