13
When they reached the Ballantine house, Vickie’s mind was still plagued by the deception being played on her by her friends.
It made no sense.
Why didn’t they just tell her the truth? She and Hank had been over nearly a decade ago! As far as Roxanne went, her friend was known for picking the wrong guys, but from what she had seen and heard from both of them, Hank Fremont was on his way to improving his position in life. And she had never been enemies with either of them; she and Hank hadn’t had any kind of a tumultuous split. High school had ended; they had gone their own ways. And she had stayed friends with Roxanne all through her years in NYC, even if it had been mostly through emails and social media and the occasional visit.
She wished Dylan was here, but she hadn’t expected him to be at the house. If he hadn’t been with his mother, he was probably doing his ghostly best to stand guard over his brother.
“Vickie? Tuna sandwiches okay for lunch?” Chrissy asked.
“Lovely,” Vickie assured her. “Will you excuse me for a minute? I’m going to call my mom.”
She did so, thinking it would be a very good thing for her parents to be reassured earlier, rather than later. She told her mother that she was at the Ballantine house, that Chrissy wasn’t doing so well and that a policeman and an armed private security guard were right outside.
“I guess we can’t stop Griffin from doing his job,” her mother said. “As long as he trusts the cop and the guy outside, right? I watch TV. I know cops can be dirty.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. Griffin and Jackson and their people are thorough. They check out everyone,” she assured her mother.
Was that really true? She didn’t know. It sounded good at the moment.
“I’m so sorry for Chrissy. She’s having trouble bouncing back from the attack?” Vickie’s mother asked her.
“Yes, but I think she’ll go into therapy now. That will help,” Vickie said. She hesitated. She was an excellent researcher—it was one of the things she did, along with trying to make sure she strung together what she learned with entertaining words.
She was really good at researching the past.
That should mean she could research the present just fine, too.
“Mom, I don’t remember if I mentioned this when we were at dinner. Did you know Hank Fremont was back in Boston?”
“Oh, Lord above us!” her mom said. “Vickie, you’re not thinking about...Hank?”
Vickie laughed. “No. I’m sleeping with an FBI agent—with your blessing, remember?”
“Ouch, oh, daughter dearest! Must you be so blunt?”
“Hey, you were the blunt one. You weren’t born yesterday, remember?”
“Okay,” her mother said softly, “so I’d much rather you have a healthy sex life that I know about rather than lie awake each night worrying. Of course, I’d like it best if you just came home, you know.”
Vickie laughed. “Not too cool. I think that would make you and dad uncomfortable!”
“Ohhhh...so! What about Hank, then?”
“Did you know he was back in town?”
“No. We were kind of friendly with his parents, but they moved to South Carolina years ago,” her mother said. “I heard he was doing okay, though. That he was working—at a real job with prospects. I never particularly thought he was right for you, but I think he’s a decent enough human being these days.”
“Yeah. I’d like to think so,” Vickie murmured.
“Why? Has he been bothering you? If so, I’ll call that G-man new guy of yours myself and see Hank leaves you alone!”
“Mom, he hasn’t bothered me in the least. Through the years, though, you’ve stayed kind of friendly with my friend Roxanne, right?”
“Of course, darling, she was always one of your best friends. If you recall, Roxanne was over here on Christmas Day. Oh, and we saw her at church on Easter and went to brunch with her after the services. You know she’s a sweet thing! I worry about her, too.”
“Yep. Okay. So, I’m with Chrissy, and two good guys with guns. Talk to you tomorrow, all right?”
Her mother agreed. Vickie hurried back into the kitchen, hoping to catch Chrissy in time to stop the tuna sandwiches.
“Chrissy!” Vickie said.
Chrissy started, dropping a can of tuna.
“Let me get that!” Vickie said, hurrying over to fetch the fallen tuna. “Would you mind, I’d like to see a friend who owns a great Italian restaurant, Pasta Fagioli. Do you think we can get Donald and the cop to go to lunch with us?”
“Go to lunch?” Chrissy said.
“Yes, just go out to lunch. I’d like to see my friend Mario for a minute.”
“I...”
“Going out will be good for you, and Noah isn’t due home for hours, right?”
