Payback, p.1
Payback, page 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Allen, Nancy (Lawyer), author.
Title: Payback / Nancy Allen.
Description: First edition. | New York : GCP, 2023. | Series: Anonymous justice ; [2] Identifiers: LCCN 2022057848 | ISBN 9781538719190 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781538719206 (ebook)
Subjects: LCGFT: Detective and mystery fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3601.L4333 P39 2023 | DDC 813/.6--dc23/eng/20221212
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022057848
ISBNs: 978-1-5387-1919-0 (trade paperback), 978-1-5387-1920-6 (ebook)
E3-20230329-NF-DA-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Discover More
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Nancy Allen
To Randy
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Prologue
Whitney
Only two weeks prior, Whitney Novak had never seen the inside of a jail. She’d read about incarceration in the media and in fiction, of course. Watched news coverage on TV. From that exposure, she had assumed she understood the challenges a person might face in jail.
There was the essential loss of liberty, obviously, and the horror of being confined without the power to come and go at will. She knew inmates encountered violence, from fellow prisoners and guards. And she understood that incarceration robbed individuals of their dignity as well as their bodily autonomy.
What she hadn’t anticipated, though, was the smell.
The dormitory where Whitney was housed at Rosie’s—the Rose M. Singer Center for women on Rikers Island, New York—had a stink that was almost indescribable. In the lockup facility she shared, the mingled funk of forty-nine other unwashed inmates hit Whitney’s senses like a blow from a truncheon. The dorm held women of all ages, sharing five toilets and a couple of sinks, with limited access to basic toiletries or laundry. She still hadn’t adjusted to the stench.
It was a price she had to pay for her decision to join the group.
As Whitney huddled on the narrow bed assigned to her, she reflected on the association that had landed her in Rosie’s. She had lots of time to think about it. She wasn’t going anywhere.
Months ago, she had been invited to join a group. A circle of talented misanthropes. Each one had his or her personal issues.
Not long ago, there had been nine of them. But she only knew where four of the others were right now.
As Whitney took shallow breaths through her mouth, she did a mental tabulation of the membership. Steven was a medical doctor who had stumbled into drug addiction. In recovery, or so he claimed. Rod battled PTSD, a product of his military service. That went with the territory. But in a fight, Rod was the man you’d want on your side. His girlfriend, Millie, was a drama queen who bitched about her anxiety disorder like it was a mark of pride.
Whitney had her own quirk. She was a gambling addict—bad enough to ruin a stellar career in finance. Before she landed at Rosie’s, she’d been working hard to turn it around. Trying to stay out of casinos, to avoid scratching that itch.
The final member of the group was Kate Stone.
They had all been handpicked by a powerful figure, brought together for a worthy mutual goal: to deliver justice when the legal system slipped up. When the courts let people slip by without consequences for their actions, their group stepped in, wreaking swift, efficient payback. Sometimes it was personal, other times it was a matter of principle. It was a heady undertaking, a satisfying quest. The fellowship. The power. Whitney had sincerely enjoyed it. The group association had involved a gamble, and Whitney was drawn by the thrill of the game, the uncertainty of the outcome. And always, the possibility of a big payoff.
Until Kate had come along and screwed everything up. To fix the mess, the group had no choice but to resort to violence, and Whitney had been the only one brave enough to step up. It was all part of the group dynamic.
And she’d ended up behind bars. Facing felony charges that would be tough to beat.
In a bed nearby, one of her fellow inmates broke wind. When Whitney heard the audible warning, she buried her face in the fabric of her dirty jumpsuit and held her breath.
While she fought the urge to breathe, resentment created a ball in her chest that felt like it might explode. I didn’t sign on for this part, never agreed to this, she thought.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she wished she’d never encountered any of the people in the circle of oddball vigilantes. Wished she’d never been lured into involvement by their dynamic leader. Fervently wished she could set back the clock, go many months into the past to unsee and undo everything she’d witnessed. Everything she’d done. Over the past year, she’d been exposed to ugly, vicious realities.
She’d also discovered a side to her nature she hadn’t fully appreciated. And had tapped into a capacity for violence that until now had lain dormant.
