CHAPTER 20
Friday, 8 August
“Two minutes and the swordfish should be done.” Frank glanced at Kelly, seated at her kitchen table, her shoulders hunched, her arms hugging her body. “You don’t look so hot. What’s wrong?”
“I’m okay. Just a little cold, that’s all.”
“I’ll get you a sweater.” He pulled the chain on her ceiling fan to turn it off, took foil off the plate of chocolate chip cookies on the counter and gave her one. “You’re hungry. Eat a cookie.”
“I don’t want to spoil my dinner. I’ll be okay.”
“Eat the cookie,” he said sternly. The first two days in the hospital she'd been unable to keep any food down, a normal reaction to the anesthetic the nurses had said. But to him Kelly looked painfully thin.
He went to her bedroom closet, found a white cardigan and returned to the kitchen. The cookie was gone. Kelly gave him a guilty grin.
“Hey, don’t look guilty. The doc said to fatten you up.”
“He did not.”
“Well, words to that effect." He helped her put on the sweater. "Hold on while I check the fish.”
He opened a slider door, stepped onto her deck and raised the lid of the gas grill in the corner. The swordfish looked great, toasty brown on the top, smelled even better. He plopped it on a platter and cut into the middle to make sure it was done. Perfect. He took the fish inside and set it on the table.
“Wow,” Kelly said, “it smells great. I guess I really am hungry.”
He took two baked potatoes out of the oven, set them on dinner plates and brought them to the table, went back for a dish of fresh-steamed broccoli, set it on the table and sat down opposite Kelly.
“Dig in," he said. "Oops, we need butter for the potatoes.” He got a stick of butter out of the refrigerator, put it on a saucer and brought it to the table.
“Frank, you’re working too hard. Sit down and eat.”
“Working too hard? My favorite woman needs nourishment!”
She tried the swordfish. “Fantastic. You’ve been lying. You told me you don't know how to cook.”
He waved a hand. “Push comes to shove I can.”
“Dad and Michael are flying down from Chicago for the weekend.”
He was glad the two cops in her family were coming to lend their support but it might cause complications.
“Guess I won't be staying here over the weekend, huh?”
“Mmm, probably not. But Dad wants to meet you.”
He paused with a forkful of potato halfway to his mouth. “Is that good or bad?”
“I wouldn't worry about it, if I were you. Dad can be rather possessive but he said he was glad you were here to look after me.”
He was still trying to figure what that meant, when his cell rang. He answered without checking Caller ID.
“Heyyy, Franco, what’s doing?”
A visceral jolt ran through him down to his scrotum. Only one person ever called him Franco. Gina.
Aware that Kelly was listening, he said, “Hey, whaddaya know?” The greeting he’d used during the nine years he and Gina had been lovers.
“Got something juicy for ya. Are you busy?”
He glanced at Kelly. She was toying with a lock of hair, watching him. “Sort of, but it’s okay. What’s up?”
“Last week I caught an AP wire story about the Peterson case,” Gina said. “I’ve been following it online. We just got a similar case up here. A VIP murdered in a posh hotel.”
His heart rate kicked into high gear. Gina covered the crime beat for the Boston
Herald
and had connections with a few cops. “What the guy's name?”
“Oliver James. Someone put a bullet in his head.”
“One shot to the head?” he said for Kelly’s benefit. Kelly’s eyes widened.
“Yeah," Gina said. "Just like Peterson. They found him in the Marriott Hotel near Copley Place.”
“Who is he? You got any background?”
“Recently he’s been dealing in art antiquities. Before that he made a shitload of money in the stock market. Before that he worked for the CIA.”
“CIA?” He looked at Kelly, who gazed at him wide-eyed. “When?”
“It’s a long story. Bottom line, a woman in the next room heard a gunshot and called hotel security. A guard went up to talk to her. While they were talking, a woman came out of the room where they found the body.”
“Jesus. Just like Peterson. Did they get her?”
“No,” Gina said. “But they got her car and her name.”