“No, we leave here to pick him up right at three. He hates it, of course. Prefers to hop the bus and walk with his friends. He’s such a good kid. So wise beyond his years! He knows we might still be in danger, and so he just bites down hard, forces a smile and does what is needed.”
“Noah is extraordinary,” Vickie assured her. “I’m going to step out front. Donald will be right there and I’ll tell him we want to go out.”
She didn’t know if Mario would be able to tell her anything about Roxanne and Hank, but he did seem to be her best hope.
Although...
She didn’t know why it bothered her so much.
They were lying to her.
They were apparently a couple.
And they both knew the city of Boston like the back of their hands.
No. She was becoming as paranoid as Chrissy.
And still... Like Chrissy, she had to know the truth about the situation.
Because, hopefully, the truth was far better than where her imagination and suspicions were taking her.
* * *
George Ballantine was a big man, tall and fit, and customarily friendly but dignified.
At the moment, he was anything but.
The big man sobbed.
“It was me,” he wailed. “It was me.”
“You and a mistress did commit murder?” Barnes asked, completely thrown by the confession.
“What? No, no. Murder—me? No, no, I just caused it all.”
“George,” Griffin said, keeping his tone at a low, even keel. “You didn’t kill anyone, but you think you caused it all.”
“Before the breakout—before Bertram Aldridge and Reginald Mason broke out of prison—I was part of a service club. You know, we’re the guys who wear the funny hats. There was a meeting because one of our members was an attorney who had been asked to do a write-up on the state of our prison system, the pros and cons of the death penalty, and so on. I wound up doing the main work on the letter to the parole board. In my summations, I quoted cases in which the death penalty might be a proper punishment—because our prisons seem incapable of keeping people in. Well, in the end, there were all these papers and write-ups flying through the state legislature. One of the prison wardens wrote a scathing return on how the system was completely capable of keeping men incarcerated.” Ballantine exhaled on a long breath. “You see?”
“You think that Aldridge and Mason broke out—just to spite the man who wrote the rebuttal?” Jackson asked, frowning. He leaned forward. “Aldridge is a sick man. A serial killer. Ballantine, you didn’t turn him into a killer. Most men in prison dream of escape. The clever ones study every way possible and look for any chink or weak link in the system,” Griffin told him.
“If you’re blaming yourself for Aldridge, Mr. Ballantine,” Jackson said quietly, “you’ve taken your assumed power of persuasion as far too great a burden, sir.”
“Not even I hold you responsible for that,” Barnes muttered.
“It’s more than that,” Ballantine said.
“Did you put your wife into the pit in your basement, Mr. Ballantine?” Griffin asked him.
“No! Oh, God, no!” Ballantine said.
“Do you know who put your wife in the pit in your basement?” Jackson asked.
“Of course,” Ballantine said, distracted.
“Of course? Then who the hell was it?” Barnes demanded.
“The Undertaker! Hell, we all know that. The Undertaker—or the Undertakers!”
Griffin saw the weariness that shook Barnes and the frustration on his partner’s face.
Yes, of course, they all knew that.
“Mr. Ballantine,” Griffin said, “I’m finding it hard to believe your guilt is just over Aldridge’s escape. Your wife was nearly killed. She needs you, and, apparently, you disappear for hours. You don’t come home when you should.”
Ballantine nodded. “Yeah, well, I sit in Boston Common,” he said.
“Why the hell are you doing that?” Barnes demanded.
Ballantine suddenly looked at Griffin. “I’m not having an affair. I didn’t kill anyone. But what happened to Chrissy was my fault. She could have died because of me. I’m sure as hell not having an affair now, but I was! It was a younger woman. There was all the talk about the dead women on the news. I was shaken up—couldn’t help but remember Aldridge, and from the beginning, his name was in the news, comparisons to the last such case to shake Boston and all. I don’t know what hit me. Midlife crisis? There’s an excuse that truly sucks. I love Chrissy. I’ve always loved her. And I adored Dylan, like I adore Noah now. I was out—I was out when Chrissy was attacked in our own home. And I’m the one who probably forgot to set the alarm, like I forgot to set it years ago when Aldridge was in the house. I don’t know what or why, and I don’t know how to ask for forgiveness. Maybe I can’t. She’s gone. She’s out of my life. I cut it off, but it didn’t matter—I think she was through with me, too. Got tired of her older man. Thing is, I was a wicked good liar when it was all going on, and now I can’t stand what I did, and maybe I was off with this woman—having forgotten to set the alarm—and caused Chrissy to be attacked. How low could a man be?”
