Twin boys!!!
his email had said.
She opened the next item in her stack, a
Boston Globe Magazine
dated March 2001.
Amanda Kondraki, a Globe staffer, had written an in-depth profile of Franklin Sullivan Renzi titled:
Good Cop, Bad Cop?
Facing the text were two photos. In one Renzi gazed into the camera with dark smiling eyes. Despite his hawk-like nose, he was undeniably attractive, an angular face, high cheekbones, a sensuous mouth. The other photo was different: hard eyes, a grim slash of a mouth and a jagged scar visible within the dark stubble on his chin.
She took a surreptitious sip of bottled water, thinking:
Who's the real Frank Renzi, the handsome smiling man or the hard-eyed hunter?
The profile might not provide the answer, but it might offer some helpful clues.
After an Internal Affairs investigation cleared Renzi and Warner in the November 2000 incident, Renzi resumed working as a homicide detective. Warner retired and moved to Florida to live with his daughter. Kondraki had interviewed one of Warner's friends, who said Warner had been distraught over the girl’s death and the intense scrutiny that followed.
The next two paragraphs contained some eye-openers. The year 2000 had been difficult for Renzi. First his mother died. Then his wife filed for divorce citing adultery, and a bitter court battle followed.
Then came The Incident, as Kondraki termed it, and the resulting public furor. After summarizing what happened, Kondraki inserted several quotes. Renzi’s supervisor, Lieutenant Harrison Flynn, called his work exemplary, saying, “Detective Renzi has the highest clearance rate of any Boston PD homicide detective in the previous ten years.”
That gave her pause. Her hunter-adversary usually got his man.
Then came a quote from Renzi’s father, Appellate Court Judge Salvatore Renzi: “My son did the job he was hired to do, take vicious criminals with no regard for human life off the streets.”
She turned the page and three photos leaped out at her. One filled the left-hand page: Renzi playing basketball on a playground with several black teens. Below it was a quote from Reverend Horace Denton, minister of the Mission Baptist Church where, ironically, Janelle Robinson’s funeral had been held: “Officer Renzi has served the black community well. Without seeking the spotlight, he goes beyond the call of duty, mentoring many of our at-risk youth, especially boys without fathers. Officer Renzi is a fine role model.”
Two photos on the facing page were starkly different. One showed a grim-faced Renzi, besieged by reporters and television cameras, captioned: "
BPD Homicide Detective Frank Renzi leaves police headquarters after giving testimony to Internal Affairs."
Beside it was a photo of Janelle Robinson’s mother, captioned: “That man’s a killer. He murdered my girl in cold blood.”
Citing unnamed sources, Kondraki said several police officers believed Janelle Robinson had been romantically involved with the murder suspect, Thaddeus "Whacko" Lewis.
In a brief interview, Kondraki asked Renzi about this, and why he had attended the girl’s funeral. His response: “I don’t know why Janelle Robinson was in the apartment or why she chose to step into the hall at that moment. All I know is she didn’t deserve to die.”
When asked if Janelle Robinson’s mother was a crack addict, he refused to speculate, saying: “Mrs. Robinson is grieving for her daughter.” Noting that Renzi also had a daughter, Kondraki asked about his ugly divorce battle and the adultery charges. At that point Renzi terminated the interview, saying, “My private life is nobody’s business."
Kondraki's conclusion: "Homicide Detective Frank Renzi remains an enigma to many, including his police department colleagues. While many admire his work ethic, they say they don’t know him well. Good cop? Bad cop? You decide."
Good question.
She set aside the article. She now knew more about her adversary, but it didn't reassure her. Renzi was an intelligent man, a detective with a high clearance rate. It was clear that he knew the gun that killed Arnold Peterson was also the gun that killed Tex Conroy. How long would it take him to dig up the dirt on Tex?
A chill iced her spine. What if he went to Pecos and found out Tex and Randy were best friends?
That could lead to other, more dangerous discoveries.