Kelly’s doorbell rang. She started to get up, but he flapped his hand at her and said to Gina, “Hold on a second, I'll be right back.”
Pressing the phone to his leg, he said to Kelly, “This is a Boston reporter I used to know. She’s covering a murder that might be connected to ours. Eat your dinner. I’ll get the door.”
He dashed through the living room and opened the door. Kenyon Miller stood there with a foil-covered pan. “Yo, Frank. Got a pan of lasagna for Kelly. Tanya made it. Also got some news for you.”
“Me too,” he said, waving his cell. “Do me a favor. Go sit with Kelly while she eats. I got a line on a case in Boston that might tie into ours.”
As Miller ambled toward the kitchen Frank hurried down the hall to Kelly’s room. He hadn’t spoken to Gina for two years, and he wanted to talk to her without monitoring every word that came out of his mouth. He sat on the bed and murmured into his cell, “Sorry, Gina, I’m with some people, had to find a quiet place so we can talk. How you doing? It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Same here." And after a pause, "I’m doing okay, I guess.”
“What’s going on? Is something wrong?"
“Long story, Franco. Listen, this is case is a hot potato, and I can't get much from my police sources.”
“What about the woman? You got a name?”
“That’s the problem. They won’t tell me.” Gina chuckled, a low throaty sound. “But if you come up here, they’ll tell you.”
He had mixed feelings about going to Boston. If the case was related to the Peterson and Conroy murders, Vobitch would send him in a heartbeat, but he didn’t want to leave Kelly alone too long while she was convalescing.
“You know how the budget scene works. But I’ll get up there someway or other. Any chance we can get together for a drink or dinner?”
After his ex-wife filed for divorce and called Gina the “other woman,” his life had gone in the toilet. Gina’s husband also filed for divorce. Then the little girl died in the Fuckup and he'd moved to New Orleans. He and Gina had kept in touch for a while, but two years ago, Gina had remarried. They hadn't spoken since.
“Sure we can. Just call my cell and tell me when you’re coming.”
He wanted more details on the murder, but he was more concerned about Gina's reaction when he asked how she was doing. “What’s going on, Gina? Are you okay?”
“I’ve been better, Franco. Tell you all about it when I see you. Call me.”
She clicked off and he sat there, lost in thought. He was happy to hear from her, even happier to know she was thinking of him. But something was wrong. Gina had the most bombastic personality of any women he’d ever known. Today she sounded sad, almost melancholy.
When he returned to the kitchen, most of Kelly’s dinner was gone. Seated opposite her with a bottle of Bud, Miller started to get up, but Frank waved him off. “Don’t get up. I’m too wired to sit. This might be the break we need.”
"You got a lead?" Miller asked.
“You first. You said you had news.”
“They found June Carson’s car at the Atlanta-Hartsfield airport. We checked the registration, tracked down June Carson's license through DMV, got a copy of a New Jersey license with her picture.”
“Fantastic,” he said. “We’re finally getting somewhere.”
“Well, sort of," Miller said. “But I searched every damn data base I could think of for June Carson, came up empty. Vobitch put out a nationwide BOLO. Somebody spots her, we’ll get her.”
“Don't count on it. The June Carson ID might be bogus.”
“What makes you think so?” Kelly said.
He didn't answer immediately. He prided himself on his analytical skills. He didn't often make mistakes, but this time he might have. At first he'd been unwilling to believe the woman on the video was Natalie. In fact, he still had a hard time believing a woman had killed Peterson in such a cold-blooded way. But that might be a mistake. He pictured the video, visualizing the woman's confident stride. Now Boston PD had similar case, a prominent man found murdered in a first-class hotel, a woman seen leaving his room. Two men murdered in two different cities. Both times the woman had escaped. The odds were looking better and better that Natalie Brixton was the killer.
“Natalie left Pecos in 1995," he said, "hasn’t been heard from since. She probably picked up a fake ID. If she bought one, she could have bought half a dozen."
He told them what he knew about the Boston case.
When he finished, Kelly asked, “Why is she killing all these men?”
"Good question," he said.
