This made me want to puke.
Did Arnold Peterson know that BoBo was a murderer?
Three days later I read about his funeral, a Catholic Mass attended by hundreds of people. His son Chip said BoBo was a humble man who spent his final days "trying to get right with God.”
That made me so angry I had to do some TKD moves to work off my fury. Get right with God? Did BoBo expect God to forgive him for beating Mom's face bloody and strangling her? I didn’t want God to punish BoBo. I wanted to punish him myself. But I couldn’t.
BoBo was dead. This filled me with rage.
I went out and did a five-mile run along the Seine. When I returned, hot and sweaty, I was still angry. But most of all I felt great shame. Mom had waited 17 years for vengeance and I had failed to give it to her. I was destined to go through life haunted by the vindictive ancestor gods.
I drank a glass of water and finished reading the article about the funeral. One of his business associates gave the eulogy, Arnold Peterson, the same man who'd praised BoBo's business instincts.
Arnold Peterson seemed to be BoBo's biggest cheerleader.
Then came a list of BoBo's survivors: Helena, his third wife, and his three children, the two girls he cared nothing about and his beloved son, Chip. And two grandchildren. A painful reminder of my failure.
BoBo's death had thwarted my most cherished goal: revenge.
I thought back to my favorite revenge movies;
The Professional
, by Luc Bresson, and
Sympathy for Lady Vengeance
, by Park Chan-Wook. Most people took revenge by punishing the person who wronged them. They wanted the wrongdoer to suffer the same or greater pain than was originally inflicted. What could be worse than killing someone?
Once they were dead, they were dead. And now BoBo was dead.
But in some Asian cultures, retribution can be far worse than the crime. Japanese warriors called Samurai uphold the family honor with revenge killings called
katakiuchi.
Such killings may involve the wrongdoer's relatives.
I thought about this. What could be worse than killing BoBo?
Killing his beloved son, Chip.
I decided that this would be my new goal.
Over the holidays I had no clients, which left plenty of time to visit NOLA.com. One day there was a feature article about Chip. After graduating from Loyola, he had taken over as manager of the GoGo Bar in New Orleans. Now he was CEO of the BoBo's GoGo Bars LLC. He planned to expand his father's business empire. When asked if his two daughters might someday run the business, Chip said, “Your guess is as good as mine.”
Not if I could help it.
If Chip died, BoBo’s business would die too.
And clearly my romance with Willem was also dead.
Although I didn’t sit by the phone waiting for it to ring, I expected a call at least. But not a word from Willem. No call, no letter. Nothing.
It was time to leave Paris.
Time to forget Willem and start a new life.
After the holidays, I told Lin I planned to leave The Service in February.
He seemed genuinely disappointed. “You have been an excellent worker, Laura Lin, and we will miss you. I wish you the best of luck in whatever you do. If you ever need anything, anything at all, call me.”
CHAPTER 25
Friday, 15 August 11:00 a.m.
Deep in the bowels of a federal office building in Washington, D.C., Clint Hammer punched a key on his laptop and the printer beside his desk whirred to life. His office was two floors below street level, a windowless eight-by-ten cubicle with baby-shit-green walls. The color amused him.
Plenty of shit went down inside these walls and it had nothing to do with babies. No photographs or official citations graced the walls or his desk. No file cabinets—no paper trails for someone to steal—just a gun-metal-gray desk with a padded swivel chair, and a wireless printer.
The desk faced the door. Clint Hammer never sat with his back to a door or a window. That was worse than stupid. It was asking for trouble, no telling when some sneaky sonofabitch might try to catch him unawares and overpower him. He grabbed the printout and checked his wristwatch. Jason, his computer geek, was due any minute.
Right on cue, a familiar rap sounded on the door: three knocks, a silence, another knock.
“Come in, Jason. It’s unlocked.”
Jason entered and approached the desk. Jason was a crackerjack researcher, a computer hacker able to access most any file no matter how well-encrypted. A wiry man in his midthirties, Jason was short, five-two at most. That was another reason Hammer liked him.
Jason looked at him expectantly, his brown eyes liquid behind his thick glasses.
“I've got a new assignment for you.” He showed him the computer printout. One page contained data, the other a photo and a sketch. “Find this woman. On August 4th, she escaped a police dragnet in Boston. She was renting an apartment in Nashua, New Hampshire, under the name Robin Adair, but she also goes by the name June Carson, and she might have other aliases. I want you to use the new face-recognition software to check outgoing flights at every airport within a 200 mile radius of Boston. Use the artist’s sketch and the photo on the Robin Adair license.”