CHAPTER 11
At five o'clock she left the library and walked around the corner to the Copley 222, a boutique hotel with a comfortable lounge. Later it would be crowded but it wasn’t now. She loved the ambiance: lush green fern plants in the corners, muted lighting from wall sconces along dark wood-paneled walls. It reminded her of a bar in Paris where she used to go with Willem. But she refused to think about Willem, or lament about what might have been.
Now that she'd done her research, she wanted to relax with a glass of fine wine and plan her moves. A grand piano stood in the corner with its lid closed. At seven, there would be a jazz trio. Too bad she couldn’t stay. She loved jazz, but she had too much to do. In three weeks she would be in New Orleans for the Main Event. Her endless twenty-year journey was almost over.
Vengeance is coming soon, Mom, I promise.
Three singletons—two men and a woman—sat at the square bar in the center of the lounge. Keeping her distance, she slipped onto a padded-leather swivel chair at one corner of bar. The barmaid, a thirtyish woman with spiky blond hair, came over and smiled at her. “What can I get for you?”
“How about a glass of red wine? A good Merlot.”
“The 2003 Estate Merlot from Napa Valley is good. Want to taste it?”
“No, I trust you.”
Always make friends with the bartender.
Lori, according to the name-tag pinned to her white shirt.
“I love your glasses,” Lori said.
“Thanks. They’re Vera Wang.” Set in thin silver titanium frames, the rectangular nonprescription lenses made her appear studious, a ploy she used to convince bartenders she wasn’t a hooker.
Lori delivered her wine, waited as she took a sip, smiled when she said it was great and left her alone. She dug a Sharpie and a small notepad out of her tote bag. In tiny printed letters, the kind she used in her diary, she made a list.
1) G, NH.
Massachusetts gun laws were far more strict than those in New Hampshire. That’s where she’d bought the .38 Special that now sat at the bottom of Lake Pontchartrain. She needed a new one, but she didn't want to buy it at the same shop. Last night on the Internet she'd found another one in Hookset, New Hampshire.
2) Buy Car/Register in A’s name. After finding the gun shop, she had trolled ebay for reasonably priced late-model cars. She'd saved a substantial amount of money to finance the Main Event, but half of it was gone, and the final part of her mission would be expensive.
April was her last fake ID. But after the Main Event, she wouldn’t need one. Then she could live life as a normal person.
Whatever that was. Her life had never been normal.
She took a sip of wine and relaxed in her chair. She loved being in a bar with people around. Sometimes a deep loneliness welled up inside her, a visceral longing that made her want to talk to someone. She still missed Gabe. Sometimes when she watched TV she even thought about Darren, half-expecting to see him in some sitcom. She never did. And she missed Willem terribly. She had been so certain that would work out.
Resolutely, she banished thoughts of Willem and focused on her target. He often traveled on business, but during the third week of August he would be in New Orleans to open the latest addition to his chain of swanky clubs.
She became aware of a faint masculine scent, a presence near her left elbow. Startled, she glanced at the man, then away.
Lori was already upon him, beaming as she set a cocktail napkin on the bar in front of him. “Hi, Oliver. The usual?”
“Thanks, Lori. That would be great.”
Lori added ice cubes and liquor to a metal shaker. “Rough day?”
The man emitted a low rumble, part laugh, part groan. “Rough doesn’t begin to describe it.” He appeared to notice her for the first time. “I’m sorry. Did I take someone’s chair?”
She sized him up: Mid-thirties, dark curly hair, and a mouth that might be cruel if he wasn’t smiling. No wedding ring, but men often removed them when they went on the prowl. Still, he was attractive and his suit was well-tailored. She hadn’t come here to meet a man, but she wasn’t averse to interesting encounters.
“No. Be my guest. You’ve had a bad day.” Letting him know she had overheard.
Lori set a long-stemmed glass garnished with a cherry in front of him and discreetly moved away.
