CHAPTER 13
Wednesday July 30, 2008 Nashua, N.H.
To prepare for the gun buy she put on her beige linen suit, pulled her long dark hair into a ponytail and left her second-floor apartment.
Look professional but non-threatening
. The way to her car went past the swimming pool. Her next door neighbor, a public school teacher with wiry chest hair and a flabby white belly, lay on a plastic chaise beside the pool, soaking up the sun.
“Hi Robin,” he said. “Going to work?”
“Yes," she said, smiling. "You do what you gotta do.”
George owned the unit next to hers. The day she moved in he'd offered to help her. She'd thanked him and declined. The less anyone knew about Robin Adair the better. Whenever she encountered other residents, she smiled and spoke but otherwise kept to herself.
She got into her Honda Civic. To ward off the glare of the midday sun, she put on her Raybans, got on the Interstate and settled in for the half-hour drive. The gun shop in Hookset was 25 miles away.
Three years ago when she returned from Paris she had chosen not to live in New York. She didn't want to run into anyone from her previous life: Val or Darren or men who’d frequented Cheetahs or the Platinum-Plus Club. Or her father. But after five years in Paris, she didn't want to live in a little hick town.
Boston had great cultural offerings and sky-high rents to match. Then she found a listing for a rental in Nashua, New Hampshire. Nashua was only 50 miles from Boston. The state motto clinched her decision.
Live free or die.
Perfect.
It was on the license plate of her car, registered to Robin Adair.
As the Honda ate up the miles, her mind flirted with Oliver James.
She couldn’t stop thinking about him. His good looks, intelligence and charm entranced her. The attraction appeared to be mutual. He had asked her to call him. Maybe she would. But she couldn't allow Oliver to divert her from her goal. Mom had been waiting too long.
She left the Interstate at Exit 11, paid the toll and drove to the gun shop. According to the website, Gerry’s Sport Shop sold firearms, ammunition and accessories of all kinds. The store had 1500 new and used guns in stock, and a wheelchair ramp for the disabled. She didn’t expect any problems. Buying a .38 Special at the gun show in Nashua last year had been easy. Anyone over 21 could buy a handgun in New Hampshire, as long as they hadn’t been convicted of felony or a crime of domestic violence. That let her out.
A mile down the road she pulled into a gravel parking lot in front of a one-story building with redwood siding. Gerry's Sport Shop looked like a well-fortified log cabin. Iron bars protected two small windows. A wheelchair ramp led to the front door. She parked several yards away from a battered green SUV. The only other vehicle, a Ford-250 pickup with Harley-Davidson decals on the rear window, stood at the rear of the store, shaded by pine trees. The owner’s truck, she assumed.
A bell dinged as she entered the store. The odor of gun oil permeated the shop. Twenty feet ahead of her, a man with an eye patch stood behind a waist-high counter talking to a customer in a red-plaid shirt. Behind the counter, dozens of cubbies held boxes of ammunition. Engrossed in conversation, the men ignored her. Good. She'd make her move after the buyer left the store. The fewer witnesses the better.
Along the wall to her right, rifles and shotguns stood butt down in wooden racks, their muzzles resting in grooves to separate them. She went to a six-foot-long glass display case on the opposite wall and pretended to look at the handguns with red price tags dangling from their triggers.
Ten minutes later, the man in the plaid shirt left with a double-barreled shotgun and two boxes of ammunition.
“Help you with something, Missy?” called the owner.
She went to the counter. The man stank of cigarette smoke, and a black patch covered his left eye. “I’d like to buy a handgun.”
“You licensed to drive in this state?” he asked, glowering at her as if she were a criminal.
“Yes.”
He held out his hand. “Lemme see.”
She took the license out of her wallet, conscious of his breathing, sucking air through the dark hairs sprouting from his nostrils. He held the license close to his good eye, frowning as he examined it. “Okay, DOB makes you over 21 so we got that over with. Ever been convicted of a felony?”
