Legion Page 7

  “She shot her husband first in the bedroom. My guy thinks the husband must have seen her coming at him with the gun and tried to run away. He was shot twice in the back. Then the kids—” He shook his head, took a deep breath. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

  Swallowing, trying to hold back tears, Ashley nodded.

  “The one boy was shot and killed in the hallway. My guy thinks he may have heard the shots and ran out to see what happened. The other boy was shot and killed in his bed.”

  A tear fell down her cheek. She didn’t bother wiping it away. “Nobody heard the shots?”

  “Two neighbors did. Both claim they called 911, but there’s no record of either call.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “No idea. But listen, there’s more. Morgan said it’s still unclear whether she did it before or after the husband and kids were dead, but she wrote a suicide note. He couldn’t tell me what it said—apparently the detective he talked to wouldn’t even indulge that information—but it was an email. She sent it about a minute before the camera has her coming out of her apartment to head up to the roof.”

  “She sent an email? To whom?”

  “Her mother and siblings. I guess she had a few brothers and sisters? Morgan said those were the only recipients.”

  “Holy shit,” Ashley said. “There hasn’t been any word about that?”

  “So far the police are keeping it real tight. Morgan made me promise to keep it off the record, and he threatened to kill me if I broke that promise. He’s a big guy, too, so I don’t doubt him. You can’t tell anyone this.”

  “But what about her mother and siblings? None of them have come forward yet?”

  “Morgan said they’re still trying to contact them. They’re asking all of them to keep it private for the time being.” He paused. “Ashley?”

  She had been staring off into space, thinking things over. Now she blinked and looked at him. “What?”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “One of her brothers lives in the city.”

  “Okay,” Jeff said slowly, drawing each syllable out longer than was needed.

  “We could track him down.”

  “Ashley—”

  “We could ask him about the email. See what she wrote.”

  “Ashley—”

  “You said someday maybe I’ll understand what it’s like to be a real journalist, didn’t you?”

  Despite his dark features, his face seemed to flush. “You know I didn’t mean that.”

  “Yes you did. But that’s okay. I’ve never really been a true journalist. But this? This could be the scoop every journalist dreams of.”

  “Even if we managed to track him down and he lets us see the email, what then? What will it prove?”

  “Nothing, maybe. But at least we’ll know why she did it.”

  Jeff shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m letting you talk me into this.”

  “Does that mean you’ll help me?”

  He sighed. “Fine, what’s his name?”

  “That,” Ashley said, “might be our first roadblock.”

  Jeff raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning it’s a pretty common name.”

  “Why, what is?”

  thirteen

  “John Smith, as I live and breathe.”

  “Hey, Kyle.”

  “What are you doing here on a week day? Shouldn’t you be zooming around on your bicycle trying not to get killed by taxis?”

  I smile as I approach the counter of the Book Basement, Kyle Burch sitting on the stool. He’s an older dude in his sixties, bushy gray eyebrows, always wears suspenders, carries a cane though he doesn’t like using it. He’s been working at the Basement for what seems like forever, has the oncoming tremors of Parkinson’s, which are evident when he extends his hand to shake mine.

  “Seriously, John, what brings you in today?”

  “Didn’t Jim call you?”

  Jim’s our boss, the owner of the bookstore.

  “He didn’t. Why?”

  “I have the day off, volunteered to come in. Jim said I could take your shift if you wanted to take a personal day.”

  “I suppose Jim will pay me, too?”

  I make a face, shrug, my way of trying to make light of the situation. In all honesty, Kyle needs the hours just as much as me. We don’t make that much working here, but it’s something, and in this economy, something is more than nothing.

  “I just wanted to throw out the offer. I mean, I can see that you’re swamped with customers.”

  He laughs. “There’s only so much computer solitaire I can play in one day.”

  It’s ten in the morning, and a quick glance around shows that we’re dead. Truth is, the foot traffic isn’t very high at the Basement. We sell rare and used books, but most of the clientele—or at least the clientele that brings in the big bucks—order their books online. We ship anywhere, and some of the rare books are worth thousands of dollars. It’s what keeps the business going in a time when more and more people are moving away from printed books.

  “Actually, I could take the day off.” Kyle picks up his cane. “Denise was having one of her bad mornings when I left. I hate to leave her, but, well, you know ...”

  I’ve never met Kyle’s wife Denise, but I’ve heard stories and seen pictures. She sounds like a great woman, who, over the past few years, developed a severe case of small fiber neuropathy. While Kyle came to work during the day, Denise was stuck at home, all of her nerves dying, making it incredibly painful to do anything other than sit on the couch and watch TV.

  “Are you sure?”

  He takes a half second to think if over, finally nods. “It’ll be nice to spend the day with her. Think maybe I’ll bring home some pastrami sandwiches. She’ll love that.”

  I give him a gentle clap on the shoulder as he shuffles by me. The Basement is not handicap friendly, and he has to climb stairs up to the street. He pauses at the door.

  “Thanks again, John. Just do me one favor, okay?”

  “What’s that?”

