Beauty & the Beast: Vendetta

by Nancy Holder

  “And complicated.” Cat put the booklet and tablet on the table and accepted a blue drink in a hurricane glass with The Kellers stenciled on it. “What if we think we’re summoning Paul but we’re actually ordering a lobster dinner?”

  “Then we’ll eat lobster naked in bed with butter dripping off our chins,” he said, putting his arms around her.

  “Speaking of naked… it was pretty freaky when we found Paul putting away our things.” She cocked her head. “Your eyes began to glow.”

  “Yeah, it was too close after what happened at the hotel. I hardly ever beast out anymore. Unless I want to. It just caught me off guard.” He kissed her. “But I’ll be careful. We’re going to be on a ship in the middle of the ocean. I can’t lose control.”

  She returned his kiss. “I’m sure everything will be fine. After all, we’re sailing to paradise. What could happen?”

  A ship’s horn sounded loud and long and they both jerked. Catherine reflexively reached for her gun—that wasn’t there.

  “Aloha, everyone,” said a voice through their room speakers. “We’ll be casting off in ten minutes. All guests of passengers please return to shore. Ten minutes until we set sail!”

  Catherine touched her chest and Vincent chuckled. “Man, we’re both so jumpy. We really need a vacation.”

  They left the suite and strolled to the deck, brushing shoulders with some of the other passengers. Everyone was massing at the railing to wave goodbye. The ship’s horn echoed against the buildings. A trio of pre-teens was throwing rolls of toilet paper over the rail and cracking up.

  Vincent gestured with his head toward a bald man in a black suit. The man was wearing wraparound sunglasses and he was not smiling.

  “Odd duck at two o’clock,” he said to Catherine. “I noticed him before.”

  “Me, too,” his wife said. “What do you think?”

  “He can’t be FBI. He’s too obvious even for them.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with us.”

  “Uh-mmm.” She sounded dubious.

  “We can’t go looking for trouble. It’ll find us if it wants us.”

  “Look there.”

  A lanky girl about fifteen or sixteen, dressed in black T-shirt, skinny jeans, and flip-flops, wearing thick shiny eyeliner and dark red lipstick, had been heading toward the railing, but froze halfway there when she spotted the man in the suit. She crossed her arms over her chest and backed away.

  The man came toward her.

  She shook her head, her henna-red hair twisted into curls that grazed her cheeks, and mouthed a couple words that Vincent couldn’t make out. Then turned around and melted into the crowd, which parted and moved around her like a buffalo stampede. The man moved through the throng, obviously dogging her. Then Vincent lost track of him, too.

  “That didn’t look good,” Catherine said.

  “I think they’re together. Both wearing black. Both not fitting in.”

  “Both not happy about being here,” she finished. “They bear watching.”

  “Va-ca-tion. Say it with me.” However, in his heart, he agreed. Something was up with those two. Father and daughter? Some other kind of relative? Or had this been some kind of chance encounter, and some instinct had warned the girl off?

  “She’s too young to be traveling alone,” he mused. “He’s got to be in charge of her somehow.”

  “Yeah,” Cat said slowly. “In control of her.”

  She had altered the meaning with her word choice. Vincent knew then and there that Catherine was going to make a project out of figuring out what was going on. That was all right. He was going to as well.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  As the Sea Majesty cast off, a call was made to a very private phone number. At his compound in Beverly Hills, Miguel Escalante gave his wife a “wait a minute” look and took the call. She motioned with a flickering kitchen match for him to hurry. Half the birthday candles on their daughter’s cake had already been lit, and Rachael’s little guests were giggling and falling all over themselves as they prepared to blare out their version of “Happy Birthday.” Rachael was six today.

  “Sí,” he said into the phone.

  “Our people are on board. It went fine,” his caller told him. “The targets don’t suspect a thing.”

  “You’re absolutely sure,” Miguel said.

  “Sí.” There was a pause. Alarm bells sounded in Miguel’s head.

  “What?” he demanded. “Is there a problem?”

