He fast-forwarded to where Peterson entered his room and hit Pause. “See the time stamp? Ten o'clock. The woman shows up ten minutes later.” He fast-forwarded the tape until the door to the fire stairs opened and hit Pause. “Heeeeere’s Johnny!”
Kelly laughed. “Frank, you are so bad.” But when he hit Start, she leaned forward, gazing at the screen as the woman stepped into the hall. He let it run until the woman entered Peterson’s room and hit Pause.
“You can’t see her face at all,” Kelly said. "The hat. The sunglasses."
“I figure she knew about the security camera, which means she was up to no good, and I’m not talking criminal solicitation.”
But was it Natalie?
Kelly polished off a chicken wing while he forwarded the tape to where the woman came out of Peterson’s room. He hit Play, let it roll until the woman disappeared into the stairwell and stopped the tape.
“No one else goes in the room until the security guard shows up.”
“Can you roll it back to where she comes out of the room? I think I spotted something.”
He rewound the tape and ran it again. The woman left the room and began walking toward the fire stairs. "There," Kelly said. “Stop the tape.”
He hit Pause and the grainy image quivered on the screen.
“What? I don’t see anything.”
“See the inside of her left ankle? Looks like a tattoo near her ankle bone.”
He squinted at the screen. “Man, how did you spot that? Kenyon and I watched this tape a half-dozen times and we didn't catch it."
"Of course not. You were too busy admiring her other endowments."
"Yeah, well ..." Maybe she was right. Or maybe he didn't want to believe it was Natalie because he felt sorry for her. "It's too small to see what kind of tat it is.”
“I bet if a crime lab tech enhanced it and blew it up, you’ll could.”
“Very good Detective O’Neil. Just for that, you get an extra-special treat tonight.”
She made her eyes go wide, her lips twitching as she tried not to smile. “And what might my extra-special treat be, Detective Renzi?”
He grinned. “Round two in your bedroom. But I’ve got something else to show you first.”
CHAPTER 12
He dug the Pecos High School yearbook out of his briefcase and showed her Natalie Brixton’s photograph.
“Beautiful girl,” Kelly said. “Exotic looking eyes, part Asian maybe.”
“In 1988 her mother was murdered in New Orleans. Natalie was ten."
“Wow. She had a rough life, but you’d never know it from her picture. She seems very self-confident, smiling, looks right at the camera. You think she’s the woman in the video?”
"Maybe." Everyone else seemed to think so, but he wasn't convinced. He flipped to the Drama Club page and showed her the photo of the dancers.
“She's tall, like the woman in the video," Kelly said. "Too bad you can't see her ankle. If she had a tat, that would clinch it.”
"True, but nothing about this case is simple. I want to talk to the lead detective on the mother's murder case. Jane Fontenot. Vobitch knows her, but she retired last year. Unfortunately, when Vobitch called to set up a meet, he got a voicemail message saying she's in Africa. On safari."
"An adventurous woman."
"I wish she'd chosen some other time for an adventure. She won't be back till the twelfth of August."
"Bummer."
"All I can do is read the case file, see if anything leaps out at me. I'll call Ellen Brixton and Natalie's friend, Gabe Rojas, too, and ask them if Natalie had a tat on her ankle in high school." But would his two reluctant witnesses tell him?
“She doesn’t look like a killer to me,” Kelly said, “not in these pictures.”
“No, she doesn't." Maybe that was the problem. In the photograph Natalie looked young and innocent, just another pretty teenager. Now she was thirty. Was she the woman on the video? Was she a killer?
He tapped the motto below the picture. “Freedom and justice for all.”
Kelly stared at him. “You think she killed Peterson because he killed her mother?”
“No. In 1988 Arnold Peterson was living in Chicago."
“So why would she kill him?”
“Good question. If I find her, I'll ask her. The DA leaned on Vobitch today, said he'd pull us off the case if we don't solve it soon. Vobitch wants me to bring her in, but nobody in Pecos knows where she is.”
Except for Gabe Rojas, who claimed he didn’t. But he was pretty sure Rojas had stayed in touch with Natalie after she left Pecos. The week after she witnessed her cousin Randy fall off a cliff.
_____
Boston
As they strolled around the Skywalk Observatory, Oliver laced his fingers in hers as though they were lovers. Maybe they would be. So far she liked everything about him: his rugged looks, his easy banter, his obvious intelligence. Did she dare to hope? It had been a long time since she'd enjoyed a lover with these qualities. Too long.
