Assuming Boston PD had put out a description of the woman leaving Oliver’s room, they'd be looking for a blond woman in white culottes. She'd ditched the wig but not the culottes. If only she’d bought a pair of Red Sox pants to go with the cap. But she’d been too desperate to escape.
She used the toilet and returned to the departures area. Terminal E was deserted. No passengers. No shops open. No clerks at ticket counters. She felt conspicuous. Visible through the plate-glass windows facing the roadway was the French-and-electric-blue State Police cruiser. A trooper in a distinctive State Police hat sat behind the wheel.
Monitoring his radio, no doubt. For all she knew, he was listening to her description right now.
It was almost midnight, but a few flights might still be leaving Terminal B. A shuddering yawn wracked her. She was exhausted, her legs shaking with fatigue. She needed someplace to rest where the cops wouldn't find her. Shuttle buses circled the airport roadway 24/7 to transport passengers and workers between terminals, but to get it she'd have to wait outside and that would attract the trooper’s attention. She began walking toward Terminal B, her footsteps echoing in the deserted glassed-in corridor.
Five minutes later she trudged into Terminal B, and spotted a State trooper inside a glassed-in area facing the airport roadway.
She ducked into a restroom. A tall woman with pecan-brown skin stood at the sink, washing her hands, an airport worker, judging by her green coveralls.
“Excuse me, do you know if any stores are open in this terminal?”
“Try Hudson News,” the woman said, not looking at her. “It's a couple doors down on the right.”
“Thanks.” She left the restroom, spotted the Hudson News sign and hurried to the store. Perched on a stool inside a kiosk, a slender Hispanic woman with silver hoop earrings was reading a paperback. The only other customer, a young man in jeans and a T-shirt, stood at the magazine rack, leafing through a
Sports Illustrated
.
She picked out a souvenir T-shirt and a pair of navy sweatpants with a Red Sox logo. At the back of the store, she took a bottle of Aquafina out of a cooler and grabbed a package of trail mix from a wire rack. Then she noticed the knapsacks hanging from hooks along one wall. Perfect. She needed to hide the Neiman Marcus bag. And the gun.
She chose a black knapsack and took everything to the register.
The woman stifled a yawn. “Find everything you wanted?”
“Yes, thank you.” She paid cash and returned to the restroom.
Now it was empty. She changed inside a handicapped stall, came out and studied herself in the mirror. She looked like a different person: a white T-shirt with
BOSTON emblazoned across the front, navy sweatpants and a Red Sox baseball cap. She strapped the black knapsack over her shoulders. Inside was the Neiman Marcus bag. At the bottom of the knapsack, concealed by the clothes she’d removed, was the .38 Special.
She went downstairs to Arrivals, walked past two baggage carrousels and went out to the glassed-in cubicle where the bus passengers waited. No one was waiting now. Taped to the glass was a schedule. The first bus to Nashua departed Terminal A at 8:10 a.m, stopped at Terminal B two minutes later.
Another yawn wracked her. She was exhausted, but she had to stay alert until she got on the bus, seven long hours from now, provided a State cop didn’t stop and question her. If he did, she was done for.
Our Lady of the Airwaves, a Catholic chapel, was on the ground level between Terminals B and C. During the day, a priest said Masses there. The chapel was open 24-7 for people to pray if they so desired. She didn’t intend to pray, but she desperately needed a place to rest.
Ten minutes later she sank onto a wooden pew at the rear of the darkened chapel and set her knapsack beside her. Ten rows ahead, a circular light fixture cast a rosy glow over the altar. Two spotlights lit up large statues on either side of the altar, but the rest of the chapel was dark. To keep herself from falling asleep, she prioritized her tasks. If she could get to her condo without being arrested, Robin would disappear. She already had a car. But she had to decide what to take with her.
She closed her eyes and pictured her clothes closet.
A horrific image blindsided her: Oliver lying on the carpet, blood pooling under his head, eyes vacant and staring. Accusing eyes. Chills wracked her, and tears stung her eyes. What sort of person was she?