“Maybe it'll improve now that I’ve got my Manhattan,” he said, gazing into her eyes, his obvious but unspoken words being:
Now that I’ve met you
.
She slipped her pen and notepad into her tote and raised her glass in a mock-toast. “Here’s to a fine evening. My day wasn’t that great either.”
He sipped his Manhattan, regarding her steadily, Azure-blue eyes, like the sky on a calm summer day. Inviting eyes. Sexy.
“Are you visiting or do you live here?”
“Visiting, sort of.” She turned on the seductive smile that men found so alluring and spun him a story. “I’m a freelance writer. This afternoon a woman was supposed to give me the inside scoop for an article.” She paused, aware that he was hanging on her every word. “But she stood me up.”
He brushed her forearm with his fingers, a quick touch that made her body tingle. “How annoying," he said. "There you were, all set to get some crucial information and the woman ruined your day. Sounds a bit like mine.”
“What happened?”
“A man was supposed to authenticate a piece of art for me. The provenance of an artwork can determine whether it’s worth millions or worth nothing,” he explained.
Thanks to the art lessons provided by her Parisian employers, she already knew this. But never mind. “And it was worthless?”
His mouth quirked. “Worse, actually, but let’s not talk about my problems. I want to know more about you.” He hesitated as though he were making a difficult decision. At last he said, “I’m Oliver James.”
She hesitated too. Should she give him her name? She went with her gut. “Robin Adair.”
He took her hand as if it were delicate porcelain china and held it in his. The warmth of his palms against hers felt wonderful. When he let go, she felt as though she’d lost something precious.
“Happy to meet you, Robin Adair, writer extraordinaire. Are you staying here at the hotel?”
She gave a rueful laugh. “No. Too rich for my blood, I'm afraid. I’ve got a room at the Lennox.” She didn’t, but Oliver didn’t need to know that. “This one has a much nicer bar.”
“Would you care to join me for dinner? I’ve got a reservation at the Top of the Hub.” He smiled, a boyish smile that revealed even white teeth. “Sorry. We’ve only just met and you may be meeting someone else for dinner. But I hope not.”
She returned his smile. “I hadn’t thought about dinner. I’m still trying to figure out if I can salvage my article. The Top of the Hub sounds lovely. I’ve never been there.”
Oliver waved to Lori, told her to put both drinks on his tab and gave her a credit card. When Lori returned with the credit card slip, he signed it with a flourish and stood. “If you’ve never been to The Top of the Hub, we should stroll the Skywalk. Then we’ll have a drink and,
voila
, it will be dinner time.”
“Enchante, M’siur. Votre idée est tres bien.”
He stared at her, clearly impressed. No, not impressed, captivated.
“You speak French,” he said. “And with such a charming accent.”
Be who they want you to be.
She smiled, enjoying the moment, the thrill of seduction, the delicious anticipation of what might happen next.
“I lived in Paris for a while.”
_____
New Orleans
They zoomed at him like bubbles on a 3-D screen-saver, but they weren't bubbles, they were appalling images: the hole in Peterson's forehead; Corrine Peterson's tears when he asked how the kids were doing; Tex Conroy's grief-stricken mother; Morgan Vobitch, his eyes melancholy.
After he and Kelly made love he usually felt fantastic. Now his body was sated, but his mind was spinning like a cement mixer.
He had to find Natalie. But how?
"Hey, Spaceman," Kelly said. "What are you thinking about?"
"Thinking you're the best wench in the whole wide world."
“Well, I am enjoying my postcoital bliss, but now I’m hungry. Are you?”
“You always make me hungry." He kissed her lips. "Hungry for more.”
“Same here, cowboy, but if I don’t eat soon ...”
“Want to go out?” He traced his fingers over her well-muscled stomach.
“Nah. I’ve got a barbequed chicken in the fridge.”
“Should be plenty. We already had the main course.”
She tousled his hair and gave his cheek a love-tap. “Hey, wise-ass, I'm a cop, remember? I know a deceptive statement when I hear one. You’ll probably eat the whole chicken.”