  He grins. “Don’t burn the place down.”

  • • •

  The afternoon drags on. A few customers come and go, a few sales are made, but there’s nothing noteworthy. A Lenco turntable sits beside the counter. I put on a Duke Ellington EP and the few speakers around the Basement begin breathing out some smooth jazz. I walk the narrow aisles, the rows and rows of bookshelves at least eight feet tall, making sure all the spines are lined up nicely. There are a few boxes of books in the back room that need sorting, what looks like a bunch of hardcovers.

  I start piles—mystery and thriller, romance, general fiction, nonfiction—and lose myself to the mindless task. It’s one of the main reasons I like working at the Basement. It’s certainly not for the pay. I’ve always liked books. Reading them, yes, but also the feel of them in my hands. The texture of the paper when I turn the page. The different fonts and layouts of each book. Even the smell of aged paper.

  I also like being alone in general, but even more so today. I’m still not sure quite how to process it. Unlike Duncan, Kyle and Jim aren’t aware of my sister, let alone any of my siblings, so I knew there would be no danger of them asking how I was doing. It sucks, but the truth is I was never close to my sister. The most interaction I had with her was from the email and text message and voicemails she sent last week. I saw her briefly at the funeral but hightailed it out of there before she and my mother could get close enough. Every time I think about that, I want to kick myself. What an asshole I was. Scratch that—what an asshole I am.

  I left my cell phone back at the apartment. If Ed or Hank try calling, they’ll have to leave a voicemail. I’m hoping that there will be a call from them when I return later tonight. I hope one of them will say that they’re giving me a second chance. I love being a courier—it’s something I’m actually good at—and if that’s taken away, I’m not sure what else there is for me. Fi
nding another company might be tricky after word gets out I lost a package and then, consequently, my company lost the account. When I thought about it yesterday, I tried playing it off that I could get hired anywhere. Now I’m not so sure.

  So that’s what I’m doing most of the day—sorting books in the back room, walking the aisles facing all the spines, ringing up the few customers that wander into the store—when four o’clock rolls around and the bell above the door jingles, signaling the change of everything.

  • • •

  There are two of them, a man and a woman. The man looks like he’s in his early forties, black, short dark hair. He wears khakis and a collared dress shirt but no tie. The woman looks like she’s in her late-twenties. She’s cute, has long red hair, pale skin, striking brown eyes. She’s wearing a black skirt and cream blouse.

  I can tell from the moment they walk into the store, their gazes set on me behind the counter, that they’re not here to buy books.

  The woman speaks first.

  “John Smith?”

  I’m sitting on the stool, paging through a massive book on Aztec and Mayan culture. Currently the one opened page shows an Aztec pyramid during sunset. It’s beautiful, the way the colors play off the gigantic stone structure, and before the bell rang I was wondering if I would ever get a chance to travel there and see it for myself.

  I close the book with a snap. “He’s not here. You just missed him.”

  The man and woman come to stand in front of the counter. They exchange a quick glance.

  “You’re not John Smith?” the woman asks.

  “Nope.”

  Another glance exchange. “I find that very hard to believe. You look just like her.”

  I don’t take the bait. Instead I grab a notepad and pen and say, “If you’d like to leave a message for John, I’ll be sure he gets it.”

  The woman isn’t deterred. “Mr. Smith, we’re reporters from the Post.”

  I groan inwardly. I set the pen aside and ask, “Is this about what happened in the subway station yesterday?”

  The man and woman frown.

  The woman says, “No.”

  “Then what’s this about?”

  “Your sister.”

  Somehow I knew this was coming and braced myself for it, but still I hope nothing changes in my face.

  “My sister committed suicide.”

  “Maybe,” the woman says. “But there’s also a chance she may have been murdered.”

  fourteen

  For a long moment John Smith didn’t say anything. He sat behind the counter, keeping his face as neutral as he could, though Ashley saw a slight twitch around his eye. She was surprised just how much he looked like Melissa. Not exactly like her, of course, but they had the same eyes, the same nose structure. After all day of searching, she had thought this would be a wild goose chase, but the second they stepped through the door and she saw him behind the counter, she knew it was him.

  Finally John spoke.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Beside her, Jeff cleared his throat. “Mr. Smith, we apologize for the intrusion—”

  “How did you guys find me, anyway?”

  “It wasn’t easy,” Ashley said. “We called around to several different courier services until we found yours. They told us you weren’t working today and gave us your number. We tried calling it but there was no answer, so we called the service back, got your address, went to your apartment, and your roommate directed us here.”

  “My company gave you my information, huh? Let me guess, you spoke with a piece of shit named Hank.”

  “Listen, Mr. Smith,” Jeff began, but he quieted when Ashley shot him a glare. She had needed Jeff to get her to this point, and now that they were here she could handle the rest on her own. The fact that she had used him might have bothered her more had he not tried to use her yesterday.

  John asked, “Why do you think she was murdered?”

  “It’s just a hunch.”