“You know we’ll have to check this all out,” Griffin told him. “What was the woman’s name?”
“What?” Ballantine said.
“The young woman you were seeing. What is her name?” Jackson said.
“Oh. June. June Jensen.”
“Where does she work? What does she do?”
“She’s an artist. I met her sketching in the park,” he said.
“And where does she live?” Barnes asked.
“I—I don’t know. We met at a hotel off of Beacon Hill,” Ballantine said.
“Do you believe this shit? I don’t think I believe this shit,” Barnes said.
Ballantine just shook his head. “I don’t care what you believe. I can only imagine what Chrissy believes. And Noah... I don’t know what happened. Honest to God, I just don’t know what happened. I never even thought of straying before.”
Barnes shoved a notepad toward Ballantine. “Hotel name, dates and times you met—and a description of June Jensen. Her phone number, please.”
Ballantine wrote it all down. Jackson stepped aside, took out his phone, and dialed the number that Ballantine wrote down.
Griffin looked at him as Jackson waited. He hung up without speaking.
“No connection—pay-as-you-go phone. We can put the techs on it, but...”
“It’s been tossed. It’s going to be in a Dumpster somewhere,” Griffin said.
“What? She’s real, I’m telling you—June Jensen is real,” Ballantine said.
“She is—and somehow, Mr. Ballantine, she was using you. We really do have to find her,” Griffin said.
He didn’t add that if they did...
They might be on their way to solving the puzzle.
June Jensen could be just a woman who had chosen to indulge in an affair, using a throwaway phone and what idle time she had. Maybe she was in a bad marriage, maybe she’d gotten out of a bad affair.
And maybe she was one of the Undertakers, and she had used Ballantine. She had gotten to know him; she knew when he was out, when he worked...
And maybe she even knew he always forgot to set the alarm.
And just when his wife might be alone.
* * *
Pasta Fagioli was busy, but Mario greeted Vickie at the door. He had never actually met Chrissy Ballantine, but he was great with her, not betraying in the least that, of course, he’d heard of her—she’d been all over the news several times.
Mario found a table for Chrissy and Vickie.
And he found a strategic spot for Donald Baugh and their cop, as well. Chrissy wasn’t worried in the restaurant; the Undertakers snuck up on people. They took them by surprise.
Like old friends kissing in the street.
The problem was, of course, she didn’t get a minute to speak with Mario alone. Maybe by the time they left, the lunch crowd would thin out.
“This is one of the best Italian restaurants in Boston, I swear,” Vickie told Chrissy. “I think Mario’s dad was born here, but all four of his grandparents were born in Italy, different regions, and so the restaurant offers specialties from Rome, Naples, Tuscany, and so on.”
“How nice.”
“All the pastas are homemade,” Vickie told her.
“Do you think my husband has come here without me?” Chrissy asked.
“I have no idea,” Vickie said flatly.
There was a couple at a window table; the man was older, the woman much younger—by at least twenty years. Chrissy was staring at them.
“I’ll bet he’s someone’s husband. And she’s just after his money,” Chrissy said.
“They could be father and daughter, Chrissy,” Vickie protested.
The man gave the young woman a box. She opened it and looked up at him with shimmering eyes of delight.
“See,” Chrissy said.
“A present for a daughter, Chrissy. It happens. I go out with my dad. He’s bought me great presents over the years.
“Sure.”
The young woman leaned forward; she kissed the man.
“That kiss is on the lips,” Chrissy said. “Oh, and will you look at that? Lots of tongue going there with that kiss, too. Father and daughter?” she asked Vickie.
“I certainly hope not,” Vickie said.
Taking Chrissy out to lunch was not proving useful.
But then the door out to the street opened; Hank Fremont walked in. He was alone.
“Isn’t that the guy you were dating in high school, Vickie?” Chrissy asked. “He really was so good-looking back then. He’s matured okay, but he’s young for all that puffiness in his face...kind of drawn-looking and all. Sorry. Guess I’m in a bitter mood.”
“It’s okay.”
“Your other friend Mario seems to be asking him to wait...there are no tables now. Why don’t you ask him over here?” Chrissy suggested.