All Whitney had wanted was a taste of justice. A righteous reckoning, on her own terms. If she had known the price she’d have to pay, she would never have ventured into the scheme and been ensnared in the trap.
A nagging voice whispered in her head: You never know when to quit. That was true enough. It wasn’t a novel realization. She’d experienced the same compulsion many times, at craps tables, card tables, even the penny slots. She knew what gambler’s remorse felt like. She was intimately acquainted with the phenomenon.
And Whitney had a bad case of gambler’s remorse as she huddled on a jailhouse cot.
She had gambled with her life, and she’d lost. The absurdity almost made her laugh. And she’d thought she’d never laugh again.
A buzz followed by a grating metallic noise had become a familiar sound in lockup. She lifted her head to watch a guard enter the dorm. It was a woman, young enough to be Whitney’s daughter—if sh e’d ever had a daughter. The officer kept one hand on the door as she called out, “Whitney Novak!”
It took Whitney a moment to react. She tried to think: Was she in some kind of trouble? She had tried to keep her head low, acquiring goods from the commissary to buy the goodwill of her fellow inmates. Maybe it was a visitor. But Whitney had received no visitors, to date. No one had traveled to Rikers Island to check on her—not even the attorney she hired had made the journey. She was bereft, totally on her own.
At the delay, a shade of irritation crossed the guard’s face. “Novak! You deaf?”
“I’m here,” Whitney said, dropping her feet to the floor and slipping them into flip-flops. She hurried over to the door where the guard stood. “Where am I going?”
The guard didn’t offer an explanation. She cuffed Whitney’s hands behind her back before leading her through a maze of hallways. Voices clamored all around, heightening Whitney’s tension as she shuffled along.
“Am I going to court? Has a hearing been set?”
If so, she hadn’t been notified. But communications in lockup were scant. She’d contacted her lawyer after she was arrested but had only had a brief meeting with him, over a week ago. It was a virtual conference, much of which concerned the retainer he required up front. When they finally discussed her case, the conversation hadn’t been encouraging.
After a long walk, through barred doors and locked barriers, the guard delivered Whitney into a holding area where another corrections officer handed her a bundle. As she inspected it with shaking hands, Whitney was amazed to see that it was her own clothing, the pants and shirt she’d been wearing when she was arrested and taken into custody.
The guard didn’t waste any words. “Get dressed.”
Whitney clutched the bundle to her chest like a beloved infant. “For court? Am I going to court?”
“You’re getting out. The bondsman’s waiting. He’s got the paperwork.”
Whitney didn’t argue. She stumbled as she stripped out of the jailhouse scrubs and stepped into the pants. She was trying to move fast before someone realized the mistake.
She shouldn’t be leaving. Not Whitney. She was being held without bond.
For attempting to kill Kate Stone.
Chapter 1
Kate
The landing at LaGuardia was bumpy. We jostled in our seats as the plane hit the runway, and I inadvertently nailed the guy sitting next to me with my elbow.
“Sorry,” I said.
He didn’t respond. Maybe I didn’t sound sufficiently apologetic. I brushed it off. It was LaGuardia.
The rain beat against the oval windowpanes as I waited to deplane. The stormy skies conveyed a moody welcome back to the city. That morning, I had made a hasty departure from my Florida vacation, where my mother and brother were still soaking up the sun. It looked like I’d be soaking up the rain as soon as I left the airport.
While I waited for the pilot to turn off the “fasten seatbelt” light, I pulled out my phone. I saw that my mom had called during the flight. She left a message. The transcript of her recorded voice jumped out of the screen at me, as if it was relayed in all capital letters, like she was shouting.
Do not get in touch with anyone from that support group when you return to the city. Do you hear me? It’s a toxic circle. They’re all suspect, every one of them. You don’t know who you can trust.
Same old Mom. I deleted the message and hit my Twitter icon, just to kill some time. Scanning the home page, a post caught my eye. Someone I followed had retweeted a local headline: “Woman Jumps to Her Death in Midtown.” I scrambled to turn off the phone and let the screen go dark. I couldn’t read stories about jumpers. They triggered me, ever since my dad died.
