"Yessir, I will," the man said, and trudged off in the direction of the store.
Frank hoped he would, hoped he'd buy food, not crack, and stay safe during the storm.
He took out his cell and called Kenyon Miller. Miller was patrolling near the Convention Center. "Hey, Kenyon, what's up? Any trouble?"
"All quiet over here." Miller rumbled a gleeful chuckle. "Saints game's on the radio, Saints up by twelve. Where y'at, Frank?"
"New Orleans east. Nothing doing here either. Call me if anything happens." For Miller's benefit, he signed off with "Go Saints!" and checked the time, the minutes crawling by like cold molasses. 6:20.
Maybe he'd call Kelly. But then he thought:
No, she's probably sleeping
.
His cell rang. For a moment he thought it was ESP, Kelly calling because he was thinking of her. That happened sometimes. But it wasn't Kelly, it was Vobitch. "What's doing, Frank?"
"SOS, Morgan. You know the drill. Police work is ninety-five percent boredom, five percent piss-your-pants terror."
"For me it's 98-percent boredom, 2-percent bullshit. Two calls on the fuckin tip line, both of 'em bogus. One guy swears the woman in the sketch is his ex-girlfriend. She works at a bar over in Algiers. He's got a hair up his ass for God-knows-what-reason, wants us to go arrest his former beloved. He also said she's got a dozen tattoos on her arms."
"Forget that one. How about the other one?"
"Some old woman," Vobitch said, his voice oozing exasperation. "Says it's her long-lost daughter who disappeared 20 years ago. The daughter was 45 then, which would, according to any first-grader's calculation, make her 65 now. Like I said, Frank. The nutcases are the only ones calling. I'm heading home. Jim Whitworth's covering the tip line. I told him to call you if he gets any tips that light up the all-time-spectacular thrill-meter."
Frank grinned, enjoying his boss's trademark sardonic humor.
Until Vobitch said in an ominous voice, "Watch your back, Frank. After dark it's a fucking jungle out there."
CHAPTER 17
Boston 9:25 p.m.
She backed her Honda Civic into a slot on the down ramp near the exit of the Copley Place garage in case she had to leave in a hurry. She'd pulled her long dark hair into a ponytail to go with her beach outfit: white culottes and a sleeveless pastel-blue top, with a matching scarf loosely tied around her neck. She put on her floppy beach hat and sunglasses, and got out of the car.
The garage was hot and stuffy and stank of gasoline and car fumes. A sick-ache invaded her stomach, one that matched the pain in her heart. She had no idea how her tête-à-tête with Oliver would go, but she had prepared for the worst.
A deep longing welled up inside her. She had hoped their love affair would continue, but judging by their phone conversation, it might not.
Her Frye Oxfords didn't go with her outfit, but she could run in them if she had to, and the heels were reinforced with steel. She went to the trunk and took out a large Neiman Marcus shopping bag. Averting her face as she passed the cashier’s cage, she went up a short ramp. One fork veered right, an exit to Huntington Avenue. To her left, a doorman was unloading luggage from a yellow taxi parked in the circular drive in front of the Marriot Hotel.
A revolving door dumped her into the air-conditioned lobby beside an escalator that descended from the Copley Place Mall. The lobby was deserted, but to her right, fifteen yards beyond the escalator, a desk clerk was checking in an older couple with expensive-looking luggage.
With her head down, she walked straight ahead to the recessed alcove with the polished-brass elevator. When she hit the call-button, a bell pinged. Her heart fluttered, an anxious thrum in her chest. But the doors opened on an empty car. She stepped inside and punched the Level Three button. She summoned her taekwondo focus and breathed deeply to calm her racing heart. Holding the Neiman Marcus bag in one hand, she pulled the hat brim lower to hide her face from the security cameras that awaited her in the third-floor hall.
A flesh-colored Band-aid covered the tattoo on her ankle.
Earlier she had called a tattoo parlor in Nashua to see if she could get it removed. The man asked what color it was and how big. When she said it was black and very small, he said he had the laser equipment to do it, but it might take four or five treatments. She’d thanked him and hung up.
When the elevator stopped, she got out and turned right. Oliver’s room was at the far end of the hall. With long purposeful strides, she lowered her head, walked down the hall to Room 226 and tapped on the door. Oliver opened it right away and smiled at her. “Great to see you, Robin. I’m sorry we couldn’t have dinner, but at least we can have a drink and talk for a bit.”
She beamed him a big smile.
Be who they want you to be
. “I’m sorry, too. I have to go to Chicago tomorrow, and I may be there for a while.”