Jason gnawed his lip, frowning now. “I don’t know, boss. I don’t want to get in trouble. We’re only s’posed to use the face-recognition program to look for terrorists.”
A needle of irritation pricked his gut. “Jason, this woman killed a former CIA agent. Murdered him in cold blood and left him lying on the floor in a Boston hotel room, naked.”
“How’d she manage to kill a former CIA agent?”
The needle of irritation became a shard of glass. “Never mind how! She did, and I’m going to find the bitch and make her wish she didn’t.”
Jason’s pockmarked face assumed a hangdog look. “Whatever you say, boss. But it’ll take a while. There’s a lot of airports within 200 miles of Boston. How many dates should I check? August 4th until when?”
Agonizing pain pierced his gut. “Until you find her! I don’t give a shit how long it takes. Get on your fucking computer and find the bitch that killed my friend.”
“Okay, boss.” Jason took the printout and backed away from the desk.
He slammed his fists on the desktop. “Soon.”
After Jason left, he picked a cuticle on his thumb, recalling the escapades he and Oliver had during the two years they’d worked together. Oliver was a first-rate agent. He also had a way with women, which had often benefited The Hammer. While they were on assignment in Barbados, they might spot a couple of hot chicks in a bar. Oliver would pick one and leave him the other.
And now Oliver was dead. Killed by that gook pussy.
The Boston cops had no clue how to find her, nor did those idiot cops in New Orleans. He hadn’t forgotten the ugly scene with that Jew-bastard Lieutenant and his greasy-Wop homicide dick.
He’d fix those bastards. Down in the Louisiana boonies, they didn't have face-recognition software. As soon as Jason located that bitch, he’d make her wish she’d never been born. And those NOPD pricks would never be the wiser.
_____
At two minutes past noon, she turned off St. Charles Avenue onto a street lined with magnificent Victorians and towering oak trees. Set back from the street behind a tall wrought-iron fence, Parades-A-Plenty was in the middle of the block, but every parking space on the street was taken. She circled the block, found a space and backed her Ford Focus into it. Towing her suitcase with one hand, gripping her laptop in the other, she trudged through the sweltering heat to Parades-A-Plenty.
Surrounded by live oak trees and dappled with sunlight, the three story Victorian had a wrap-around porch on the ground floor and a multitude of windows. The exterior was painted emerald green, accented with golden ochre trim on the shutters that bracketed the tall windows.
The house looked lovely, but she wasn’t looking forward to dealing with Mrs. Reilly and her banshee squawk. She swung open the wrought iron gate, went up the walk and mounted the steps. The lower half of the front door was wood, the upper portion beveled glass. The door was ajar so she walked in.
A woman seated behind a reception desk looked up. “Welcome to Parades-A-Plenty.”
The banshee shriek. But Mrs. Reilly looked nothing like the woman she had envisioned while talking to her on the phone. Banshee was no scrawny turkey. Far from it. Pasty-white jowls sagged from her chin. She had to weigh at least 200 pounds. A paper plate on the reception desk held a half-eaten slice of pepperoni pizza, oozing grease.
“Hello. I’m April West. I reserved one of your rooms for a week.”
Cut in an unflattering bob, the woman's grayish hair looked like someone had put a bowl on her head and trimmed around it. Her eyes, bright blue and crafty, signaled trouble, examining her from head to toe.
“Figured it was you. Everyone else who booked rooms for today called and canceled. They're worried about the hurricane.” Mrs. Reilly squinted at her silently for several seconds.
The silence was a relief. If she had to listen to that voice much longer, she might slap her to shut her up.
“You look familiar,” Banshee said. “Have you been here before?”
“No, never.” The question unnerved her. She didn’t want to look familiar, she wanted to look ordinary and anonymous. That’s why she'd worn her light-auburn wig and the Vera Wang eyeglasses with the tinted glass that hid her eye color.
Banshee smiled, exposing shiny-white dentures. “Your hair is such a pretty color."
“Thank you,” she said quickly. Anything to shut her up.
"You should wear green to accent it. That black suit is much too plain. Not flattering at all.”
“Is my room ready?”
“Ready!” Banshee squawked. “Of course it’s ready! I’ve been running this place for 30 years, ten of ‘em by myself after my husband died, Lord rest him. He was a fine man, my Tom was, but the Lord took him and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
She stifled a yawn. The trip from Ithaca to New Orleans had taken two long days. Only once had she stopped to sleep.