An evil person, with no regard for human life. Because of a chance encounter, Oliver had taken a fancy to Robin Adair. Now he was dead.
She bit her lip and made her mind go blank.
Think about Mom.
Think about the freedom you'll have after you avenge Mom. Think about anything but Oliver.
Two weeks from now April West would be in New Orleans. Where Detective Frank Renzi was stalking Arnold Peterson’s killer. A woman with a tattoo on her ankle who looked like Natalie Brixton.
A chill skittered down her spine.
CHAPTER 19
Thursday, 7 August New Orleans
Frank stopped outside Kelly's hospital room and looked in the window. Seeing her sitting on the bed with her legs dangling over the side took the edge off his dark mood. He'd just come from Ben Washburn's funeral, a somber ceremony attended by hundreds of police officers. Ben's wife had been stoic, but their three kids clung to her, weeping. Plenty of other eyes were leaking, too. Ben was a popular guy, much-loved by his friends and colleagues. Now he was dead. Shot by a worthless scumbag. It could just as easily have been Kelly.
He pushed through the door. “Hey, gorgeous, you look like you’re raring to go.” Her face was still drawn and pale, but the tubes in her nose and arm were gone. The doctor had said she could go home tomorrow.
“Ready to get out of here, that’s for sure. How was the funeral?"
He didn't want to talk about it, but he'd been expecting the question. "Kenyon gave one of the eulogies. Ben and his wife lived right down the street from him. Their kids play together."
Kelly nodded. Her desolate expression and sad eyes tore him up.
"I said a few words too. I didn't know Ben well, but he was a good man. I said you were lucky to be alive." His throat thickened and he broke off, overcome with emotions he'd managed to fight off at the funeral. He couldn't imagine not having Kelly in his life.
"That night on patrol," Kelly said, her lips quivering, "that night Ben told me his wife was pregnant."
"Damn. I didn't know that. Sometimes life just isn't fair."
"I don't think he told many people. She's not very far along. I'll go see her as soon as I get out of here."
"Well, let's get you get back on your feet first."
And get your mind off Ben.
"How's the physical therapy going?"
"They had me try some new exercises today. My shoulder muscles are so weak it's pathetic. The therapist will come to my house for two weeks. Then I can go to the gym."
"I'll go buy you some groceries tonight. Got any requests?”
A glimmer of a smile. “What a guy. You gonna buy me chicken soup?”
“Whatever it takes to make you better.” He gave her a big smooch on the lips. She put her arms around him and nuzzled his neck.
“Well, well, what have we got here?” said a female voice.
Startled, he pulled away. A tall gray-haired nurse smiled at him. Mary Halloran, according to the nametag on her starched white uniform. Her eyes twinkled. “It’s okay. We allow kissing, as long as it makes the patient feel better.” Clipboard in hand, she went to Kelly and held out a small paper cup.
“I don’t need any more pain meds,” Kelly said. “I’m fine.”
“That's good, but you better take them. The doctor will let you know when to stop. You’re his poster-girl, you know. Quick recovery and all.”
Kelly made a face and swallowed the pills. Halfway to the door, the nurse turned and said, “Take good care of Kelly, you hear? We’ve gotten very fond of her.”
“Don’t worry. I will.”
After she left, Kelly said, “She’s been so sweet. Everyone has.”
“You’re a hero,” he said, and wished he hadn’t when he saw her sorrowful eyes. He didn’t want her thinking about Ben. The bastard who'd shot him was in the lockup, unable to make bail. To distract her, he said, “No major flooding from Hurricane Gail so most of the evacuees are back. I’ve been working my butt off on the Peterson and Conroy murders.”
Vobitch had pulled strings to get him off patrol duty so he could visit Kelly twice a day.
She sucked up some water from a Styrofoam cup. “Any leads?”
“I showed the Natalie sketch to the Hotel Bienvenue bartender, but he said she didn’t look familiar. Nothing helpful from the tip line, either.”
“Now that the evacuees are back maybe you’ll get something.”
“I hope so. I’m sure Corrine Peterson didn’t go to the hotel that night. I showed her picture at the parking lots near the hotel and checked the cab companies, got zilch.”
