KILLING SARAI(83)

I ignore her artificial efforts altogether and reach out to shake Vince’s hand.

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” I say.

“You as well. Perhaps you can enjoy the party longer next time.”

“Perhaps.”

I pull Sarai along next to me as we head toward the exit. Just before we make it to the tall double-doors, I hear Hamburg’s voice carry through the mansion from the balcony of the fourth floor and we stop cold in our tracks.

“Victor Faust,” he calls out over the crowd.

I feel Sarai’s heart beating in her hand as she grasps mine.

I step away from the door and back into the light so that I can see him fully. He has cleaned up nicely in such a short time, his dress shirt tucked back inside his slacks, his gray hair that had been drenched by sweat, slicked back over his head likely by his fingers rather than a comb.

The moment of silence, although only a few seconds at best, is tense. I think Sarai has stopped breathing.

Hamburg smiles down at us, his hands resting over the balcony railing.

“I look forward to seeing you again,” he says.

I nod. “Until then,” I say.

The doorman swings one side of the door open for us as we exit the mansion. Neither of us feel safe until we drive the length of the two-acre driveway and are allowed past the front gate without being stopped or shot at.

I drive around the city for thirty minutes before going back to the hotel to make certain we’re not being followed. Sarai is silent the entire time, staring out the windshield. She doesn’t have the look of someone who is traumatized. She’s doubting me. She’s regretting her decision to have taken part in what happened.

“Sarai—”

“What was that?” she shouts, her head snapping around to look at me. “Why was that woman the hit? She was harmless, Victor. She needed our help! She was innocent! It couldn’t be more obvious!”

“Are you sure about that?” I ask, retaining my calm demeanor.

Sarai starts to yell at me more, but she stops and drops her chin.

“Maybe not,” she says, second-guessing herself now. “But he kept her in that room. She was drugged. Helpless. A prisoner. I don’t understand….” She looks out the windshield again.

“It appeared that way, yes,” I say. “But Mary Hamburg was just as deserving as Arthur.”

“Then who ordered the hit?” she asks, her gaze fixated on me. “Why kill her and not him?”

“Mary Hamburg ordered the hit on herself,” I say and Sarai’s eyes cloud over with disbelief. “The two of them have been involved in numerous cases of rape and murder, accidental deaths caused by erotic asphyxiation, but murder nonetheless, all covered up by their big bank accounts. They’ve been involved in this lifestyle for most of their marriage. A year ago, Mary Hamburg—according to her—decided she didn’t want to be a part of that life anymore. Her demons caught up to her. When she tried to talk to Arthur about them getting out of it, seeking help and straightening out their lives, he turned on her. Long story short, he got her addicted to heroin and kept her locked inside that room so she couldn’t destroy everything they had. But he loved her. In his own demented way, he loved her. That was apparent to me by his reaction to her death.”

Sarai shakes her head slowly, trying to take in the truth.

“How do you know all of this?”

“I read the file,” I say. “I usually don’t, but in this case I thought it was necessary.”

“Because I was with you,” she says and I nod. “You knew I’d have questions.”

“Yes.”

She looks away.

“How could he keep her out of the public view for so long? Somebody would’ve had to know something. Their kids. The letter said they had kids.”

“Yes, they did,” I say. “Two children who both live in Europe somewhere and wanted nothing to do with either of them. And Hamburg didn’t keep Mary out of the public eye entirely. He claimed she was on her deathbed. Terminal cancer. Every now and then, when a public appearance was necessary to keep any suspicion away, he would dress her up, drug her up and wheel her out to sit beside him in a wheelchair for no more than a few minutes. It was enough of an appearance for people to see that Mary Hamburg did indeed look to be dying of cancer because of her weight and the effects the heroin had on her. No one asked questions.”

I bypass the valet and pull into the parking deck of our hotel and I turn off the engine.

We sit in silence for a moment, shrouded by the dim blue-gray lighting embedded in the concrete beams above us.

“But how did she order the hit on herself?” She runs her hands through the top of her hair. “I just don’t—”

“There were few people allowed inside the room where she was hidden. Maids only. Illegal immigrants. Fearful for being sent back to their country, and likely for their lives, Arthur Hamburg knew they wouldn’t speak. At least, that’s what he thought because it was one of the maids who helped Mary Hamburg set up the hit.”

“She should’ve just killed herself,” Sarai says. “If it was me, I wouldn’t go through all the trouble.”

“You would if you couldn’t bring yourself to take your own life. There are many people like that out there, Sarai. Ready to die, but afraid to do it themselves.”