“That’s okay—”
“Really. Ask him over. You don’t want to see him just standing there, do you? Ohhhh! Especially because, look now. Mario is pointing us out to him.”
And Mario was. Mario waved to her, and then Hank, looking hopeful, waved to her, too.
She waved back.
Chrissy smiled and waved, making a motion to indicate that he should come over to him.
Hank did, thanking Mario before weaving his way through tables filled with diners to reach them.
“Ladies, good afternoon.”
“Hank, you remember—”
“Mrs. Ballantine, of course. It’s a pleasure to see you.”
He didn’t ask her how she’d been doing. Maybe he didn’t want the answer.
“And you, too, Hank. Have a seat,” Chrissy said.
“Thank you. It’s really kind of you to share your table,” he said, drawing out the chair between them at the four-top to join them. “Mario has been doing great things with this place. I believe it has raves in all the tour books—great for business, hard on locals and friends!”
“I haven’t been in here before,” Chrissy said. “But Vickie says it’s wonderful.”
“How’s everything with you, Hank?” Vickie asked. She realized that Hank, too, was staring at the couple by the window, the older man, the younger woman. “Tell Chrissy about what brought you back to Boston.”
Hank drew his attention from them to look at Vickie. He smiled. “I’m working for a relatively new and small company called Great Organics. I believe in the product. I’ve been out to some of the local farms. Yes, we in Massachusetts can have wicked bad winters, but we have really lush earth, too—pristine forests, though that doesn’t really help me a lot—but some great growing conditions. I’m happy.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Chrissy said. “No pesticides, right?”
“No chemicals—great scarecrows. Kind of fitting with New England, too, right?”
They were chatting with one another—and glancing at the couple by the window now and then.
For a moment, Vickie thought something tensed in Hank’s face; as if he experienced a moment of true anger—but quickly got it under control.
“They’re something, huh?” Chrissy whispered, seeing where Hank’s attention had been.
Hank gave a little shiver, shaking his head and turning away completely.
“Ugh, right?” Chrissy said, possibly thinking George Ballantine was out somewhere, looking much like the older man here—not so great with eye candy on his arm, but rather sad as people around him wondered just how much money he had in his bank account.
“Yeah, sorry, who am I to judge?” Hank said.
Chrissy gave him a brilliant smile. “Sometimes we can’t help it, right?”
“I think your ‘ugh’ kind of summed it all up,” Hank said. “Maybe it’s not the age difference. I think it’s just obvious... I mean, that’s prostitution, really. Sex for money or gifts or power or whatever. I’m sure I’ve known people with large age differences who are really in love. I just don’t think that’s the case.”
“So, what do you think he does for a living?” Chrissy asked. “And where do you think he’s from? I don’t think he’s local. White area where his wedding band should be. He’s probably a salesman.”
“I beg you, don’t judge all salesmen harshly,” Hank said.
The two of them seemed to be enjoying themselves, playing their create-a-scenario game. Vickie interrupted to ask them to order the eggplant parmesan for her, and then she slipped from her seat, heading toward the host stand.
She didn’t see Mario at first; he was in the hallway to the kitchen, leaning against the wall. He saw her and flashed a smile. “You doing okay, Vickie?”
“Fine, how about you?”
“I need a breather. No, a smoke. I should have quit. I’ve mostly quit. Is there such a thing? Anyway, come with me, if you can. I want to step out for a cigarette.”
“Sure,” she said.
She stopped by the table Donald Baugh and the cop were sharing to point just outside. The cop said he was trying to quit, too, but maybe he’d have a cigarette.
“Don’t make guarding me cause you to pick up a bad habit again!” Vickie begged.
“Wish I could blame it on you,” the young cop said, grinning. “I can use the air. Donald will order for me and watch over your table.” He grew serious. “You do know the man who just joined you?”
“Old high school friend,” she said.
Did she know him? Not really, it had been years.
She knew he was a liar.
Mario was waiting for her by the door. She slipped out to join him.
“Thanks for the company,” he told her.
“You must be wiped out all the time. The restaurant is crazy busy.”
“Yeah, I done good, huh?” he said lightly. “I always wanted to be in the business, too. I love going back in the kitchen when we need a cook. I remember thinking once the only thing I wanted to do was get away—be somewhere new and cool, be someone else, maybe. You know, I majored in this, right? I hadn’t even known you could major in being a glorified host, really.”