Finally, we were allowed to deplane. As I wheeled my regulation-sized overhead compartment bag past the baggage claim carousels, a small cluster of limo drivers stood between me and the door, holding signs for passengers. I ignored them, even though a guy with dark hair slicked back in a ponytail held a handwritten card that read “Stone.”
My surname is common. And I’ve never hired a private car in my twenty-eight years. So I was surprised when he followed me to the exit.
“Miss Stone?” he called.
Sure, I heard him. I kept walking. Like I said, I didn’t hire the guy.
“Kate Stone?”
That stopped me. I whirled around, twisting my bag on one wheel. “Who are you?” I said.
He grinned, revealing a blinding smile marred by one crooked eye tooth. “Miss Stone, your mother ordered a limo. Well, a private car, technically. It’s not a stretch. Don’t want to get your hopes up.”
I gave him a closer inspection. Sounding skeptical, I said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He pulled out his cell phone and checked the screen. “You’re Kate Stone, right? Your mother is Patricia Stone? She hired a ride to pick you up at LaGuardia and take you to your building in Morningside Heights. Said you were coming in on American flight one-eight-eight-six.”
He held out the phone, adding, “It looks like you.”
A screenshot on the phone displayed the photo my mother posted on her business website, stone&stonenjlaw.com. It was a fairly current headshot of me, dressed in business attire. The picture wasn’t particularly flattering. I looked slightly angry—not an uncommon expression for me. Some people thought I had a bona fide anger management problem.
So the picture the driver held was undeniably me. Still, I hesitated. I’d just read a message from Mom. She didn’t mention anything about a private car.
The driver nodded at my suitcase. “Can I take your bag, Kate?”
“No.” I clutched the handle with a tight grasp. “Do you have any identification?”
I wasn’t always paranoid, but I had experienced a recent brush with danger. After joining a support group that included deranged vigilantes who made attempts on my life, I didn’t like surprise encounters.
One thing in the phone message from my mother had been spot-on. I didn’t know who I could trust, not anymore.
He pulled out a plastic ID that identified him as an employee of Embassy Limousines of Bayside, Queens. The picture matched the guy, and even showed him with a grin that displayed his crooked tooth.
I pulled out my phone and hit my mother’s cell number. “I’m just going to double-check.”
While the phone hummed, a stranger gave me a shove. We were blocking the exit, apparently. I stepped out of the way, silently cursing my mother for failing to answer her phone. When it went to voice mail, I tapped the screen again.
“Is there a problem?” the driver asked. He didn’t sound offended. When I glanced up from the phone, I observed he had nice eyes, with long eyelashes.
“Sorry about the delay, but I’m going to make another call.” I hit my brother’s number. Leo always had his phone at hand. He’d be able to run Mom down.
“Kate!” Leo sounded positively delighted to hear from me, even though he’d last seen me a few hours before, when I got into a taxi at the Fort Lauderdale resort. “How was your flight?”
“It was okay.”
“How’s everything in New York? Have you made it to your apartment?”
“Not yet. Leo, I’m at the airport and there’s a driver here. He says Mom hired him to pick me up.”
“Oh. That’s nice.”
“Did she mention anything about it?”
“No. But you know Mom. She doesn’t generally seek my advice or approval.”
That was true. I glanced at the driver. He smiled at me, with the same expression I’d seen on his ID.
“Let me talk to her.”
“She’s not here. She’s at the resort spa, getting a massage.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. She said she’d be back in a couple of hours. She’s getting some treatments. The Swedish massage, then a facial and an eyebrow wax.”
Well, so much for raising my mother. She didn’t allow interruptions during spa treatments. I was familiar with that policy.
When I ended the call, the driver reached for the handle of my suitcase. “I can take this for you. Embassy Limousines likes our passengers to enjoy a red-carpet experience. We have a five-star rating.”
“Great.” I let him take the bag.
He wheeled it to the automatic sliding door. “We’re in the parking garage. Do you mind walking? It’s not far.”
“Sure. No problem.”