"A former CIA agent?" Miller said. "Far out, man. You got connections with Boston PD, right?"
“Yes. I'll go up and check it out. But I wouldn't count on it solving our cases. I don’t think she’s done.”
Kelly gazed at him wide-eyed. “You think she’s got more targets?”
He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.
“That’s my girl. Always a step ahead of the band.”
CHAPTER 21
Monday, 11 August Boston
Frank parked his rental car in the Boston Common underground garage at noon and strolled through the grassy park. Taking advantage of the sunny day, teenagers in shorts were playing Frisbee. People of all ages, including several dog-walkers, carefully avoided scruffy-looking panhandlers.
He walked to the Boylston Street T-stop and got a jumbo iced coffee at Dunkin' Donuts. During his stint with Boston PD, he'd downed gallons of their coffee, hot or iced, depending on the weather. When he moved to New Orleans, he was amazed to find only one Dunkin' Donuts in the entire city.
He perched on a low cement wall beside the park and sipped his iced coffee, enjoying the rich flavor. His appointment at Boston Police Headquarters was at one. He should eat lunch, but he didn't feel like it. His stomach was too jumpy. No telling what kind of reception he'd get.
Would they greet him with open arms and say:
Welcome back, great to see you?
Or would some asshole say:
Shot any innocent little girls lately?
The whap of a skateboarder landing on the cement sidewalk snapped him back to reality.
Two young Asian women wandered past him, giggling and talking. Next, two young black men came along, one with a knapsack strapped to his back, the other hobbling along on crutches. A sports injury, Frank wondered, or a drive-by shooting? Plenty of those in Boston. A portly middle-aged white man in a striped polo shirt marched up to a green-painted bench, plopped his gym bag on it, dropped to the sidewalk and began doing pushups. Frank couldn't help counting. After fifteen pushups, the man hesitated, did four more, struggled to his feet and walked off with his gym bag.
A siren whooped a warning, and a police car with flashing lights bulled through two lanes of traffic. Some things never changed. People of all ages and colors, weird characters exhibiting odd behavior, lights and sirens.
Damn, he missed Boston, missed the action and the people.
Well, he missed some people. Others, not so much.
______
When he walked into Headquarters a welcoming committee was waiting in the lobby, seven men in uniforms and two detectives in street clothes, guys he’d played hoop with. Amid the hustle-bustle of the station, his former colleagues asked how he was doing and how did he like New Orleans? And the inevitable question: Are you up here working a case?
Unwilling to explain, he said, “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
They all laughed, except for Rafe Hawkins. A hulking six-foot-four wide-body with ebony skin and dark menacing eyes, Rafe still played center on the hoop team. Trash-talking Rafe mock-punched his arm and growled, “Better than your usual
No comment.
” Then he smiled. “Great to see you, Frank.”
He was glad to see them, but in the midst of the reunion, two detectives hurried by, avoiding his eyes. Not men he'd worked with, but they'd been with Boston PD when The Fuckup happened. He and his partner had been cleared, but they didn't want to risk being tainted by scandal, wouldn't even come over and say hello.
Fuck 'em, he thought. Friends like that he could do without.
The welcoming committee walked him to the elevator. He rode it to the second floor and went down the hall to the Assistant Superintendent’s office, now occupied by Lieutenant Colonel Harrison Flynn. Hank to his friends. Frank had known him for twenty years. Eight years ago when the murder-bust blew up in his face, Hank had been one of his strongest supporters.
Seated at a gunmetal gray desk in front of a window with a great view of the Copley Square skyline, Hank said, “Welcome back, Frank. Say hello to Clint Hammer.”
In front of the desk, a man sat on a padded visitor chair. Hammer didn’t stand, nor did he offer his hand. His name didn’t fit his appearance. He was maybe five-six, acne scarred cheeks, pale yellow hair cropped in a buzz cut. His eyes were chilling. Hard gray-granite eyes. Angry eyes.
Frank took the other visitor chair. Hank gave him a heads-up stare. “Clint flew up from Washington two days ago. He works for the CIA. He and Oliver James were friends.”
