The Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for Women was set in rolling pastureland an hour north of New York City. Weecho took the train from Grand Central to the laid back community of Bedford Hills itself, got off and almost forgot his package, had to run back and grab it off the seat. Crossed the street and caught a shuttle bus that had wire mesh over the windows, rode the winding back-roads to the maximum security prison that was home to his mother.  

Almost three years now since she’d murdered Weecho’s father. Who, in the opinion of people close to the situation, was an abusive sadistic drunk who deserved it. But that night when Weecho’s mother emptied the gun at her husband, she also killed the woman he was in bed with. A relative of the woman was a cop with courthouse muscle, the public defender assigned to Weecho’s mother was by all accounts brain dead, and so she wound up in the high-fenced countryside north of New York City. 

The shuttle bus swung through the outer-gate check-point, drove Weecho and about twenty other visitors, mostly grandmothers with their daughters’ kids, to the welcome area where they were given the traditional pat-down and scan. 

Weecho’s package, a box of chocolates, cleared security and he put it in one of the visitor lockers. Went through a series of metal doors to the visiting room where a tall, imposing black woman he’d gotten to know stood guard. 

“Hey, Tilda.” 

“Hey, Weecho.” 

“Everything good?” 

“Everything’s fine.” 

“How’s she doing?” 

“See for yourself.” 

A door opened across the room and in came his mother, Selena Marti, green prison jumpsuit, half-smile letting him know she was glad to see him, but didn’t for a second think he was out there being some angel. Weecho went over and gave her a hug, not much size to either of them, him kissing the brown face he wished he could bring home, even if sometimes she drove him nuts.   

They sat down on opposite sides of one of the picnic tables, couple of weeks now since they’d last seen each other, Weecho knowing what was coming. 

“What’s that under your nose?” 

“It’s temporary, Ma.” He’d been experimenting with a mustache. “I’m gonna shave it, don’t worry.”  

“Uh-huh. You eating?” Same question as always. 

“I’m doing fine, Ma. The Food Network’s my life.” 

“Don’t get smart.” 

He told her about the chocolates.  

“I told you no more.” She didn’t sound convincing.  

“I’ll leave them for Tilda.” 

“Tilda’s cutting back, too.” 

“Good, you two can split them.” 

They covered some small talk (she was an Orioles fan, God knows why, did her riff on Weecho’s Yankees). She liked that he was living in the loft, thought it sounded like he’d stepped in something good (he’d been staying with one or another of her Cuban relatives before that, had no brothers or sisters, so that made it easier). They didn’t get into normal family things because there weren’t normal family things to get into. She knew Weecho was making it okay on his own, but she was the mother and needed clarification on certain points.     

“What about work? You shooting anything pays decent?” 

Okay, here it comes. “Actually, I might be branching out.” 

“Yeah? Into what?” 

“Like maybe some work for the cops.” 

“Cops?” 

“I’m in the middle of something could be big.” 

She gave him one of her looks. “Maybe you better explain.” 

                                                #          #          # 

After he did she dropped her voice. “So if I’m hearing right, you’re withholding evidence, those pictures, to shake down the cops.” 

“Not shake down. Try to make a place for myself.” 

“Whatever.” 

“But I have to work fast.” 

“Before they throw your spic hiney in here with me.” 

“I have to connect some dots.” 

“What dots?” 

“You hear things in this place.” There, it was out. “That heist was a big operation.” 

“I make it my business not to hear things.” 

“If I can take it a step further, it’ll show initiative.” 

She started to speak. Weecho held up his hand. “It’s a career thing.” 

Low blow. What mother doesn’t want to help her kid get ahead? Especially a mother in prison. God forbid some career thing should happen. 

After a minute she said, “Promise me.” 

“Promise what?” 

“You’ll get those pictures to who should have them and won’t try to play hero. People getting torched in diplomat cars ain’t some neighborhood beef.” 

“I can handle myself,” Weecho said. 

“You’re a kid – and not a very big one at that.”  

Weecho looked into those black eyes, deep ones that always could tell when he was getting creative with the truth. 

Finally, he nodded. “I promise.” 

Selena Marti knew it was baloney, but at least she’d tried. 

                                                              #          #          # 

The spike-haired hacker Tekster, feet propped on his component-stacked desk, had just tapped a number into his cell. “Hey, check this. Guy comes in with a laptop, keys screwed up with like blood. Says he wants it cracked, says he got my name from some customer.” 

Tekster reached for the remote and turned down the sound from the basketball game playing on one of his screens. 

 “Anyway, I piggyback on some shit he gives me, and it’s like whoa, what the… I mean there’s…” 

Over his shoulder, the door buzzer buzzed. 

“Hold on, somebody’s here.” 

He got up and went over and squinted through the peep-hole. Undid the lock and pulled the door open. 