He looked at her, blank-faced. “I love your hat. Looks like you've been to the beach.”
“The woman I interviewed lives near Revere Beach so we met there.” Holding up the Neiman Marcus bag, she said, “I brought a change of clothes, but the interview ran long and I didn't have time to change.”
She set the bag on the floor beside the royal-blue sofa and laid her beach hat over the top. Hidden under a lightweight denim jacket at the bottom of the bag was her new .38 Special, fully loaded.
She sank onto the sofa and crossed her legs. “What did you do today?”
He gazed at her, expressionless. “Would you like a glass of wine? I chilled a bottle of Chardonnay.” He smiled, a genuine smile, or so it seemed.
The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to the elbow, exposing tanned sinewy forearms. He looked so handsome her heart almost melted. Almost. Somehow, Oliver had obtained Robin Adair’s phone number and address. He knew she had a tattoo on her ankle. NOPD Detective Frank Renzi was hunting for a woman with a tattoo who looked like Natalie Brixton. She couldn’t imagine why Renzi would contact Oliver. Then again, she couldn’t have imagined running into Tex Conroy in a New Orleans convenience store, either.
Being on her own all these years had taught her to trust no one. Rely only on yourself. While Oliver poured the wine, she focused on her goal: Find out how he got your information. Find out who he really is.
He returned with two glasses, handed her one and sat down beside her. She got the impression he was waiting for her to question him.
She wasn’t. Let him make the first move.
At last he said, “You’re very quiet tonight, Robin.”
She shrugged. “It’s been a long day.”
“Did you hurt your ankle?” he asked, gesturing at the Band-aid.
Her heart sank. Why had he noticed the one thing she didn’t want to talk about? “Just a little scrape. It’s nothing, really.”
“I’m disappointed that you didn’t tell me you live in Nashua.”
“Why be disappointed? Now you know. So what?”
He looked at her, blank-faced, but she saw anger in his no-longer-seductive eyes. “Sometimes I like surprises. Other times, I don't. I like you a lot, Robin, but you’re a bit of a phantom. That got me curious.”
Her scalp tingled as though her hair wanted to escape the ponytail and stand on end. She shifted her position, turning to face him. “Curious?”
“Three years ago Robin Adair rented an apartment in Nashua and registered a silver 2004 Honda Civic there. You said you’ve never been married, right?”
“True,” she said, gazing at him steadily. “So?”
“So I wondered if you changed your name. Because prior to 2005, Robin Adair doesn’t seem to exist.”
She gazed into space. Pictured her Japanese print of the snow-covered mountain. Heard a distant crack. Saw slabs of snow cascade down the mountain, snowballing into a deadly avalanche of ice and snow.
Oliver had collected a deadly avalanche of facts.
“You’ve been checking up on me,” she said coldly. “I don’t like that. Did you pay someone to investigate me?”
He did his George Clooney act, smiling at her. Even his eyes were smiling. “Chalk it up to my profession. I deal in antiquities that may or may not be authentic. It’s my job to verify the facts. When you buy a used car, you have your mechanic check it out first, don’t you?”
She stared at him. Used car? Had he been following her? Her cheek muscles felt stiff and wooden. “And did you find anything incriminating?”
He touched her hand. “No. But it puzzles me that until 2005, Robin Adair seems to be a phantom.”
“That isn’t my birth name. The night we met I told you my family isn’t something I care to discuss. My childhood was ... difficult.”
“What’s your real name?”
She gave him an icy look. “None of your business. Should I hire a detective to dig up your secrets? I’m sure you’ve got them. Everyone does.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize this would upset you so much.”
“Well, it does,” she said, truthfully.
Oliver knew too much about Robin Adair. If only he didn’t. If only their love affair could continue. But now Oliver was
The Man Who Knew Too Much.
And she had to decide what to do about it.
“My father was a cruel man. When I was young, he abused me.” Not entirely true, but close enough. She gazed at the rug and summoned her acting skills. Conjured a vision of Randy coming into her room to kill Muffy. Tears filled her eyes. “So did my cousin. It took me years of therapy to get over it. Even then, my therapist said I might have flashbacks for the rest of my life.”
A tear ran down her cheek. She brushed it away.
And became aware of a terrible stillness.
When she looked at Oliver, his eyes were cold, and his lips were set in a cruel line. “Don’t con me, Robin, or whatever your name is. Don’t lie to me.”
In an instant she made her decision. “I don’t have to listen to your insults. I’m going home.” She rose and stepped away from the couch.