"I might. That'll give me energy for dessert. Round Two."
They got dressed and went in the kitchen. While he opened bottles of Bud Light, Kelly put the chicken in the oven. She looked gorgeous, white shorts contrasting with the tan on her long legs, legs that felt fantastic wrapped around him. Already he wanted dessert. His dark mood was gone. Goofing around with Kelly always made him feel better.
“Fill me in on the Peterson case," she said. "You know, the stuff you’re not telling the media.”
“Morgan likes the hit theory. Peterson’s wife is one possibility.”
“You think she hired someone to kill him?” Kelly asked, gazing at him, her sea-green eyes intent.
“Actually, I don't. She seems angry but beaten. She knew her husband was screwing around, but I don’t think she’d hire someone to kill him. When I asked how the kids were doing, she started to cry. Man, I hate it when women cry. I never know what to say.”
Kelly gazed at him, somber-eyed. “You knew what to say when I told you what happened to Terry.”
“That was different. You lost your husband in a senseless accident, and he wasn’t screwing around on you.”
Her eyes got a faraway look in them. She shook her head, as though banishing a bad memory. “Peterson’s assistant is another suspect?”
“Right. He's a self-important asshole, yap, yap, yap, like a little dog. I like big dogs. They give you a nice deep woof. All the little ones do is yap.”
“Yeah, but the bigger they are, the more they eat.”
When they began dating two years ago, she’d told him her husband used to bring stray dogs home. Too many, she’d said. A touchy subject. Time to lighten up. “Dogs are better than cats. When I interviewed Conroy’s mother, I go in the house and this awful stench hits me. She must have two dozen cats. It was horrendous, fur balls on the floor, cat hairs on the furniture. I had to take my slacks to the cleaners.”
“Must be an animal hoarder.” Kelly went to the oven and took out the chicken and a foil-wrapped loaf of garlic bread. His stomach rumbled as delicious aromas filled the room.
"Let's eat in the living room. I've got a surprise for you. I had a copy made of the hotel security video."
"The mystery woman? Great! Go set it up. We can watch it while we eat." Kelly sipped her beer. “Did you see
Romeo Is Bleeding
?”
“I don’t think so. What’s it about?”
“Lena Olin plays a Russian assassin, outwits a bunch of Italian mobsters that put out a contract on her. She sleeps with the hitman and he falls for her.”
“Hey, whadda you expect? Good-lookin broad like dat? Well-hung?" When Kelly rolled her eyes, he said, "When did this female assassin thing start? Kenyon and I were talking about
The Last Seduction
. I forget when it came out.”
“Mid-nineties maybe? Did you see
Nikita
? Or the remake with Bridget Fonda,
Point of No Return
?”
“Nope. More female assassins, right? I better check them out.”
“Frank," she said firmly, "go set up the video.”
He took his briefcase in the living room. An Ansel Adams print hung on the wall above the sofa, a wide vista of snow-covered mountains below a cloud-filled sky. Kelly said she attributed her success as a detective to her creative side. She'd said it as a joke, but he thought she was right. Sometimes you had to line up the facts in a creative way to solve a difficult case.
But creativity wasn't going to help him find Natalie Brixton.
He took the security video out of his briefcase, put it in the tape deck and turned on the TV. It was tuned to the Weather Channel and they were updating Hurricane Gail, which had strengthened to a Category-4. When the meteorologist put up the cone of possible land strikes. New Orleans was smack dab in the middle of it.
Kelly arrived with a tray of barbequed chicken, garlic bread and a dish of potato salad and set the tray on her coffee table. He gestured at the TV screen. “Morgan was right. If the mayor mandates an evacuation, forget the Peterson and Conroy murders. We’ll all be pulling traffic duty.”
“And that'll be a nightmare, four-hundred-thousand people trying to get out of town.”
He sampled a chicken leg and the garlic bread while Kelly switched to the video. She handed him the clicker. “You know the parts to skip.”