She kisses me again. Then she opens her door, but first, we do that thing where we slowly break away from each other until just our fingertips are touching. I’m thinking, God, I’m pathetic. Finally, mercifully, she’s gone. I fire the ignition. Before I blast off, I take a deep breath and look at the photograph again.
In it, Rachel is lying spread-eagle on her back on our kitchen floor. She’s blindfolded. Her hands and feet are tied to eyebolts that have been screwed into the floorboards. She’s wearing a white bra and black panties, nothing more. She has some sort of ball in her mouth, like the kind you’d see in a low-grade bondage movie.
On her bra cups, written in thick, indelible ink, are the letters “K” and “V.”
If that doesn’t stand for Karen Vogel, I’m out of ideas.
Chapter 7
Traffic in downtown Louisville is only heavy at noon and five, and noon is a half hour away. By then, I’ll be at Rachel’s side or in police custody, and I’m not sure which is safer.
I make short work of the downtown area, hit the interstate ramp, kick the Audi into third, and catch rubber out of the turn. I shift again and jam the gas pedal till I hear the engine whine. I shift to fifth, flying. I’m flying! But my mind is flying faster.
Someone has molested my wife, unless she woke up wearing a white bra and black panties. I try to think. Did she? I rewound the morning in my head. She was sleeping when I left. What about last night? Think! Last night, I came into the bathroom, and—
Shit! I swerve and change lanes, barely missing the car in front of me. I’d misjudged its speed. I look at the needle. I’ve slowed to one-ten. Jesus!
Okay, so last night, she’s at her makeup desk in the bathroom. She’s sitting there, her back to me as I enter the room to brush my teeth. She’s just showered and still has a towel on her head. She’s got another towel draped around her shoulders; she’s not wearing a bra. And she … she does have on black panties. Okay, so it’s possible she put on a white bra. Wait—no, it’s not possible. She wears a flannel nightshirt to bed, no bra. This morning, I get up and get dressed, and she’s still asleep in her upstairs bedroom. So, she does what? Wakes up after I leave, starts getting dressed, right? Maybe she puts on the white bra and starts getting dressed, but someone breaks in and—
No. I force myself away from that scenario. Maybe she’s sleeping when they break in. They overpower her. No, that’s even worse. I stop concentrating on how they got her bound and gagged and into the bra and focus instead on why.
Why would they write “K” and “V” on her cups? It’s a reference to Karen Vogel, nothing could be more obvious. In the photograph, Rachel is blindfolded. Does that mean she doesn’t know what they wrote on her bra? If so, I’ll have to come up with a plan to get her bra off before she sees it.
Excuse me?
I slap my forehead to remind myself to stop being a jerk. This is my wife. She’s lying on the floor. She’s scared to death. She’s bound and gagged, and—
And blindfolded. There it is again. I can’t get my mind off the blindfold.
My best guess is Rachel doesn’t know about Karen. The “K” and “V” are a warning to me. If I don’t do what they want, they’ll tell Rachel about the affair.
But what do they want me to do?
They’ve never said.
I wonder if they have pictures. I wonder again if Karen could have set me up. I’ve only known her a month. How well can you possibly know someone in just a month? I mean, Karen’s been with me the same month and doesn’t know I’m married, right? But what if she does know about Rachel? Would she want to punish me for lying to her?
Possibly.
But is she capable of murder?
No. But this isn’t about the affair. If Karen found out I was married, she’d throw a shit fit, sure. But she wouldn’t do anything that would result in the death of my wife’s sister or a policeman.
Unless …
What is it they always say in the movies?
Follow the money.
Good advice, that. Because this is almost certainly about the money, and not just my money, I’m beginning to suspect, but the money I move for my clients.
One of the lanes is closed up ahead, and I’m forced to downshift to sixty, which gives me more time to think.
Maybe I’m coming at it the wrong way. Maybe the gangster found out about Lockdown T3 and hired Karen Vogel to be receptive to my advances. Maybe he figured if Karen got close enough, I’d give her details about my operation. If that’s it, she’s done a helluva job, because other than the standard, “What do you do for a living?” Karen’s hardly mentioned my business.
But I have.
I’ve told her plenty.
That’s me, Mr. Big Shot, trying to impress Karen from day one and throughout the whole courtship, making sure she knows how special I am, how lucky she is to be with me, how clever, rich, and successful I am, what I did to get that way, and how it works. So yeah, I told her plenty—not enough to breach my security, but certainly enough to pique her interest on behalf of her gangster friend.
Listen to me, “gangster friend.” We’re talking about Karen Vogel here, not Vicky Gotti.
My inner voice starts in on me. Oh really? Then what about all the coincidences? I list them: One, at the exact time I’m in the hotel room with Karen, someone is photographing my wife on the kitchen floor wearing a bra with Karen’s initials. Two, when I leave Karen’s hotel room, a gangster attacks me in the hotel garage and takes me to a park. Three, it’s not just any park, but the park where Rachel’s sister happens to be.
So of course Karen is involved. But who came first, Karen or the gangster?
It had to be Karen.
Maybe she didn’t know the gangster before I started running my mouth, but after hearing my stories, she must have started formulating a plan. A girl like Karen wouldn’t know how to do it herself, but she probably knows some shady character who has the right connections. Meaning, there could be several, possibly a bunch of people involved in the plan—which makes sense. After all, I’m floating billions of dollars for my clients, not just millions.
My inner voice is relentless. Great work, big man. You thought you seduced Karen Vogel, but she played you and you fell for it like the pathetic little worm you are! Now your sister-in-law is dead, your wife’s in danger, your marriage is down the toilet, the cops are after you—oh, and by the way, if she succeeds in getting you to steal money from your clients … well, you know what kind of men you’re dealing with. There is no solution, no outcome that’s going to get you back to the life you used to have. Face it, you’re … I’m fucked. Unless … Unless … Unless I kill her.
Right, just listen to yourself. Like you’ve got the guts to kill someone! But even if you did, you’d have to kill the gangster and Mr. Clean as well. Think you’re up for the job, big man?
I want to pull over and throw up.
That beautiful bitch set me up!
My life is totally fucked. Everything I’ve built, everything I’ve worked for has been flushed down the toilet in a month’s time. I can’t believe I put myself and the people I care about into this situation. And for what: a little trim. Son of a bitch! What the hell am I going to do?