“School of hospitality, down at FIU, right?” Vickie told him. “And, yeah, you done good. It seems now most of us are, at the least, still standing, which is good. I had a roommate from an inner-city school who had lost ten of her classmates to gun violence, drugs and alcohol, or vehicular accidents before her first day of college. I know Roxanne’s ex, Trent, is doing time, but hey, look, Hank never did time, and now he’s back—thrilled with his job.”
“Yeah, and the stuff he’s selling—it’s just prime!” Mario said.
“You did check out his business, right?”
“Locally owned,” Mario told her. “And the company doesn’t discriminate against Rhode Island, Connecticut, New Hampshire or any other state. But they really work to provide the freshest, cleanest produce from the state of Massachusetts.”
“That’s nice. I’m glad he’s happy. What about this June Jensen he’s dating?”
“I think I saw her once,” Mario said. “Actually, I think he was trying to get her to come in here for lunch. She ran off on him.”
“Ah, so she is real!”
“Did you think she wasn’t?” Mario asked, and then laughed softly. “Forgot what a thing you two had been. Yeah, I guess he’ll always have a thing for you. But no, I think he really is seeing a pretty young woman.”
She’d gotten nowhere, Vickie thought.
“I’d always thought, now that Hank is so on the up-and-up of life, I kind of thought it would be cute if he and Roxanne got together. They’d make a gorgeous couple,” she said.
“I guess they would. A blonde goddess for a blond god.” Mario grinned. “Maybe it will happen. Who knows—you’re right. It might be great for both of them. If, of course, Hank is the right guy, now. Roxanne is such a great person. I guess we have to sit there like a pair of yentas and hope that they see it, figure it out—and that it is right!”
Mario walked away to crush his cigarette out by the Dumpster behind the restaurant. Vickie waited for him. He grinned, took her arm and told her, “Thanks, Vickie. Thanks for the support. We’ve been written about for helping out with Grown Ups. We wouldn’t have been involved, if it weren’t for you. Not that our food isn’t great—it is. But hey, that’s life. Publicity and name recognition—name of the game. So thanks.”
“Absolutely, my pleasure.”
“Might want to wave to your cop—let him know we’re going in.”
Vickie waved.
When she returned to the table, their food had been served.
Hank and Chrissy were talking away as if they were very old friends.
Maybe they were closer than Chrissy knew. Maybe Hank had slipped into the Ballantine house with his accomplice—the mysterious June Jensen, or Roxanne? He had strength. He could easily have knocked her out and dragged her around, buried her.
And maybe...
God, no. Not Roxanne. Roxanne had been her friend as long as she could remember.
Then June Jensen.
Thing was, what was up? Was Hank cheating on June with Roxanne...
Or cheating on Roxanne with June, or was it all part of a plan that was yet to be fathomed?
And maybe it was all totally innocent.
Vickie knew that Chrissy and Hank both seemed to be happy through the meal. She was pretty sure she smiled and replied and spoke at the proper moments.
Finally, they were handed a check. Hank insisted on getting it.
They rose to leave.
Donald Baugh and the BPD cop rose to leave.
They all said goodbye to Mario. As they stood on the street—the cop nearby as Baugh went for his car—Hank looked back toward the restaurant.
“That wasn’t...that wasn’t June in there, was it? With the older gentleman?” Vickie asked him.
“June?” Hank asked her, startled.
“June Jensen, the woman you were dating. I’m sorry—I could be way off, but I thought someone mentioned to me the fact you two had broken it off,” Vickie said.
“Dear, I’m so sorry!” Chrissy murmured.
Hank studied Vickie speculatively. “We did break up. Well, I don’t know if you can call it a breakup. She just...she just disappeared out of my life. Funny thing, she was never on Facebook or any other social media. I had her phone number. I guess she was just done with me. The number she gave me is disconnected.”
Was he watching her to see if she was suspicious? Or because he was really curious as to how she knew what was going on in his life?
He smiled at her. “But it’s okay,” he told her. “It’s really okay. Somehow, I know I’m going to be okay.”
Baugh was there with the car. Hank moved in to give her a hug goodbye. She pretended she didn’t see; she hopped into the car.