  “Did you move them? There was a room change.”

  The bells clanged louder. Miguel’s wife Barbara was smiling questioningly at him, urging him to hurry. Above the guttering trio of birthday candles, her face glowed with joy. They had only managed to have Rachael after years of infertility treatments, some of them forbidden by their Catholic religion. Barbara was spoiling their only child, but what did it matter? The man Rachael eventually married would spoil her too. Miguel would see to it.

  “Describe the room change.”

  When his caller explained that the targets—no names were ever used, ever— had been moved to the honeymoon suite, the bells did not go silent, but Miguel did relax a little. He’d done lots of business in the tourism industry—cruises and tours were perfect venues for taking care of matters that would be more difficult to accomplish closer to the target’s home—and he knew that upgrades such as these were commonplace. They generated enormous goodwill and extra publicity as the favored individuals blogged and used other social media to brag about their good fortune. If they booked another cruise, they would be far more likely to pick a ship from the Majestic Line, and encourage their friends to do the same.

  Still, it was bothersome that any sort of deviation had occurred. Predictability always made the job easier.

  “Was your partner briefed about this upgrade?”

  “Sí. And we’ve made changes in our strategy to account for it. Trust me, we have the situation well in hand.”

  “Bueno. Keep me informed.” He disconnected and nodded at his wife, who quickly finished lighting the candles. She blew out the match and picked up the pink cake with its spun-sugar castle. A princess cake for their princess. He joined Barbara and together they walked into the decorated party room of their Tuscan-style mansion.

  “One, two, three, ‘Happy…’” Barbara led off.

  All the kids started singing “Happy Birthday,” and Rachael grinned from ear to ear. Times like this made all the effort worth it. Miguel pushed thoughts of the assignment to the back of his head as his wife set the cake down in front of his daughter.

  “Make a wish,” he told Rachael.

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and blew. Then she opened her eyes and said, “I wished to marry you, Daddy.”

  Her parents chuckled, and Miguel gave her a kiss on the crown of her head. “What would we do with Mommy, then?”

  Rachael looked up at him adoringly. “What you do with the other ladies, Daddy.”

  * * *

  “Here.” Through the bars, the Russian girl thrust a bottle of water and half of a commercially packaged roast beef sandwich in its torn wrapper at Heather. Heather was sitting on her chair, a preference rather than a necessity. The floor of the cell was filthy and there were rats. She had dozed on and off but she wasn’t sure she had actually slept. Outside the cell, there were two metal folding chairs, a rickety white metal occasional table, and a camping lantern. Her jailers didn’t have it much better than she did. Except that they could actually use a restroom. They had brought her a bucket and a roll of toilet paper.

  The sandwich smelled kind of bad but Heather wolfed it down in three bites. She tipped back the water and drank so fast she began gagging.

  “What, it’s vodka?” Ilya asked her snidely as he sauntered over and peered at her through the bars.

  Heather looked down. She was terrified of Ilya. His favorite game to play with her was Russian roulette, where he would show her that he’d put a bullet in
to his gun, then spin the cylinder, press the barrel against her head, and pull the trigger. She kept telling herself that it had to be some kind of trick or he wouldn’t dare do it. He’d piss off their boss, whoever he was, if he killed her.

  That was what she kept telling herself.

  But as time dragged on and it became clear they had no plan for how to take care of her, she began to wonder if there was really a bullet in the chamber. She was beginning to lose it more often, crying silently, and he loved that. She’d force herself to stop. Then she would flex her arms and legs to keep them from stiffening up, and plot out ways to get out of the cell. All of them depended on getting a gun.

  Svetlana appeared. She and Ilya spoke in Russian that grew more heated. Ilya kept glancing over at Heather. She kept her eyes fixed on the wrapper on her lap. And then she realized that there was a cash register receipt stuck to it. Surreptitiously, she peeled it off. Marco’s Cash & Carry 121 Dup… The rest of the address and date were smeared but she might be able to make them out if she had more light. That could tell her how long she had been there, but more importantly, where she was.