The Skywalk on the fiftieth floor of the Prudential Center offered breathtaking views of Boston. Oliver pointed out landmarks: the Charles River, Fenway Park, the Hatch Shell where the Boston Pops played on the Fourth of July for the fireworks.
When she said she’d seen this on television, he said, “Being there is better. If you’re here next July, maybe we'll watch it together. Where do you live? You don’t have an accent. Except for your delightful French.”
The question caught her flat-footed. He knew her name, but she didn’t want him knowing where she lived. “I grew up in the Midwest, but I live in upstate New York now.” Lies, but she had driven through upstate New York and could talk intelligently about it if he asked. But he didn’t.
On the north side of the Skywalk, he said, “On a clear day you can see New Hampshire from here. The border is only forty miles away.”
She knew that. She lived there. But Oliver wanted to show off and play tour guide.
Be what he wants you to be. Make him feel important
.
When they entered the restaurant the Maitre-d greeted him by name. “Hello, Mr. James. Follow me.”
Flanked by tall windows, their corner table offered a stunning view of the sunset. They ordered drinks—another Manhattan for Oliver, a glass of red wine for her—and she sank back in her chair. This was much nicer than being home by herself. After the stress and anxiety in New Orleans, it felt wonderful to be able to relax and enjoy the company of an interesting man.
He sipped his Manhattan, set the long-stemmed glass on the white linen tablecloth and gazed at her. "Tell me more about your writing career, Robin. Did you go to journalism school?”
“No, but writing always came easily to me. My high school English teacher said I’d probably write a best-selling novel and become rich and famous.” She laughed. “Didn’t happen. Where did you go to school?”
“I majored in business at Harvard, and art history.” He grinned and tiny lines crinkled at corners of his eyes. “I couldn’t decide what I wanted to be when I grew up.”
“I still can’t,” she joked. He laughed and drew a “one” in the air.
Oliver James was exceedingly charming, a very attractive man. A bit like George Clooney without the gray hair. She was enjoying herself immensely. Dangerous. She had to keep her eyes on the prize. After all the suffering and heartache she had endured, nothing was going to prevent her from completing her mission. Two weeks from now she would appease the angry Ancestor gods and avenge her mother.
The waiter came and took their order and departed.
“What were you doing in Paris?” Oliver said.
Her heart jolted. How did he know? Then she remembered. She’d told him in the bar. “Studying art. Good thing I didn’t give up my day job.”
“What was your day job?”
She recited her usual story. “I clerked at Shakespeare’s Bookstore. Back then my French was terrible, and mostly English speakers go there.”
“An interesting shop. Smells musty though, all those books crammed floor-to-ceiling. Pity I didn’t meet you then. We could have had fun in Paris.”
“Yes. It’s a beautiful city.” A lump formed in her throat. She and Willem had enjoyed many wonderful times in Paris, until everything fell apart.
“We have remarkably similar interests. I gather art didn’t turn out to be your calling?”
“No. After a year of lessons it was clear that I wasn’t destined to be a famous artist, either. By then my French had improved, so I got a job waitressing at a nice restaurant.”
“Which one?”
She waved her hand. “I doubt you’d know it. There are a million great restaurants in Paris.” If you don’t lie about details, you don’t have to remember them later.
“How long did you live there?”
Why all the questions, she wondered. It was making her nervous.
“Five years.” Five long years that ended in heartbreak, with many traumas along the way. “What sort of art dealer are you?”
He studied her for a moment, blank-faced, then sipped his Manhattan. The silence went on so long her antenna went up. Was he concocting a story? She knew the symptoms. She'd done it often enough herself.
At last he said, “I deal in antiquities.”
“Interesting. I know nothing about ancient art. I like modern paintings. I love the Orsay Museum.”
“So do I. Any favorite artists?”
“I love Manet, especially
The Pfeiffer
. You can almost hear the boy playing his little flute.”
“
The Olympia
is my favorite. She looks so imperious, lying there naked, confronting the viewer.”
Correct. Olympia lying there naked like the courtesan she was, accepting a bouquet from a client from a maid. She loved the painting too, but it hit too close to home. “Did you ever use your Harvard business degree?”
“Oh, I used it all right. Used it to make a lot of money.”
