Vendetta

by Nancy Holder

  Cat spoke slowly and calmly. “Do you have additional contact information for Claudia McEvers?” Cat asked. “We’d like to question her.”

  “I told the guys to get it from my HR department. Whatever we’ve got, the guys have got.”

  “The guys” had to be Robertson and Gonzales. “Where did she sneak him to?” Cat asked. “Are you referring to Turntable?”

  “At least a dozen ‘clubs.’ So he could audition for gigs. They’re dives. They’re filled with losers. ‘Musicians’? More like drug addicts on welfare.”

  “Could you provide a list of those clubs? We’d like to check them out,” Cat told him. “Sometimes those kinds of places are fronts for organized crime.”

  Tess shot a look heavenward, a commentary on the irony of Cat’s statement when she was probably speaking to New York City’s king of organized crime.

  “It could be that someone recognized him and devised a kidnapping scheme. Maybe Claudia McEvers was involved. She could have been meeting with her co-conspirators while he thought he was auditioning.”

  “Hold on,” he said.

  Cat waited again. Tess ate another onion ring.

  Then DeMarco said, “I just got informed that Lizzani didn’t show up for his shift today. My people called his house and I’m sending someone over there.”

  “Sir, we can handle that for you,” Cat said. “Law enforcement—”

  “No! You haven’t done squat!” he yelled, and disconnected.

  Cat texted Gonzales instead of calling, in case he was in the middle of placating DeMarco. Gonzales texted back an address in Queens. Then he phoned.

  “Get the address?” he asked her. “That’s for Lizzani. We’re going to McEvers. Do you think you can beat DeMarco’s people to Lizzani?”

  “We’ll do our best,” Cat replied. She added, “We tried to reach Bailey Hart yesterday.”

  “Also missing,” Gonzales said. “I feel a conspiracy in the air.”

  She took that in. “Have the kidnappers left instructions for a drop? How can they increase the amount if they haven’t left payment instructions for the first demand?”

  “Because they’re criminals?” Gonzales said.

  “Maybe they did make a demand but DeMarco never got it. What if they think he ignored them or screwed up the drop?” Cat tested her theory. “Wouldn’t they have said something about that?”

  Gonzales was quiet for a moment. He said, “What if two messages from them weren’t received? The first demand and then the reprimand for missing the drop? Say their communications protocol has a glitch in it, and maybe they know that and maybe they don’t.”

  “They scrambled their IP address so you couldn’t trace them,” Cat said. “Maybe they accidentally sent their messages pinging around, too. Can that happen?” She’d have to ask J.T.

  “It looks like the answer’s yes, but this is way out of my league,” Gonzales said. “We’ve got people we can put on this.”

  So do we.

  “We’ll get on the road to check out Lizzani,” Cat said.

  “Thanks. Appreciate the help,” Gonzales said. He sounded like he meant it.

  “If you find McEvers or Hart…”

  “We’ll let you know.”

  She had no idea if he actually would.

  They got the bill and threw down cash, then headed out to the rainy, dark day. As they hurried past the first alley, Cat spotted movement and tapped Tess. They shared a look and Cat pulled out her gun. Tess followed suit. On a different day, they wouldn’t have.

  They stepped into the darkness.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Vincent emerged from the shadows into enough light for Cat to recognize him. He was wearing his pea coat and ball cap, and when he saw Tess and Catherine’s drawn firearms, he said, “It’s just me.”

  “Vincent.” Catherine holstered her weapon and moved beneath the overhang of the building, out of the rain. Tess came, too. “What are you doing? It’s broad daylight!”

  “Well, no.” He managed a small smile. “There’s not a whole lot of sun out. Mostly snow.” Then his smile faded. “J.T. told me about the Rikers security footage. The deliberate frame job.”

  “And you tracked me here.”

  He shrugged. If you went to the end of the world I would find you. He said, “I know you always say you don’t want to be protected. But I figure we’re working a case now. Together. And I have to watch my partner’s back.” He looked at her for confirmation, and saw, over her shoulder, that Tess was nodding at him.

  “Completely agree,” Tess said. “This case is getting complicated.”

  “And way too personal,” Vincent said. “So what do you have?”

  They explained about the call from Claudia McEvers. Cat went back over the fact that McEvers had worked for the Windsors.

  Vincent said, “That could be weird or not too weird. Windsor was like DeMarco, in the stratosphere of money and power. They would have moved in the same circles. They probably hired each other’s people now and then.”

  Cat’s mouth pressed into a tight, firm line. “But doesn’t all this feel like it’s solidly linked? My father disappears during the power outage, IA tries to bust me with faked footage, someone who used to work security for Curt Windsor tells us not to trust two FBI agents we’re supposed to be helping?” As usual, Cat got straight to the heart of the matter. He agreed with her.

  “And key people are going missing,” Catherine finished. “Lizzani. Hart.”

  “I think we’re getting a good picture of how Angelo was kidnapped,” Tess said. “Lizzani uses his biometrics to get them in, Hart reprograms the security system. No wonder he was so nervous. Click-click with that pen,” Tess said.

  “That’s certainly a workable hypothesis,” Vincent said, and then cleared his throat. It was time to move to his discovery. It was a game-changer, and he should have announced it as soon as they met up. “I have something to show you.”

  He saw that Cat heard how deadly serious he was; she checked her gun holster beneath her coat. Tess was on alert, too. “

  What about Lizzani?” Tess asked. “We’re trying to beat DeMarco’s guys to his place.”

  “Take one extra minute for this,” Vincent replied.