  She slid the receipt into her pants pocket. The conversation had escalated into an argument. Ilya wound his fist around Heather’s cell door and gave it a shake. When Heather jumped, he laughed and pushed his face against the bars.

  “You are scared, baby? Good, good! I make you more scared.”

  Svetlana pushed him away. He reached back a hand as if to smack her and she pushed him again. Yelling at him, she pulled out her phone and showed it to him. Threatening to call their boss, Heather guessed.

  Face darkening, Ilya threw up his hands and stomped off. Heather swallowed hard and tried to breathe, but her chest was too tight.

  “What asshead,” Svetlana said, glowering in the direction of Ilya’s exit, and Heather burst out with a jittery laugh.

  “Yeah, no kidding.” Heather wiped her face. “Thank you for the food.”

  Svetlana narrowed her eyes as she studied Heather through the bars. “I am not friend. I am not good person.”

  “Sorry,” Heather said. “But I kind of think you are. You’re more good than he is, anyway.”

  Svetlana shrugged. “He is arranged.”

  “If you mean ‘deranged,’ I agree with you.” She took a breath. “I really didn’t know about Ravi and the chip,” she said.

  Svetlana sighed. “But you know now.”

  “Yeah, sucks,” Heather murmured. Her heart went into overdrive. She’s sad because she knows I’m screwed. She knows they’re going to kill me. How can they ever let me go?

  “Sucks,” Svetlana agreed. There was genuine regret in her voice.

  Heather cleared her throat. She was so afraid to say the wrong thing. But she was beginning to be more afraid that her time was running out.

  “So, is Ilya your brother?”

  Svetlana pulled a comical grimace of horror and crossed herself. “No way. Colleague only. His uncle…” She stopped herself. “Don’t ask questions.”

  “Okay, sorry.” Heather held up her hands. “I’m just scared. I talk a lot when I’m scared.”

  Svetlana said, “Is good you’re scared.” Then she shook her head, pulled up the folding chair outside the cell, and plopped down into it. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Why not?” Heather extended a shaking hand toward her. “Svetlana, are you… are you going to kill me?”

  Svetlana’s eyes flashed with anger. She sat up straight. “You see what we did. You see we kill Ravi Suresh.”

  “I know Ilya killed him, not you. And I also think that was a mistake. You do too,” Heather said, pushing. “He could have gotten a duplicate chip for you.”

  The other woman caught her lower lip between her teeth. Then she nodded.

  “You feel the same way. Svetlana, it would be a mistake to kill me. My sister is a cop. NYPD.”

  “If I am ordered,” Svetlana began, but she didn’t finish her sentence. Instead she rested her elbow on her knee and cradled her forehead. Her loose blonde hair draped forward. She laughed wanly. “Look at this. Crazy mop of hair.”

  “I’ve worked in fashion,” Heather said. “You know, fashion? Like Project Runway? You have great cheekbones. And you’re tall and thin. You’d be a good model.”

  A harsh laugh was Svetlana’s response. “I am Russian criminal, not model.”

  “But you could be one. They like those kinds of edgy backgrounds.” When Svetlana didn’t appear to understand, Heather elaborated. “They like dangerous women for models.”

  Svetlana sucked in her cheeks, raised her chin, made as if to raise a pistol, and cried, “Bang!” She didn’t aim her fantasy gun at Heather. She aimed it in Ilya’s direction. “Die, asshead!”

  The two shared a smile. Then Svetlana went dark again. Heather needed to keep a bond between them. “Do you think I could have a towel or a blanket to sleep on?” she asked. “The ground is so cold.”

  Svetlana shrugged. “We don’t have here.”

  “I know. But maybe the next time you go home, could you bring me back something? An old rag, something you don’t care about?”

  Something shifted in Svetlana’s gaze. Heather couldn’t quite read it, and she didn’t know what it meant. But there was a change, and Heather wondered if it was good or bad.

  Oh, my God, what if I don’t have one more night?

  “Maybe I bring,” Svetlana said.

