There was a bench press and free weights in one of the upstairs bedrooms. They had originally set it up in the cellar, but after a while, no one wanted to go into anything underground. So they moved it up.

Reynaldo lifted weights every day, no matter what. He also had a steady concoction of performance-enhancing drugs in the fridge and cabinet. Most he self-administered with a needle in the upper thigh. Titus supplied them for him.

Six years ago, Titus had found Reynaldo in a garbage dump. For real. Reynaldo had been working a corner in Queens, undercutting the other hustlers by charging only fifteen dollars a pop. A john didn’t beat him on that day. His competition did. They’d had enough of his horning in on their territory. So when Reynaldo got out of the car—his sixth car that night—two of them jumped him and beat him senseless. Titus had found him there lying on the ground, bleeding. The only thing Reynaldo could feel was Bo licking his face. Titus had cleaned him up. He had taken him to a gym and taught him about lifting and ’roiding and not being anyone’s bitch anymore.

Titus had done more than save his life. He had given Reynaldo a real one.

Reynaldo started toward the stairs.

“Not yet,” Titus said to him.

Reynaldo looked back at him. Dmitry kept his face in the computer, concentrating a little too hard on the screen.

“Problem?” Reynaldo asked.

“Nothing that can’t be solved.”

Reynaldo waited. Titus walked over to him and handed him a gun.

“Wait for my signal.”

“Okay.”

Reynaldo jammed the gun into his waistband, covering it with his shirt. Titus inspected it for a second and then nodded his approval. “Dmitry?”

Dmitry looked up over his pink-tinted glasses, startled. “Yes?”

“Go get something to eat.”

Titus didn’t have to tell him twice. Dmitry was out of the room in seconds. Reynaldo and Titus were alone now. Titus stood in the doorway. Reynaldo could see a flashlight bouncing about in the woods. It came into the clearing and up the steps.

“Hey, guys.”

Claude was in his fancy black suit. Titus had two guys working transportation. Claude was one of them.

“So what’s up?” Claude asked with a big smile. “Do you need me to pick up another package already?”

“Not yet,” Titus said in that soothing voice that even made the hairs on the back of Reynaldo’s neck stand up. “We need to talk first.”

Claude’s smile started to falter. “Is there a problem?”

“Take off your jacket.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a beautiful suit. It’s a warm night. There’s no need for it. Please take it off.”

It took effort, but Claude managed a casual shrug. “Sure, why not?”

Claude took off his suit jacket.

“The pants too.”

“What?”

“Take them off, Claude.”

“What’s going on? I don’t understand.”

“Humor me, Claude. Take off the pants.”

Claude sneaked a glance at Reynaldo. Reynaldo just stared back.

“Okay, why not?” Claude said, still trying to pretend that nothing was wrong. “I mean, you’re both in shorts. I might as well be too, right?”

“Right, Claude.”

He slipped off his pants and handed them to Titus. Titus hung them neatly across the back of a chair in the far corner. He turned again toward Claude. Claude stood there in his dress shirt, tie, boxers, and socks.

“I need you to tell me about the last delivery.”

Claude’s smile flickered, but managed to stay on. “What’s there to tell? It went smoothly. She’s here, right?”

Claude forced up a chuckle. He spread his hands, looking at Reynaldo again for some kind of support. Reynaldo stayed still as a stone. He knew how this was going to end. He just wasn’t yet sure of the route.

Titus stepped closer, so he was only inches away from Claude. “Tell me about the ATM.”

“The what?” Then seeing that wasn’t going to play: “Oh. That.”

“Tell me.”

“Okay, look, it’s cool. I know you have rules, Titus, and you know I’d never break them unless, well, I absolutely had to.”

Titus stood there, patient, all the time in the world.

“So, okay, right. I started driving and then I realized like an idiot—well, not like an idiot. An idiot. I was an idiot. No like about it. A forgetful idiot. See, I left my wallet at home. Stupid, right? So anyway, I can’t make the journey without any cash, right? I mean, it’s a long ride. You get that, don’t you, Titus?”

He stopped and waited for Titus to respond. Titus did not.

“So, okay, yes, we stopped at an ATM. But don’t worry. I kept it in state. I mean, we were still within twenty miles of her house. I never got out of the car, so there was no way the surveillance camera could see me. I just kept the gun on her. I told her if she did anything, I’d go after her kid. She got the money—”

“How much?”

“What?”

Titus smiled at him. “How much money did you have her take out?”

“Uh, the max.”

“And how much was that, Claude?”

The smile flickered one more time and went out. “A thousand dollars.”

“That’s a lot,” Titus said, “of cash to need for a journey.”

“Well, hey, come on. I mean, she was taking money out anyway. Why not get the max, am I right?”

Titus just looked at him.

“Oh, right, stupid me. You’re wondering why I didn’t tell you. I was going to, I swear. I just forgot.”

“You’re pretty forgetful, Claude.”

“Look, in the larger scheme of things, it’s a pretty small amount.”

“Precisely. You put all of us at risk for petty cash.”

“I’m sorry. Really. Here, I have the money. It’s in my pants pocket. Go see. It’s yours, okay? I shouldn’t have done it. It won’t happen again.”

Titus moved back across the room to the chair where he’d hung the trousers. He reached into the pocket and pulled out the bills. Titus looked pleased. He nodded—the signal—and put the money in his own pocket.

“Are we good?” Claude asked.

“We are.”

“Okay, great. Can I, uh, put my clothes back on?”

“No,” Titus said. “The suit is expensive. I don’t want to get bloodstains on it.”

“Bloodstains?”

Reynaldo was right behind Claude now. Without a word or warning, he pressed the barrel of the gun against Claude’s head and pulled the trigger.

Chapter 18

Brandon was waiting on a bench by Strawberry Fields near 72nd Street. Two guys competed for attention (and handouts) by strumming guitars and singing Beatles songs. One went with the obvious, “Strawberry Fields Forever,” but he wasn’t doing nearly as brisk a business as the guy in the Eggman T-shirt singing “I Am the Walrus.”

“Let me explain that text,” Brandon said. “The one Detective Schwartz said my mom sent.”

Kat waited. Stacy was there too. Kat was already feeling too close to this. She wanted someone with a little distance to give her perspective.

“Wait, I’ll show you.” He hunched over and started fiddling with his phone. “Here, read it for yourself.”

Kat took his phone and read the message:

Hi. Arrived safely. So excited. Miss you!

Kat handed it to Stacy. She read it and handed it back to Brandon.

“It came from your mother’s phone,” Kat said.

“Right, but she didn’t send it.”

“What makes you think that?”

Brandon almost looked insulted by the question. “Mom never says ‘miss you.’ I mean never. She always finishes with ‘love you.’”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m dead serious.”

“Brandon, how often has your mother gone away on her own like this?”

“This is the first time.”

“Right, so naturally she might use ‘miss you’ at the end, no?”

“You don’t get it. Mom always signed her texts with x’s and o’s and with the word Mom. It was like a running joke. She always announced herself. Like if she called me and even though I had caller ID and knew her voice better than my own, she would always say, ‘Brandon, it’s Mom.’”