  “A hunch,” he repeated, then laughed. “My sister kills her family and then herself, and you spend all day tracking me down on a fucking hunch? What paper did you say you worked for again, the Post? Why am I not surprised?”

  Now it was Jeff’s turn to shoot her a glare. His lips went tight. He had gone out on a limb for her, had humored her all this way, but now that they had finally found the person they were looking for, he was pissed. After all, Jeff was a real journalist. He took his job seriously. He wasn’t in the business of harassing the siblings of the recently deceased. Then again, neither was Ashley, but she had always been quick on her feet.

  “Mr. Smith—John, can I call you John?”

  He said nothing.

  “John, my name is Ashley Walker. I was a friend of your sister’s. We were actually roommates at Vassar.”

  Crossing his arms, John asked, “Are you working toward a point, Ms. Walker?”

  “She was my best friend. I know you might not believe that, but it’s true. In fact, we had lunch just yesterday. She mentioned you. About how she saw you at your father’s funeral.”

  And there it was. His hard features began to soften. His lips parted slightly. She thought he might speak on his own and didn’t want to jinx anything by speaking first. But after several seconds passed in silence, she knew she needed to give him a nudge.

  “You were at your father’s funeral this past weekend, weren’t you?”

  Just as quickly as his features had softened, they hardened again. “Why are you here?”

  “I told you. We believe there’s a possibility your sister was murdered.”

  She could see Jeff from the corner of her eye, his stare burning into her. She had used the plural tense, making him complicit in what very well may be her own fiction, and she knew he was going to give her hell once they left.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “For starters,” Ashley said, “she received a death threat last week.”

  “My sister was an Assistant District Attorney of New York City. I’m sure she got death threats all the time. Is this really what you journalists do now, just make shit up?”

  “John, like I said, Melissa was my best friend. I just ... I know she wouldn’t do something like this. It wasn’t in her nature.”

  He was silent for a few seconds, then sighed and held out his hands. “So what do you want from me?”

  She glanced at Jeff, asking silently if he wanted to take the ball. It was clear he didn’t want to, but he gave her a slight nod and cleared his throat.

  “Have you checked your email today?”

  John gave a slight shake of the head. “No.”

  “According to police, your sister sent you—as well as your mother and siblings—an email detailing why she ... did what she did.”

  “You mean she wrote a suicide email?”

  An uncomfortable nod. “Something along those lines, yes.”

  “And so, what”—John turned his attention back to Ashley—“you want me to show you that email?”

  “You don’t have to show us,” she said. “We just want to confirm the email exists. And, well, if you wanted to share, then—”

  “I’m sorry, but you guys can go fuck yourselves.”

  Ashley said nothing. Neither did Jeff. They exchanged a quick glance, both silently acknowledging that this charade had come to an end.

  “Well, John,” she said, digging in her purse for a card, “thank you for your time. If you ever want to talk about anything, feel free to call.”

  She held the card out to him, and when he didn’t take it, she set it on the counter. Looked once more at Jeff, who nodded, and they turned and started toward the front of the store.

  John said, “Wait.”

  They paused, turned back around.

  “You were really friends with my sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was her birthday?”

  “August 17, 1982.”

  “Where did you guys have lunch
yesterday?”

  “The Grove.”

  “What did you have to eat?”

  “Salads. Melissa the Insalata Caprese, I had the Arugula and Roasted Pear.”

  “What were her kids’ names?”

  “Jackson and Stewart.”

  John was quiet for a moment, chewing this over, digesting it. Finally he nodded and turned to the computer on the countertop.

  “So you think this email, if she truly sent one, will explain things?”

  She exchanged another cautious glance with Jeff, trying to hide her excitement. “That’s what we’re hoping, yes.”

  John was quiet for a moment as he typed. He stared at the screen, moved the mouse, typed some more. Finally he shook his head.

  “Sorry to break it to you, but unless you’re looking for Viagra spam, there isn’t any email.”

  fifteen

  They thank me for my time and leave the store. I ask them if they’re sure they don’t want to buy any books, but I think they know I’m fucking with them and go on their merry way. Once they exit and start up the stone steps, I turn back to the computer screen.

  I was lying—there is an email.

  It’s from Melissa’s personal Yahoo account, and it’s addressed to me, Valerie, Paul, Dave, and our mother. It was sent last night at 3:17 a.m. The subject line is blank. I glance back up toward the front of the store to make sure my two new friends haven’t decided to come back to ask a few more questions. When I’m certain they’re gone for good, I open the email.

  im glad hes dead he was a monster and did things to me ive never been able to forget i cant live this lie anymore my god oh my god im sorry my babies

  I read it once, then twice, then three times, not sure what to think each time. I try reading between the lines. I try parsing each word and the order of the words. Does the he in this email refer to Melissa’s husband, or to our deceased father, or ... to someone else?

  The bell above the door jingles.

  I don’t bother looking up. I keep my focus on the computer screen. I read my sister’s suicide email a fourth time. Imagining Melissa typing this after she killed her family. Imagining Melissa typing this before she killed her family, her husband and children both asleep in their beds and completely unaware that they would be dead very soon.