“I understand you might have a lead for us,” Hammer said.
“I’m working a case in New Orleans with a similar M.O. A prominent businessman shot dead in his hotel room. The next day a bartender named Tex Conroy was found dead in City Park, shot once in the head. Both men were shot with the same gun, a .38 Special.”
Hammer stroked his weak chin. “How’d you find out about Oliver?”
“Read about it online in the Boston
Globe
." Never give up your sources, get as much information as possible. "How did you know Oliver?”
One by one Hammer cracked the knuckles on both hands, then said in a rapid-fire monotone, “We went to Harvard together, joined the CIA after graduation. We did a few ops in Central America, watched each other's back. Oliver got out after two years. I stayed. Oliver’s a smart guy and his physical skills were top notch. I can’t figure out how the woman did him.”
“Well,” Frank said, “she had a gun.”
Hammer waved his hand. “Oliver would have disarmed her.”
“Clint," Hank said, squinty-eyed, "I think it would be best to share what information we have. Tell Detective Renzi what Oliver asked you to do.”
Frank fought down a smile, imagining the pissing contest when Clint Hammer, CIA spook, tried to play hardball with Lieutenant Colonel Harrison Flynn. Hank knew how to play tough-guy games.
“Oliver asked me to gather Intel on a woman named Robin Adair.”
“Why would he ask you to do that?”
“He was dating her. He said she wouldn’t talk about her family.”
“Ever do that kind of favor for Oliver before?”
“That’s not relevant to the discussion."
Riffing on Hammer-speak, he said, “What sort of
Intel
did you gather?”
"According to the background check I did, prior to 2005 Robin Adair didn’t exist.” Without consulting any notes—maybe he had a photographic memory—Hammer reeled off Robin Adair's phone number, street address in Nashua, New Hampshire, and her driver’s license stats: brown eyes, brown hair, DOB, January 10, 1978. In 2005 she registered a used 2004 Honda Civic in New Hampshire, had also purchased a .38 Special at a gun show in Nashua.
“Oliver said her eyes looked Asian,” Hammer said. “We even joked about it. When I told him to watch out, she might be Tokyo Rose, Oliver laughed. And now he’s dead.”
“What did he say when you gave him your Intel?” Frank asked.
“He seemed surprised. I got the feeling he liked her.”
“Did you talk to him again after that conversation?”
“No.”
Frank took the Natalie Brixton sketches out of his briefcase and showed them to Hammer. After studying them, Hammer said in a toneless voice, “That’s her. She killed Oliver.”
“Maybe. But why?”
“She was up to no good. Her ID was bogus. Maybe Oliver blew the whistle on her. When he told her what I’d found, she killed him.”
“But that doesn’t explain
why
she killed him,” Frank said.
Hammer skewered him with his granite-gray eyes. “I don’t give a shit
why
. I’m going to get that bitch and make her wish she’d never been born.” He rose to his feet and said to Hank, “Keep me informed. You’ve got my cell phone number.” Holding himself ramrod stiff, CIA Agent Hammer left the office.
Frank looked at Hank. “Can he do it?”
“Do what?”
“Find her and deliver his CIA brand of justice.”
“Your guess is as good as mine. He gave us some useful information, but our discussions haven’t exactly been cordial. I said I’d keep him informed, but that seems to be a one-way street. I don’t know where he’s staying. Only contact info I've got is his cell phone number.”
“Can we compare the ballistics reports to see if she used the same gun?”
Hank’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “I’ll have my people talk to your people.”
"I'd like to see her apartment. It might help me get a handle on her.”
“Sure,” Hank said. “I'll drive you up there. Want to do it now?”
“Yes. I’ve got a couple of errands to do later.” He wanted to call Kelly and see how she was. Then he had to talk to Gina and find out what was wrong. For nine years they had been lovers. More than lovers. Best friends. On the phone she’d said she was okay, but her tone of voice said otherwise.