Chrissy Ballantine stepped into his arms for a big hug.
They both waved from the car and started the drive back to the Ballantine house.
“Too bad that young man didn’t seem to have it together before, when you were young,” Chrissy said. “Seems like he’s coming along. But...”
“But?” Vickie asked.
Chrissy grinned. “I always liked that cop-turned-agent,” she said softly. “Griffin Pryce. You could see it in his eyes—he really cared what happened to people. He cared about you, and he cared about Noah. And I admit, well, I guess you know—I wanted to blame this on you somehow. I needed to blame someone. I’d had a perfect world—it was completely destroyed when Dylan died. Then, somehow, God gave us Noah. And I had a perfect world again. Then you and Noah were nearly killed, and it was as if we went through this period of waiting, almost as if we were underground. It wasn’t terrible—I wasn’t aware of it all the time. We had Noah. Nursery school and kindergarten and grade school. Christmas shows and Easter dramas—he made the best carrot ever, once! But you know how cicadas go to sleep for years and years and they’re suddenly up and flooding the region again? It’s as if we were asleep. As if we hid from the danger for years—but it was always there, underground, waiting. Anyway, thank God for you—and Special Agent Pryce and that lovely therapist, Lenore. I am strong, and I am going to make it. But the evil has been there all this time—and if the evil is George, then damn him to hell, and if it’s not, then God forgive me. Odd, though, I have this strange sense that it really is coming full circle—and that, for whatever it might cost, we are reaching the end.”
Vickie looked at her. She’d never heard such a long speech from Chrissy Ballantine; she’d never imagined what was going on in the woman’s mind.
But then, it was always so hard. Knowing what someone else was really thinking.
She squeezed Chrissy’s hand. “You’re very special, Chrissy. Noah is lucky to have such a great mom. So was Dylan.”
Chrissy nodded. “Sometimes...”
“Yes?”
“I just wish I could see him one more time. Dylan, that is. Just one more time so that I could tell him what a great kid he was—what a wonderful, caring, giving adult he would have proven to be. Is there a Heaven, Vickie, do you think?”
“I’m sure of it,” Vickie said. She lowered her head, wondering why it was she could see Dylan so clearly—that Noah could see him, had even seen him when he’d been an infant—and Chrissy, who longed to do so with all her heart, could not.
When they reached the house, Vickie saw that Griffin and Jackson Crow were seated on the porch; they quickly rose as Baugh drove the car into the porte cochere, waving and walking around to meet them at the kitchen door.
Chrissy Ballantine was quickly out of the car, rushing up to the agents before opening the door.
“Did you talk to him? Oh, God, is George a killer? What’s going on? You did find him, didn’t you?” she asked.
“Shall we go inside?” Griffin asked her, glancing over at Vickie as she got out of the car, and nodding to Baugh.
“Inside? Yes, sure, but...is he a killer?”
“Chrissy, we don’t believe George is a killer,” Griffin said.
“No?” Chrissy asked, fumbling with the lock.
“No,” Jackson said as Griffin took the keys from her to open the lock.
Chrissy fumbled to put in the alarm code. “Come in, come in—I lock up and put the code in right away. He’s not a killer. He’s just a...a louse? I love George. If he were a killer, though, I’d help see him fried or locked away forever, I promise. But...okay, yes, let’s sit. The parlor. Far more comfortable there, less awkward. Can I get you something? We just ate. Vickie’s old flame was there...he was very nice, had a lovely time with him. But have you all eaten? What can I get you? I’m doing all the talking. I want you to be talking.”
“We’ll go sit. Come on,” Griffin smiled at her, such a gentle smile. She loved the way he could be so hard when necessary—but so kind to those in distress.
He looked at her curiously, arching a brow.
He wasn’t the jealous type, she didn’t think. He was more curious.
Hank Fremont—showed up at your lunch? he seemed to be wondering.
She shrugged, and they all headed into the parlor.
Chrissy looked at her watch. “Two o’clock,” she said. “We have a bit of time before picking up Noah. I’ve tried really hard to keep my thoughts and feelings from him, but...”
“He’s a smart kid. So, here’s our suggestion,” Griffin said. “Talk to your husband. He went through a few bad times of his own. We’re going to be investigating George’s friends and business associates, but one instinct you’ve had has been right all along—George would never hurt Noah. He would never willingly do anything that would hurt Noah.”