  “And… if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, maybe a flashlight? It’s so dark in here and the rats come…”

  Svetlana’s gaze shifted toward the ceiling. For the first time, Heather noticed a tiny ebony square. Was it a window? Was she just one story below a street where there were people? If she opened her mouth and screamed, would anyone hear her? Could they get to her in time?

  “Nice try, smart girl,” Svetlana said. Then she got up and left. The cell door lock clicked ominously behind her.

  But she had left the camping lantern on. On purpose? As a gesture of kindness? Heather had often listened to Tess and Cat discussing their cases back when they were partners—on the phone or during a movie night at the apartment—and one of the most interesting things they talked about was getting a bad guy to “flip.” To become a good guy, basically. To reveal information that would solve the case, incriminate his or her friends, or confess. Most of the time, people flipped to save their own skin. But sometimes they did it because their conscience was bothering them. They weren’t completely bad. They were still redeemable.

  Was Svetlana redeemable? Svetlana had stepped into Heather’s line of vision when Ilya had killed Ravi. She’d made him back off when he’d taunted her. She’d brought Heather a sandwich. And she’d left the light on even after glancing up at what might be a dirty window.

  Does she have a guilty conscience? Can I use it against her to get her to help me? Or should I try another way to flip her?

  It was perfectly acceptable to lie to suspects and tell them that someone else connected to the case was spilling their guts and blaming everything on them. Cat and Tess were excellent liars themselves—look at how well they had covered up for Vincent all this time—and Heather had picked up pointers about how to lie convincingly: keep your eyes wide open, keep your story simple, and don’t try too hard.

  She doesn’t like Ilya. Could I lie about something he told his uncle? They probably only speak to each other in Russian. What could I make up that she would believe?

  “Nothing,” Heather whispered. The jitters came then; she shook uncontrollably and her eyes welled with tears. Control. She had to stay in control. But it was so hard when she was frightened, dirty, hungry, and exhausted. She wasn’t a cop. She was an event planner.

  But I’m Catherine Chandler’s sister, she reminded herself. Okay, her half-sister, but I’ve got the half that matters. Mom was smart, brave, and sneaky, and so are we. I can do this.

  And I will do this.

  “Bring it,” she whispered. “I’m ready.”

>   CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Sea Majesty had left the Port of Los Angeles behind and made for the open water. The passengers were busily acquainting themselves with the pools, the volleyball court, the casino, and the shopping mall, which was extensive. There was a queue in the Majestic Memories shop to see the embarking photographs, which were displayed on video screens.

  “There she is.” Cat gave Vincent a nudge in his side. The girl she had noticed before sat on the side of the grotto pool with her legs in the water. She was wearing a black nineteen-thirties-style bathing suit and a broad-brimmed black straw hat, and she was hunched over a book.

  “And there he is.” Vincent gestured with his chin.

  The guy in the black suit and sunglasses was barely visible as he studied the girl.

  Cat sauntered casually over to the pool and stopped beside the girl. She allowed her shadow to fall over the girl’s book. No reaction. Cat squinted at the page. Poems of the English Romantic Period. Homework?

  “Is the water nice?” Cat asked.

  The girl shifted slightly but didn’t answer. Cat leaned over and stuck her hand in the pool. “Ooh, it’s a little chilly.”

  Huffing, the girl looked up from her book. “It’s perfect. You should go in.” Judging by her tone of voice, she was silently adding, And leave me alone.

  Cat slipped off her wedges, lowered herself to the cement, and put her legs in. She fanned them back and forth but didn’t speak.

  The girl turned a page. Then she looked over at Cat, looked again. Gave her head a quick shake.

  Cat glanced at her. Without looking up, the girl said, “I thought you were Kate Middleton.”

  Cat was so surprised that she guffawed. The girl frowned. She said, “It was an honest mistake.”

  “Oh? Have you met Kate Middleton?”

  This time the girl looked at her full on. “Yes, I have. Haven’t you? I thought they put all the people who had met Kate Middleton on the same deck.”