_____
They grabbed a couple of subs and hit the road. Traffic headed north out of Boston was light at this hour. While they ate, they hashed over the James case. Another thing he missed. Hank was a sharp investigator, and he loved theorizing with him.
"She parked her Honda Civic near the garage exit," Hank said, "so she could make a fast getaway. Like she planned it. But the cops got there before she could get to her car.”
"How'd she get out of the hotel?"
"The security guard saw her get in the elevator after she left the room. When we interviewed the desk clerk and two guests who were in the lobby at the time, they didn't recall seeing her. But a door beside the elevator opens onto an employee dressing room, with an exit door so the workers can go outside to smoke.”
“Was there a guard on the door?”
“Outside there was, but he heard sirens, ran up to Huntington Avenue to see what the fuss was about. If she came out then, he'd have missed her."
“Did you get prints off the Honda?” Frank asked.
“Yes, and they matched the prints we got from her apartment.” Hank drank from a bottle of water and set it in the cup-holder between the seats. "When we interviewed her neighbors, they barely remembered her. The guy that lives next door said he never had a real conversation with her. No one saw her the day after the murder. If she went back and took something, it wasn’t obvious.”
“Nothing about this woman is obvious. We see what she wants us to see.” He looked out the window as fields of grass and scrub pines flashed by. It seemed certain that she'd killed former CIA Agent Oliver James. But why? The more important question: Was it Natalie?
"Hank, a woman named Jeanette Brixton was murdered in New Orleans in 1988. Her daughter Natalie was ten at the time, got shipped to Texas to live with relatives. She graduated high school in '95, split town and nobody’s seen her since. I think she killed Peterson, the VIP businessman, but I can't figure out why. Tex Conroy went to school with her."
"So Natalie runs into Conroy,” Hank said as he took the exit for Nashua, "and he recognizes her.”
"Right, but Natalie was posing as June Carson, had Carson’s DL, drove a car registered to Carson. I figure she didn't want anybody knowing Natalie was in town, so she killed Tex and split."
"And you think she's the Robin Adair that lives in Nashua."
"Correct." Frank drank from his bottled water. "And here's the best part. June Carson rented a room at the Sunshine Inn in New Orleans. The desk clerk said June had a tat on her ankle. So did the woman on the security video that went in and out of Peterson’s room.”
"Now there's a helluva clue." Hank drove into a large condo complex and parked. "So your June Carson, our Robin Adair, was dating Oliver James. But his buddy Hammer checked up on her, found inconsistencies, and James called her on it. But why didn't she just make up a story? Seems like she planned to kill him. Otherwise, why bring the gun?”
Frank opened his car door. “Put that in the I-don’t-know column. Followed by Where-is-she-now?"
Viewing Robin Adair's apartment didn't help much. The medicine cabinet held a box of tampons and a typical assortment of over-the-counter headache and cold remedies. Shampoo and conditioner in a wire rack over the showerhead. A bedroom closet with assorted tops, slacks and a long silk dress with an Asian dragon on a black background. A bunch of shoes on the floor.
They returned to the living room. Frank said. "No computer, huh?"
"Correct," said Hank, "which, now that you mention it, seems odd. Seems like anyone traveling all over the country would have a computer. Maybe she's got a laptop. We didn't find one in her car."
Frank stopped beside a small Japanese watercolor on one wall and studied the eight-by-ten-inch painting. Delicate brush strokes depicted birds flying around a snow-capped mountain below puffy white clouds. One corner had a stain on it. Not something a person would hang on their wall unless it meant something to them. Why didn't she take it with her? he wondered.
"What?" Hank said.
"I think she came here, grabbed what she needed and split. She was in a panic, figured the cops were hot on her trail, didn't take time to wipe her prints. But how did she get here? Can you check the Boston cab companies?"
"Good idea," Hank said. "If she paid a cabbie to drive her to Nashua, they'd have a record of it."
Frank nodded, but he didn't expect it would help. This case was like a roller coaster ride: chug up a steep hill, perch on top, then take a heart-stopping plunge. Troll for a lead, get excited and have your hopes dashed.