Chrissy swallowed nervously and looked down at her hands. “But he was cheating. You can’t say that, because you’re agents.”
“We can’t say things your husband needs to say to you because it wouldn’t be right,” Griffin said quietly.
“George needs to speak with you. He will. In fact, I believe he’ll be here soon,” Jackson told her. “I think you’re both good people. I hope you figure things out.”
He had barely spoken before they heard the kitchen door open and close. They heard the little pings the alarm gave off when it was being reset.
“Chrissy? It’s okay,” George called. “It’s me!”
“In here, George,” Chrissy told him.
George Ballantine walked on into the room. The man looked as if he’d been crying.
He glanced at Jackson and Griffin and then Vickie, and he nodded an acknowledgment to them.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
Then he walked over to where his wife was seated and he went straight down on his knees, burying his head in her lap.
“Forgive me. If you can’t forgive me, I beg you find a way to go on and be happy. Oh, Chrissy, I am so, so sorry.”
Chrissy set her hands on her husband’s head. She looked across the room at the three of them, baffled, grateful.
“I forgive you, George,” she said softly.
“Chrissy, you don’t even know what I did!”
“You didn’t kill anyone, George. I forgive you.”
“But...I...”
“I always wondered what I’d feel, if and when something like this happened,” Chrissy said. “I know now. I still love you. We’ve both hurt. We’ve both managed different ways. You can tell me everything, but you don’t have to. Truth can hurt.”
“Chrissy, yes, there was a young woman. When I was with her, I could forget... I could pretend. But not really. So help me God, I could never forget that I love you.”
Griffin rose and Jackson and Vickie followed suit.
If there had ever been an exit line, it seemed George Ballantine had just uttered it.
“We’ll see ourselves out,” Jackson said.
Chrissy nodded. “One moment—just one moment,” she said.
Griffin, Jackson and Vickie headed to the kitchen.
“Give them that minute,” Jackson suggested.
They waited in the kitchen. Shortly, Chrissy came in, smiling. “Ah! The Justice League!” she teased. Then she hugged Vickie and then Griffin and Jackson. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”
“None of this is over. Please take extreme care,” Griffin said.
“Yes,” Chrissy whispered.
They went out.
Chrissy locked the door. They heard her set the alarm.
They headed to the car. Vickie went to the back seat immediately. She could look through the bucket seats that way, listen to and speak with both of the men.
“So?” she demanded, as Griffin geared up the car. “George is innocent. You’ve proven him innocent? But you’re watching him. So what is going on?”
“George had an affair,” Jackson said.
“Not a good thing, but not something I believe the FBI would usually find to be earth-shattering?” Vickie asked.
“We think he might have an affair with the wrong woman,” Griffin said.
“Oh. You mean...?”
“We think she might have been one of the Undertakers,” Jackson said.
“Ah. But...how? Why? Oh, okay, so this woman is one of the Undertakers. And you think she got close to George and learned about his house and how to get in? I guess that’s possible, but what about the women who were kidnapped before? Do you think she had affairs with other husbands, too? Barbara Marshall isn’t married. Her guy is in the military.”
“I think the Undertakers are ice-cold killers,” Griffin said. “I think they used whatever machination would work for them in any situation. But this woman he was seeing doesn’t seem to exist. We ran the name, but eliminated everyone we found. She didn’t have email, or an address other than a hotel—the hotel where she met up with George. Oh, and where she got him to make the arrangements and use his credit card. Her phone was pay-as-you-go with no way to trace it. She was seeing him...and then she disappeared. He’d told her it was over, so he hadn’t thought anything about it. He said she understood. And then she disappeared. A godsend for George. But we can’t find her—or a trace of her—either,” Griffin said.
“Police and home office are still trying every angle,” Jackson told her.
“What was her name? Or what name did she use?” Vickie asked.
“June. June Jensen,” Griffin said.
Mario’s wonderful eggplant parmesan seemed to erupt in Vickie’s stomach.
“June Jensen?” she repeated.
“Yes.” They’d reached her complex. Griffin pulled the car to a halt, turned off the ignition, and it seemed his head nearly spun as he turned to look at her.
“You know her? You know this woman?” he asked incredulously.
“No. But I know someone who does.”