“No.” Going for humor, she added, “Never been convicted of a domestic violence charge, either.”
“Look here, Missy! Men ain’t the only ones beat on their spouses. Women do, too.”
So much for humor. “I’d like to buy a handgun—”
“Hold it.” His visible eye bored into her like a laser beam from hell. “No use telling me what ya want till I check to see if I can sell it to ya. State law requires me to do a background check. Hold on while I go out back. Don’t touch nothing while I’m gone. I got video cameras all over the store.”
The words hit her like a shotgun blast. Video cameras recording her clearly-visible face, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, no sunglasses.
“You don’t behave, Beauty’ll take care of ya, ain’t that right, Beauty?”
A low menacing rumble made her neck hairs stand up.
Behind the counter, a huge German shepherd rose to its feet, fixed its yellow eyes on her and drew back its lips in a snarl.
She tried to swallow. Couldn't. Her mouth felt like sawdust.
The owner smiled, revealing pointy yellow teeth. “Beauty won’t do you no harm, long as you don’t touch nothing.” He opened a reinforced steel door beside the counter and disappeared.
Her heart pounded so hard she feared the dog would hear it and attack her. Dogs could smell fear. She took several deep breaths, trying to calm her racing heart. Hoping to hide her face from the security camera, she slowly squatte
d
no sudden move
s
and pretended to look at the hunting knives in the display case below the counter.
A menacing rumble came from the dog. Her legs trembled. Using every ounce of her willpower, she maintained her squat. But why bother? If a security camera was behind the counter, it had already recorded her face. Her mind scrabbled for a solution. How could she think when every fiber of her being was focused on the dog? And what it might do to her. With people, she felt confident her taekwondo moves would save her in dangerous situations, but they would be useless against a trained attack dog.
Beauty’s sharp fangs and menacing snarl effectively imprisoned her.
She extended her arm to expose the wristwatch under the sleeve of her jacket and checked the time. What was taking so long? What was he doing back there? Where was the security camera? Correction. Cameras. The store probably had several. She cursed her stupidity. Fearing she might look suspicious, she had left her Raybans in the car.
Two endless minutes passed. She imagined the dog's powerful jaws clamped on her arm, saw its sharp fangs pierce her skin, visualized those fangs clamped on her throat and her blood spurting over the floor. Her leg muscles ached, trembling with the effort to maintain her squat. She tucked her chin to her chest, eased to her feet and flexed her legs.
Another menacing snarl. The dog impaled her with its baleful yellow eyes.
She was desperate to leave but too terrified to move. If she did, the dog might attack. Not only that, the owner had her driver’s license. Panic sat on her chest like a Mack truck. Frozen in place, she focused on her breathing, shallow breaths in and out. It didn't help.
Another agonizing minute passed. At last, clutching her license in his ham-like fist, One-Eye returned and trained his good eye on her.
“You bought a handgun at a gun show in Nashua last year. What happened to that one?”
“My boyfriend stole it.”
“Yeah," he snorted, "and my mother’s the Queen of England.”
Picking up on his master's belligerent tone, the dog resumed its menacing low-throated rumble.
“He did! Last week we had an argument and the next day while I was at work he stole my gun. I’m afraid he’ll come back and kill me!” She didn’t have to feign fear. She felt like a gigantic hand was squeezing her chest.
“He live with you?” One-Eye ostentatiously examined her license, looked up and said, “Robin.”
“No, but he has a key. I changed the locks, but I’m afraid he’ll come back and break down the door.”
“You got a license to carry?”
“No.” New Hampshire gun owners weren’t required to register them, but anyone intending to conceal a loaded gun on their person or in a vehicle needed a license to carry. This year she’d done both,
without
a license to carry, and she had no intention of applying for one. To get it, she would have to submit an application to the police. No way was she giving information about Robin Adair to the cops.
“You know how to shoot?” he asked, curling his lip in a sneer.