Tekster smiled. “Hey, long time no…” 

Emer Lynch lunged at him, rammed a long stiletto up into his throat, under his chin, kept pushing it up into his brain. Tekster gagged on his blood, fell back inside, dead. Lynch stepped in and bumped the door shut behind him. 

Picked up Tekster’s cell and killed the call. “Let’s keep it to ourselves.”   

                                                            #          #          # 

Weecho got off the train from Bedford Hills and headed up the platform to the main Grand Central concourse. Most of the trip back he’d spent hoping he hadn’t screwed up. His mother had been in her situation long enough to be privy to inmate chatter. How she’d pass anything useful on to him was something they’d left open – email, text, some kind of code. Weecho realizing what price she’d pay if anybody found out. Had to be no comebacks from anything she told him. 

He stopped by the Hudson News Stand and bought a Reese’s Butter Cup, ate it while he flipped through the Daily News. Nothing on the crash. Nothing in the Post either. It didn’t make sense – there should’ve been something, if for no other reason than those diplomatic plates. Or maybe they were the reason there wasn’t. Stuff like this got hushed up all the time. He dropped the papers back on the stand and glanced at the magazine rack. 

Just about choked on his Butter Cup. 

Smiling back at him from one of the covers was the beautiful woman from the crash. 

                                                #          #          #  

Her name was Nina Galleon and she was a supermodel. 

Weecho had the magazine opened on his workbench and was thumbing through the cover feature, six pages of Nina Galleon in a summer collection. The camera loved her figure every bit as much as her face. Whatever look a photographer goes for, she had it. Of course, now he remembered where he’d seen her, this wasn’t her first cover. But when somebody looks at you from a burning car, you’re not thinking high fashion.  

Wanda the cat jumped up to see.     

“World-class, babe, and the world doesn’t know she’s dead.” 

Wanda put a paw on the page. Weecho kept staring. 

They both jumped when a voice spoke up behind them: 

“Maybe we could have done a shoot sometime…” 

Weecho spun around, eyes wide at the vision of Nina as she’d appeared to him on the subway – clothes ripped and covered with blood, hair singed and matted, half her face burned off… 

“… under better conditions. I’m Nina Galleon.” 

“I know. I’m Weecho.” 

“You told me that at the crash.” 

“And you said find Alex. And the prick who lit you.” 

“You made a good start, enlisting your mother.” 

“She could get herself whacked, her cronies find out.” 

“I sense she can handle it. She handles you. And your father found out the hard way.” 

Weecho squinted at her. How does she know that? 

“You’re probably wondering how I know that.” 

Jesus. 

“A person in my situation,” Nina said, indicating her bloody shreds, “starts picking up on stuff. “ 

Weecho thinking he better watch himself. 

“You into Santeria?” Nina asked. “I know you’re Cuban.” 

“I got family is.” 

“There you go. It’s in your blood. That’s probably why we connected.” 

Weecho kept his gaze on her, backlit by the windows, Brooklyn Bridge over her shoulder. “So now you can get into my head,” he said. 

“Only as much as you want me to,” Nina said. “Maybe help nudge it places it should be going.” 

 “Where’s that?” 

“You tell me. Or tell yourself. See what connections you make with this thing we seem to have. How it ties in with stuff of your own.” 

Weecho started to say something, let it pass, thinking how beautiful she’d been, and look at her now. 

“You get into it more,” Nina said, “you’ll see what I mean.” She tilted her head toward the workbench, at the wide-screen monitor. “The pieces are there. Keep looking.” 

She gave Weecho a smile with the good half of her face – and then the vision of her faded in the loft’s low light. 

Weecho stared at the spot where she’d been. Turned to the workbench, to Wanda. “You saw that, right?” 

Wanda jumped down and went over to where Nina had been. Weecho watched the cat sniffing around, thinking cats had a better fix on this stuff than he did. He took a minute to inventory what he knew: 

That if Soul Patch and the truck guy had the chance, they’d kill him in a second. 

That Nina couldn’t tell him things direct, he had to figure them out for himself. 

That he had serious guilt issues from abandoning her in the car. 

That the guilt was driving him to, what, get even? 

He could hear that counselor they’d made him go to after they took his mother (guy who had issues of his own, by the way) saying it went back to Weecho’s father, to his boozy tirades (counselor’s word) – that maybe this Soul Patch had come along as some kind of stand-in. So? Doesn’t change what needs to be done.   

He reached under the workbench and took the flashcard with the crash pictures on it from the nook where he’d hidden it. Slipped it into the computer, keyed the card reader and brought the crash sequence onto the screen. Stared at the Mercedes ramming into the 18-wheeler, had a vision of Nina getting whipped around inside the car. 

The car with diplomatic plates. 

With the fat Arab guy getting crunched inside with her. 

This was stuff they made conspiracy flicks about. 

But this had happened. He’d been there. 

Time to go out there again.