“What about Peterson's enemies? Any luck?”
“Nothing. Ivan Ludlow’s wife said he was home all night, and Ken Volpe was in Las Vegas that week. And why would they hire a hitter? They both landed good jobs after they left The Babylon. Which leaves Morgan’s favorite suspect. The big bad bogyman.”
“He’s so sweet.” Seeing his incredulous expression, she laughed. “Morgan, I mean. He brought me some chocolate chip cookies his wife made, and Kenyon brought me pecan pie from Tanya. Everybody’s being so nice.” Her smile faded. “I’m not looking forward to testifying though.”
“That’s months away.” He leaned closer, gave her another kiss. “I think it’s about time we got into some mischief."
She brushed short dark hair away from her face. “Yeah. After I get home and wash my hair and make myself a tad more alluring.”
“You look fine. I don't mind those skuzzy hanks of hair.”
She swatted his arm. “Did you call the people in Pecos about the tat?”
“Aw shucks. Here I was thinking we were about to have a little verbal foreplay.”
She flashed her sexy smile. “Tomorrow, cowboy. Tell me about Pecos.”
“Right. Pecos. I called Ellen Brixton and asked her if Natalie had a tat on her ankle in high school. Ellen said definitely not. Then I called Rojas.” Rojas had been openly hostile. “He said Natalie had no tat on her ankle, also said he didn’t want to talk to me, pretty much told me to fuck off.”
“You think he knows where she is?”
“If he does, I can’t force him to tell me unless we get a grand jury with subpoena power to make him talk. And we’re nowhere near that.”
“So you’re back to square one,” Kelly said. “Bummer.”
“Looks like it.” He checked his watch. “I better get back to the office.”
His cell rang. He silenced it quickly. Cell phones were verboten inside the hospital, but he didn’t want to miss a crucial call. When he answered, Vobitch said, “Frank, we got a call on the tip line. The desk clerk at the Sunrise Inn near Esplanade said the woman in the sketch might have stayed there.”
Adrenaline upped his heart rate. “Great! I’m on my way.”
_____
Ithaca, New York
Her neck prickled as an odd sound penetrated her second-floor window. After her narrow escape in Boston, any atypical noise put her on alert. She went to the window, peeked through the Venetian blind and saw the landlady dragging a large green trash barrel out to the sidewalk.
Two days ago she had rented the room for a week, saying she was apartment hunting for her fall semester at Ithaca College. The landlady, a pleasant middle-aged woman with a friendly smile, glanced at April West’s Vermont license and asked no questions. Vermont was one of the few states in the country that didn't mandate a photograph on a driver's license.
She sank onto the cheap futon that filled one wall of the room and sipped from a bottle of iced tea. To her left, a tiny alcove had a hot plate, a microwave and a mini-refrigerator, a far cry from her Nashua apartment, but she’d lived in worse places. At the boardinghouse in New York her room had no kitchen, just a lumpy bed and a tiny bathroom, so she'd moved in with Darren. Was he still auditioning for the soaps? she wondered. No. He was probably married with two kids, working as a floor manager at Nordstrom’s.
She massaged her neck to ease the tense knots. Yesterday at the Ithaca Registry of Motor Vehicles she'd stood in a line that shuffled forward inches at a time. When she reached the counter, she gave April West’s license and the title for Bobby's Ford Focus to the clerk. On the registration form she'd listed the rooming house as her current address.
The woman got on the computer. That made her nervous. Computers could access all sorts of information. What if Bobby had unpaid parking tickets? But after an endless wait, the clerk printed out the registration and said the plates would be mailed to her current address. “You should have them within five days," the woman had said.
Four more days to wait. She stifled a yawn. She was still exhausted, her mind endlessly replaying her escape. After the Logan Express bus dropped her in Nashua, she'd taken a taxi to her apartment. Fearing the cops might arrive any minute, she tossed a few items in a suitcase, grabbed her laptop, took the back way to the parking lot to avoid other residents and fled in the Ford Focus. But in her haste, she had left the apartment without taking the time to erase her fingerprints.
That worried her, but there was nothing she could do about it now.