Sensing her weariness perhaps, Mrs. Reilly said, “You’re tired, aren’t you dear. Well, you’re going to love Parades-A-Plenty. This house was built in 1893 by a famous New Orleans architect. His name was Tom, too, just like my husband. Thomas Sully built this house in the Queen Ann style. Did you see the double Ionic columns out front? That’s the tip off. Tom Sully hired the best carpenters in town to work on the house. When you go upstairs, be sure and notice the wood balustrades and the wood medallions in your room.”
She gritted her teeth. “Which room is it?”
“The Blue Room on the third floor. All my rooms have hardwood floors and period furnishings, but the Blue Room is always the first one that gets rented during Mardi Gras. Walk down to St. Charles Avenue and you can see all 26 of the Mardi Gras parades.”
“But not in August,” she said, and smiled.
Shut up and give me the key to my room
. The Blue Room on the third floor. She hoped it was air-conditioned.
“Well. No, not in August. But maybe you’ll come back next year.”
“Could be.” And maybe pigs would fly.
“Well. Let’s get you registered. Can I see your driver’s license?”
“Of course.” She took it out of her tote bag and handed it over.
Mrs. Reilly studied her face. “You know, it’s the strangest thing, but I feel like I’ve seen you before.”
A chill rippled down her spine. “I doubt it,” she said firmly. “I’ve never been to New Orleans.”
“Hmph. Well, let’s get you on my computer.”
As the woman entered April West’s license information into the computer—click, click, click on the keyboard—she studied her surroundings.
The wallpaper was lovely, embossed with fleur-de-lis. To her right, an archway opened onto a dining room. Below a crystal chandelier, four antique chairs surrounded a table with a polished wood top. Beyond the table, a door led to a staircase with an ornate wooden banister.
Given the period décor and antique furnishings, the flat-screen TV on the wall next to check-in desk seemed out of place. It was tuned to the Weather Channel, with the sound muted.
“There, that’s done.” Mrs. Reilly handed back her license. “You're going to love the Blue Room. It’s got a private bath, a telephone and cable TV. And a beautiful four-poster bed.”
Four-poster bed
. She had an instant flashback to Arnold Peterson, trussed to another four-poster with a bullet hole in his forehead.
Banshee’s grating voice jolted her back to the present.
“You get a Continental breakfast every day.” Baring her dentures in a smile. “That’s why we call this a bed and breakfast. You can eat in the dining room or sit out on the veranda.” Her eyes widened and a look of horror swept her face. “Oh my God! Look!”
Startled, she followed the woman’s gaze to the TV set. A huge swirling orange mass filled the screen. The Weather Channel was updating the latest tropical storm headed toward the Gulf.
Banshee used a remote to turn on the sound. The storm had been upgraded to a hurricane. Hurricane Josephine was west of the Windward Islands now, churning toward Haiti.
Would her bad luck never end? Why was a storm threatening the Gulf now? Her plan was in place, but she still had to seduce her target, and she didn’t know how long that might take. According to an article on NOLA.com last week, Chip would return to New Orleans today to prepare for the grand opening of his newest Go-Go Bar next Friday.
“You might not be able to stay the whole week,” Banshee said. “If that storm gets into the Gulf, I’m going to close up.”
“Goodness, I don’t think you need to worry about that yet.”
The woman’s doughy face hardened. “Listen here, young lady. Maybe you’ve never been to New Orleans, but I’ve lived here all my life. Tom and I stayed right here in this house for Betsy in '65. Lord-a-mercy, I thought the roof would blow off. The walls were shaking something fierce. That taught me a lesson. I boarded the place up and left for Katrina. Good thing . . .”
The banshee voice continued, an ugly rasp. She wanted to strangle the woman. “Excuse me, Mrs. Reilly, but I’d like to go up to my room. Could you give me the key?”
The banshee-rasp stopped. Mrs. Reilly gazed at her, frosty-eyed.
“Well. I thought you might like to hear about the history of the house. But suit yourself.” She opened a drawer and held out a brass key. “But mark my words, young lady, I’m keeping an eye on that hurricane. If it looks like it’s going to hit us, I’m going to close the place and get out of town.”
“I understand, Mrs. Reilly. You have a nice day.”
She towed her suitcase through the dining room to the staircase. No elevator of course, not in a house built in 1893. She would have to lug her suitcase up three flights of stairs. That might be an advantage.
Up on the third floor she wouldn’t be able to hear that banshee screech.