His lips parted in shock. Before he could move, she did a taekwondo spin and kicked the side of his head with the heel of her shoe. He lurched sideways and collapsed on the floor. She reached into the shopping bag, took out the plastic cuffs and studied him. He lay on his back, slack-jawed, eyes closed.
Working rapidly, she fastened his right wrist to one leg of the sofa, cuffed his ankle to another. But when she reached for his left wrist, he grabbed her arm in a fierce grip, his angry eyes focused on hers.
She kicked him in the kidney, jerked free and took out her .38 Special.
With his free hand, he rubbed his side where she’d kicked him. Then his eyes focused on the gun.
She aimed the steel-blue muzzle at his forehead. “Who are you?”
With a faint smile, he said, “Isn't this is a bit over-the-top, Robin?”
His cocksure attitude infuriated her. Just like Randy, thinking she had a gun but wouldn't use it. “No. Who are you?”
“I told you. Oliver James, antique art dealer extraordinaire.”
She flicked the gun, an impatient gesture. “Who did you hire to investigate Robin Adair?”
His smile disappeared and his eyes grew crafty. “If I tell you, will you put the gun away?”
“Maybe. Tell me. Then I’ll decide.”
“I have friends that do that sort of work. One of them did me a favor.”
An icy chill ran down her spine. Someone else knew about Robin Adair.
“Who is he? A cop? FBI?”
“Please, Robin. Put the gun away. I won’t hurt you.”
She laughed, a bitter laugh laced with panic. “Hurt me? You’ve already hurt me, more than you could possibly know. What agency does he work for?”
“The CIA.”
Stunned, she stared at him. “How do you know people in the CIA?
He glared, his formerly-captivating eyes narrowed to slits. With grim determination, she aimed the gun at his forehead and stepped closer. But not too close. Thanks to her TKD training, she knew not to get close enough to allow his free arm or leg to harm her.
“Tell me who you are. Tell me your real name. Tell me about your CIA connection. If you don’t, I will shoot you. Believe it.”
“I believe you." His chest rose and fell rapidly. "After I graduated from Harvard, two CIA agents recruited me. I figured it would be exciting. But most of it was boring. I got out after two years. That’s it. End of story.”
“Who's your CIA friend?”
His lips tightened. “CIA operatives never give up names.”
Jagged pain pierced her heart as enchanting memories flitted through her mind: Robin and Oliver bantering at the bar, Robin and Oliver eating dinner at the Top of the Hub, Robin and Oliver making love in this very room last Friday. Worst of all was the fantasy she'd conjured about their future together.
But Oliver James and his quest for authenticity had smashed her fairytale to smithereens.
“It didn’t have to be this way,” she said, avoiding his gaze.
She couldn’t bear to look at his eyes.
She didn't want to shoot him, but what choice did she have? Oliver, a former CIA agent, still had CIA connections. If she allowed him to live, he would track her down, just as he had tracked down Robin Adair. And she would never avenge her mother's murder.
Focusing on the center of his forehead, she took a deep breath, let out a puff of air, and pulled the trigger.
The gunshot reverberated through the room.
Involuntarily, she reeled back. Her ears hurt, but the ache in her heart was far worse. She forced herself to look at him. His eyes were open but unfocused, his lips pulled back in a grimace. Centered in his forehead, a small circular hole oozed blood.
A sob wracked her, an involuntary spasm that shook her body from head to toe.
Why couldn't you just enjoy our time together and look forward to more, as I did?
But she had no time to mourn what might have been. She had to get out.
She grabbed the Neiman Marcus bag and her wineglass and ran to the alcove. The bathroom door was ajar. She elbowed it open, set the glass on the marble vanity next to the sink and removed a long blond wig from the shopping bag. With frantic haste, she stuffed her ponytail under the wig and checked herself in the mirror to make sure no dark strands of hair were visible.
Her ears were still ringing, though not as badly as before, and her temples pulsed with a demonic pain. She shoved the gun to the bottom of the shopping bag, dumped the wine down the sink, dropped the wineglass in the bag and left the bathroom.
A terrible tableau confronted her: Oliver, sprawled on the floor, eyes vacant and staring. Beneath his head a widening bloodstain soaked the off-white carpet. Sickened, she clenched her teeth. She couldn't think about Oliver now. Someone might have heard the gunshot.
Jamming the beach hat on her head, she went to the door and used her neck scarf to turn the knob. Ever so slowly, she pulled the door open an inch, and heard voices in the hall. Her heart jolted, a sharp visceral pain inside her chest.
She elbowed the door open two more inches and poked her head into the hall. To her right, a security guard in a navy-blue uniform stood outside the room next door. Her stomach cramped. To reach the elevator she would have to walk past the guard.