She made her eyes go wide. “Really? How?”
“Remember the one-word answer Dustin Hoffman got in
The Graduate
?”
“Plastics.” She’d watched the video three times. She loved Ann Bancroft.
“Correct. For me, it was stocks. Playing the market is risky. You can lose your shirt if you don’t know what you’re doing, and I didn’t have a lot of shirt to lose. I made a fortune, but after a while I didn't find it very satisfying, so I got out and began dealing in European and African antiquities.”
“That sounds complicated. Tell me about it.”
“I got stiffed a few times at first. That’s when I started tracking down people who deal in stolen art.”
Tracking down people
. A frisson of fear prickled her skin.
Oliver smiled his George Clooney-smile. “Don’t worry. I don’t work for the feds. But I’ll have to report the 10th-century Greek urn I saw today. Beautiful piece. Unfortunately, the provenance was an obvious fake.”
She digested this as the waiter arrived and served their dinners. A moment ago, she’d been ravenous. Now, the odors wafting up from her plate nauseated her. Oliver James might not work for the feds, but it sounded like he had law enforcement connections. Her stomach cramped.
She picked up her fork and forced herself to eat, even managed to chatter about inconsequential topics. When she set her plate aside, Oliver said, “How were your scallops?” Gazing at her with his oh-so-seductive eyes.
“Delicious." Despite the tense knot in her stomach, she'd managed to eat most of them. She gestured at the window where the sun was a huge red ball hovering over the horizon. "And the view is spectacular.”
“Gorgeous,” he agreed. “What’s your article about?”
Blindsided, she froze and her brain seized up. Unable to think of an answer, she joked, “About to go up in smoke if I don’t find another expert to give me a quote.”
He nodded and said nothing, gazing at her expectantly.
His question was perfectly legitimate, and she cursed herself for not preparing an answer. Then she remembered an article she’d seen in one of the newspapers at the library.
“It’s about electric-powered cars and the problems owners might have recharging them. The expert that stood me up teaches at MIT.” She flashed her charming smile. “But that's boring. Tell me more about your antiquities. I don’t know much about early art, and I’d love to hear about it.”
Be what they want you to be.
Oliver James was a successful man who’d made a fortune, got bored and decided to do something he considered altruistic.
Nabbing crooked art dealers. She was playing with fire.
But taking risks were nothing new to her. Since her mother's murder twenty years ago, she had taken dozens of risks: in Pecos, New York, Paris, and most recently in New Orleans.
Oliver patted his lips with a napkin. “Most of what I do is rather boring, but when I get a hot tip, it gives me a rush.” He grinned and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “The thrill of the hunt.”
The thrill of the hunt
. That she understood perfectly.
Under her prodding, he told her about other art objects he had acquired, ones that weren’t fakes. And forgot about electric cars.
After the waiter cleared the table, Oliver leaned back in his chair, gazing at her. “Robin, I’ve enjoyed our time together more than I can say. I find most women boring, but you’ve had some interesting experiences.”
You have no idea
. “Thanks, but no more than you have.”
“It strikes me that we’re a lot alike. You hunt for experts to add authenticity to your articles. I hunt for art objects and authenticate them for myself or other buyers.”
“The thrill of the hunt,” she said, smiling at him.
“Exactly.” Gazing at her with his sexy sky-blue eyes, a look that made her body tingle. “I’m staying in town tonight. Would you like to have a nightcap?”
He didn’t say
in my room
but she knew that’s what he meant. And she knew how to play the seduction game. First came the flirtation, then they tried to close the deal. And she knew the best response.
Never act eager. Make the man pursue you. The thrill of the hunt
.
“This has been a wonderful evening, Oliver. I’ve enjoyed it tremendously, but I’m afraid I have to pass. I have an early appointment tomorrow.”
She smiled to soften the rejection, a genuine smile. Her interest in Oliver James went far beyond simple attraction. It had been three years since she’d slept with a man she cared about.
He took out a business card and gave it to her. “The top number is my business phone, but my cell number is below it. I hope you’ll call me the next time you’re in town.”
She put the card in her purse and pushed back her chair, a move that took considerable self-discipline. She wanted to go to bed with Oliver James. Every inch of her body yearned for it. But it wasn’t going to happen tonight.
She had to keep her eyes on the prize.
Tomorrow she had to buy a gun.