Page 126 of Things We Left Behind
“Go wait with your mother,” Mr. Walton ordered briskly.
I sensed her leaving. A wave of hopelessness crashed over me. “You don’t want to get involved in this, Mr. Walton. It’s not safe.”
He reached in the car and put his hand on my shoulder. “We’re not abandoning you, Lucian. You’re a good kid on your way to being a good man. I’m going to fix this.”
On the way to the police station, I found myself wondering why some people dedicated their lives to fixing things while others set out only to break them. Not that it mattered anymore. I was one of the broken.
20
No One Else Can Have Her
Lucian
Maureen Fitzgerald crossed her long legs at the ankles and smiled her enigmatic smile at me.
“What’s so important that you insisted I cut my Parisian shopping spree short?” Her tone was well-modulated. Her posture and diction served to remind her audience of private boarding schools and summers in Europe. Not a single chestnut hair dared escape from the classic twist. Her jewelry was expensive yet tasteful, and her tailored pantsuit exuded both style and money.
But I knew better. The real Maureen was more impressive than some daddy’s girl with an inheritance. Like me, she’d created herself out of the nothing she’d been given. Also like me, she’d built a safety net of money, power, and favors.
In her fifties, she managed to turn more heads walking into a room than most of her employees. Which was quite the statement, given the fact that she was in charge of a bevy of beautiful sex workers who kept the wealthy Washington, DC, elite satisfied.
I handed her an espresso on a delicate saucer and took a seat on the edge of the desk I’d commandeered. The hotel manager was outside, probably nervously pacing and wondering why the man who owned this place and signed her paycheck was using her office to meet with the most notorious madam on the East Coast.
“I need information,” I said.
“Don’t be greedy, Lucian. It’s unbecoming.”
“Don’t pretend you feed me out of the generosity of your heart, Maureen. I’ve made your life easier in a number of ways.”
It was a symbiotic relationship we shared. She divulged information on any problematic clients her workers encountered, and I used the information to make sure there were no further problems. Depending on the individual in question, my tools ran the gamut from blackmail to sometimes more creative means.
“Sooner or later, someone could draw a connection between us, and then where will we be?” she asked before taking a delicate sip of espresso.
“We’re both too cagey for that.”
“Hmm. How very optimistic of you. But people get distracted. They get sloppy.”
“Is that why your name came up in connection to Felix Metzer’s untimely demise?” I asked, dropping the information like a dead body at her feet.
Her face remained perfectly impassive, but I didn’t miss the rattle of china when she set her cup down.
“Who have you been talking to?”
“Someone you’re lucky enough is too stupid to connect any dots. He assumed Felix was a client.”
“What a limited imagination your little birdie has,” Maureen said, patting her hair.
“Why were you seen having lunch with a man who was—by all accounts—a likable, networking, criminal middleman until his body was fished out of the Potomac?”
She sighed. “First tell me why you’re involved.”
“Felix sold a list with my friend’s name on it to Anthony Hugo. Hugo made it known that every name on the list needed to be eliminated.”
“You have friends?” She arched an eyebrow, her brown eyes sparkling.
“More like family,” I said.
“Then you already understand.”
