The Good Twin(32)

“What’s the name of Charly’s grandfather?”

“Herman Jensen.”

“My parents’ names?

“Judith and Sidney.”

“My grandmother?”

“Linda.”

“Where do they all live?”

“Herman, who Charly calls Poppy, lives in Miami Beach and also has a summer home in East Hampton. Your parents spend eight months a year in Boca Raton, where your grandmother lives year-round. The rest of the time, they’re here, at this house.”

“What are the names of Charly’s parents, and where do they own property?”

“Rick and Sarah Jensen. Sarah died when Charly was ten, in a car accident. Rick owns a penthouse condo on West Seventy-Second Street and Central Park West. The doorman there is named Carlos, and the concierge is Smithy—probably not his full name, but that’s what he’s called by everyone. Her father also has a seven-bedroom home on the water in Southampton, which you and Charly go to on weekends between Memorial Day and Labor Day.”

I looked over at Ben and saw he was smiling.

“You sound exactly like her,” he said. “No Pennsylvania twang anymore.”

We spent the next two hours going over every detail, Ben asking me questions about Charly’s life, and me answering every one. When he finished, he said, “The doctor says his kidneys are failing. Rick has a week, maybe ten days left. That’s all.”

“Have you found someone to do it? To Charly?”

Ben nodded.

“What’s his name?”

“You don’t need to know that.”

“I want to meet him.”

“It’s better for you that you don’t.”

“Look, I’m on the line here, too. If something goes wrong and he fingers you, you can turn on me to sweeten your deal. I need to make sure I can trust him.”

“It’s enough that I trust him.”

I folded my arms and began tapping my foot, without saying a word. Finally, Ben said, “I’m going to meet him in two nights to give him a payment. You can come with me.”

I smiled. “Thank you.”

He grabbed his jacket and started toward the door. “I’ll text you where and when.”

As he pulled out of the driveway, it hit me that this was real. In two days, I would come face-to-face with the man hired to murder Charlotte Jensen Gordon, my sister.



Two nights later, I drove into Brooklyn, to an address Ben had texted me. We were to meet the hit man at 9:00 p.m. sharp. I wasn’t familiar with this borough, so I gave myself extra time. I arrived ten minutes early and parked in front of what looked like an abandoned building. There were no lights visible from outside, and at least a quarter of the windows were broken. I remained in the car with the doors locked. At two minutes to nine, there was a tap on my window. I turned and saw Ben, motioning me to get out. I turned off the motor and left the safety of the car.

“Nice neighborhood,” I said, assuming he picked up the sarcasm.

“I didn’t choose it. Come on. He said he’d be in the back of the building.”

It was very dark, and I wondered what I’d gotten myself into by asking to meet him. I flipped through the apps on my phone for the flashlight, and the light helped dispel some of my unease. I skirted the broken glass and debris in the alleyway as I made my way, alongside Ben, to the rear. When we reached it, no one was there. The mid-January temperature hovered just below freezing, and a gust of cold air seemed to go right through me. I pulled the collar of my jacket tighter around my neck.

“He’ll be here any minute,” Ben said, although his voice didn’t sound very certain.

A moment later, a figure emerged from the shadows of the building, and Ben whispered, “That’s him.” He was short and bulky, with pitch-black hair. My first thought was that I was glad I wasn’t alone with him. When he reached us, I saw he had a scar that ran from the side of his eye down to the bottom of his cheek.

As soon as he spotted me, he asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m part of this. That’s who.”

He looked over at Ben, who nodded.

“You have the money?” he asked Ben.

“I have some questions first,” I said.

“What do you want to know?”

“Have you ever done this before?”

“Why? You want references?”

I frowned at him. “No. I want to make sure we’re not dealing with an amateur.”

“You want my body count? I stopped counting after a hundred.”

Ben leaned over toward me. “He was in the army.”

The hit man smiled. “Be precise. I was a sniper in the army, trained to kill unsuspecting targets.”

“That’s a lot different than killing a civilian woman. How do I know you won’t back out? That you won’t be persuaded by Ben’s wife to let her live in exchange for more money than Ben’s giving you? That you won’t go running to the police, now that you have half the payment?”

“I like you. You’re sharp. Sharper than your cohort here. So, here’s your answer. I stopped caring about human life back in Afghanistan. Mine, yours, or any other fucking person on this earth. Ben wants to pay me money to get rid of his wife, I have no moral compunctions against that. I do have moral compunctions against stiffing a buyer of my services, so I don’t change allegiance. As for the police, I’ve already answered that question for Ben. He was satisfied.”