Two grueling days later she had arrived in Ithaca, exhausted but unable to sleep. Last night she'd jolted awake again, heart pounding, hands sweaty, reliving the familiar nightmare in vivid color. Oliver’s bright-red blood seeping into the carpet. His sky-blue eyes staring at her, full of reproach.
A feeling of desolation overwhelmed her. Tears filled her eyes, brimmed over and rolled down her cheeks. Oliver had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, had treated Robin Adair to dinner and wound up dead. Because she was a monster who killed innocent people. First Tex, now Oliver.
Would she ever find happiness with a man? Four years ago she had been certain that Willem was the man of her dreams. Wrong.
Gritting her teeth, she rose from the futon and went to a small card table just outside the kitchen alcove. Her laptop was on the table beside her cell phone. She dialed a number and waited.
“Parades-A-Plenty! Mrs. Reilly speaking,” a voice squalled.
The sound ran across her ear like an ugly rasp, high-pitched and shrill as a banshee. Madame would have sent the woman to the voice coach immediately.
“Do you have a room available on Friday, August fifteenth?”
“August? There won’t be any Mardi Gras parades then, you know,” the woman said sharply.
“That’s okay. I’m not coming to see the Mardi Gras parades. I have a job interview at Loyola.”
“You’re a student? I don’t rent rooms to students anymore. A bunch of hooligans stayed here two years ago for Mardi Gras and got drunk and trashed my best room.”
“But I’m not a student—”
“One of them peed on my sofa. Can you imagine?”
She could imagine strangling the woman if she didn’t shut up. “Mrs. Reilly, I’m not a student. I'm interviewing for a teaching position at Loyola.”
Silence on the other end. Blessed silence. Then, “You don’t sound old enough to teach at Loyola. How old are you?”
“I'm 32." Or so the DOB on April West’s license said.
“What will you be teaching,” asked her relentless inquisitor.
“Comparative Religion.” The woman was probably Catholic, like many New Orleans residents, or Baptist maybe, like people in Pecos.
“Well. I’m Catholic myself and I don’t have much use for those weird religions. Buddhists and Hindus and whatnot. Hold on while I check to see if I have a room available.”
Grateful for the silence, she conjured an image of Mrs. Reilly, a scrawny old woman with a neck like a turkey probably. She'd deliberately chosen a B&B upriver from the French Quarter, far away from the Sunshine Inn. That place had bad karma. Tex had lived two streets away. Parades-A-Plenty was on the opposite side of the Quarter, conveniently located on a side street one block from the St. Charles Avenue streetcar. Convenient, but the owner was obnoxious enough on the phone. In person she might be worse.
“You’re in luck,” squawked the Banshee. “I have a beautiful room on the third floor with a single bed and a private bath for $70 a night.”
“How much would it cost for a week?”
“A week? Well. I'll give you a discount. A week will cost you 400.”
“I’ll take it. My name is April West. I’ll pay you cash in advance.”
“Oh no you won’t! I need a credit card to hold the room. In case there’s any damages.”
She dug her nails into her palms to keep from screaming. She couldn't use a credit card. They were too easy to trace.
“Credit cards are against my religion. I’ll send you a money order.”
Silence. Then, “Against your religion?”
“Yes. If you give me your word
as a Catholic
that you’ll hold the room, I'll mail you a money order for
five hundred
dollars. Otherwise, I’ll find someplace else to stay.”
“Well. All right, I guess. You have the address?”
“Yes. I’ll send it overnight express and call to make sure you got it.”
She closed the cell and massaged her throbbing forehead.
Not a very auspicious beginning for the Main Event.
_____
New Orleans
When Frank arrived at the Sunshine Inn, the clerk was behind the check-in desk. A wiry clean-shaven black man, Rasheed Cooper looked to be in his mid-thirties, and he had a zillion tattoos, multi-colored swirls and curlicues that covered every visible inch of skin on his arms and neck. Did he have tats on his Yankee Doodle? Frank wondered.
He flashed his ID and said, “Mr. Cooper? I got a message that you called about the sketch of the woman.”