I can shoot well enough to kill someone and you might be next
.
“I go to a gun range once a week.”
“What kinda gun you lookin to buy?”
“A .38 Special, like the one my boyfriend stole.”
His implacable one-eyed stare bored into her.
The silence lengthened.
She wanted to kill him, might have if she’d had a gun in her hand. But then the dog would attack, and she would have to kill it, a major violation of her Veneration of Nature code.
A fulminating fury rose inside her. There were other places to buy a gun. She held out her hand. “Give me my license. If you don’t want to sell me a gun, I’ll go somewhere else.”
“Heh, heh, heh,” One-Eye chuckled, showing his pointy yellow teeth. “Don’t get excited. I got just the gun you want right over here. Beauty, stay!”
The dog sat, eyeing her with its menacing yellow eyes. The owner went to the display case with the handguns, unlocked it and took out a .38 Special. Ten minutes later she left the stop minus 400 dollars and a 13-ounce Smith & Wesson 637 Airweight .38 Special with a stubby barrel in her handbag. Unloaded.
She didn’t need more ammunition. The box in her apartment was almost full and it would only take one bullet to kill her target.
_____
New Orleans
Seated at his desk in the Homicide office, Frank opened the case file on Jeanette Brixton, murdered October 20, 1988. The crime scene photos were brutal, blood-matted hair, gobs of blood on her face, her lips pulled back in a grimace, her eyes bulging. Even so, she was clearly an attractive woman.
He wished she was still alive so he could talk to her. What had driven her to become a prostitute? Was that the only way she could support herself and her daughter? Did she take Natalie out for ice cream, take her to movies? Did Natalie know her mother was a prostitute? He hated to judge the woman, but couldn't she have found another way to support herself? Apparently not. And even if Jeanette Brixton was a prostitute, she didn't deserve to be murdered.
He skimmed the autopsy report. Cause of death: manual strangulation. Deep bruises but no identifiable prints on her neck. He flipped pages, searching for Jane Fontenot's notes. Most cold case files contained the lead detective's notes, but not this one. Nothing to indicate what Jane's take on the case was. Another dead end.
He slammed the folder down on his desk. Jane wouldn't be back from Africa until August 12th. Today was July 30.
Thirteen days. An eternity.
He didn't know if there was a connection between the death of Jeanette Brixton in 1988 and the murders of Arnold Peterson and Tex Conroy last week, but one thing was certain.
The pressure to solve those cases was only going to get worse.
_____
Portsmouth, NH 6:45 PM
Shaken by her experience at the gun shop, she sought solace at The Press Room, a popular hangout in downtown Portsmouth. She slid onto a bar stool and the bartender came over, mid-twenties and energetic with a full dark beard and a friendly smile. "Hi! What can I get for you?"
“A glass of your house red, please. Will there be live jazz tonight?”
“Not tonight, but we got a great sound system. That's McCoy Tyner playing now.” Moving with practiced speed, he grabbed a bottle, poured wine in a glass and set it in front of her. “Want to run a tab?”
“No, thanks. I’ll just have one.” After her ordeal with One-Eye she'd been desperate for some live jazz to calm her nerves, not a McCoy Tyner CD playing over a sound system.
“Suit yourself.” He set the slip down and moved along the bar to chat with two college students in T-shirts with UNH stenciled on them.
She tried the wine. Not bad, but nothing like the wines she was accustomed to in Paris. She set the glass on the cocktail napkin, pleased that her hand wasn't trembling. Her legs no longer felt weak and rubbery either, but she was still cursing her stupidity. Why hadn't she disguised her face?
But last year when she’d bought the gun at the Nashua gun show, there were hundreds of people milling around. No attack dogs, no security cameras. And breaking into Gerry's Sport Shop to steal the videotapes wasn't an option. Before she left, One-Eye had said: “Beauty sleeps here. Anybody breaks in, she’ll rip their throat out.”