  He turned and they followed him down the alley, hugging the wall to stay out of the snow. The Hudson River churned gray and stormy below the grade; and Vincent walked them to a Dumpster against the wall. He listened to Cat’s increasing heartbeat. Maybe she only suspected what he was about to show her, but she was certain it was something bad.

  He pulled a paper towel from his coat pocket, wrapped it around his hand, and opened the lid. The two detectives peered in.

  There, sprawled among bags of garbage and flattened cardboard boxes, lay a redheaded woman. The very woman, he supposed, they had come to meet at the diner.

  Her eyes were closed and she was curled up almost as if she were sleeping. But Vincent knew that she was dead. She had no pulse. To him, the smell of the blood that had streamed from the back of her head into the refuse was as strong as the rotting bags of food scraps surrounding her.

  “Shut it,” Catherine said.

  Vincent closed the lid with the paper towel. The three stood beneath the overhang. He said, “The body is dry. That means that this happened before it started snowing.”

  “Are you saying that you think those two agents did this?” Catherine asked.

  Tess frowned. “I wouldn’t put it past them.”

  “Tell me about the FBI agents,” Vincent said.

  Catherine gave him the download. About Gonzales and Robertson, and the security footage from Turntable, and the phone call. Vincent listened intently. He could see why they were conflicted about how to proceed. He wasn’t sure what they should do, especially now that Catherine was back on IA’s radar. Once he found out who was causing her problems, that bastard had better run. Fresh anger seethed just below the surface and every protective bone in his body called out for vengeance. Bu
t he knew Catherine hated it when he stepped in to fight her battles.

  He thought about the little girl he had saved in the burning building. And then he thought about Angelo DeMarco. If he could save Angelo’s life, then this was just as much his battle as Catherine’s. And that was not about protecting her. That was about doing the right thing.

  He said, “Based on the scents on the body, I’ll try to track down who did this.”

  Catherine nodded. “We can look into Lizzani while you hunt down the murderer. If it’s Angelo’s kidnapper, even better.”

  “No listen, let’s split up, Cat. Stay with this. I’ll go check on the address,” Tess said. “That way we’re square with Gonzales and Robertson and we can cover more ground.”

  “Let’s withhold disclosure about the body,” Catherine said, “until we see where it takes us. We can always ‘discover’ her body when it’s convenient for our timetable.” She looked over her shoulder. “I hope no one’s watching us. Or taking pictures.”

  Vincent got quiet and went into predator mode. He said, “I don’t think we’re being watched. I see the murderer as very tall, male, has a beard. And he walked down this alley from the river toward the Javits.”

  “That counts Lizzani out,” Tess muttered. “Unless he’s an accomplice or has one who looks like that. I’ll take the squad car to Queens. Did you drive over here?” Tess asked Vincent, who nodded. “Okay. I’ll take our car and call you, Cat, as soon as something shakes loose.”

  “Good plan,” Cat said.

  Tess dashed through the rain toward their car. Catherine turned to Vincent and said, “The Dumpster’s in plain sight. We may have already been spotted looking inside. Can you do one more check to see if anyone is loitering around?”

  Vincent got still again. In his mind’s eye, he saw Claudia McEvers walking toward the front of the diner. Then he envisioned the tall man following behind her. The man spoke; McEvers turned and followed him into the alley. He described the rest of the scene to Cat.

  “She knew him. She wasn’t afraid of him but she was surprised to see him. They walked down this alley to the midway point. Then she got scared and tried to leave. He grabbed her arm. He hit her over the head with the butt of a gun. She fell to her knees and he dragged her behind the Dumpster and beat her to death.”

  He walked behind the Dumpster to washes of blood swirling in the rain. Cat squatted down, observing but not touching anything. When she straightened she shuffled her boots to destroy any footprints of theirs.

  Vincent stopped and inhaled a new layer of odors, scents that had seeped into the walls of the building. “Cigarettes. Cooking oil and food. Sweat. A man who was in the diner… could’ve been a lookout.” Wood. Splinters. The memory-echo of scraping metal and antiseptic floor cleaner. “At one point he moved a stepladder that was possibly kept in a commercial kitchen.” He kept focusing. “The ladder was in the alley, but I’m not sure when.”

  “The diner kitchen?” Catherine asked. “I think I saw that guy. I went out back and there was a young man sitting on the stoop smoking a cigarette.” She frowned. “I wonder if he made us as cops. He had a strange reaction to me. When we were in the diner, we talked to the FBI agents on the phone but we kept it off speaker. But if someone had a parabolic listening device, they could have heard the whole thing.”

  Vincent grunted. “McEvers told you to meet her here, right? To tell you something, or to lure you into a trap? I wonder if the person who killed her prevented her from telling you something or saved you?”

  “There was a girl texting the whole time we were there. She wasn’t a very good waitress. I wonder if she was texting McEvers or Lizzani. Or even Robertson and Gonzales and telling them we’d arrived. Or someone else altogether. The killer.”

  “Maybe if we went back into the diner, I could get more information,” he said, but Catherine shook her head.

  “I probably shouldn’t go back in.”

  “I’ll go alone,” Vincent said.

  He turned and Catherine grabbed his arm. He scented her worry. Her body was practically singing with fear. For him.

  “What if this is some kind of ruse to call you out?” she whispered fiercely. “People know we were together. And you’re being hunted everywhere.” Her shoulders were hunched; she was shrinking down, the very opposite of his brave Catherine. She was more like him than she realized: when she was unable to fight beside him or protect him, she felt lost. That was when she dropped her focus, her “tiger-cop” ferocity. Until he had been able to control his beast side as well as he could now, that would be the most likely scenario for him to begin to lose it. His powerlessness would enrage him most of all. He never felt more threatened than when Catherine was in danger.

  “Catherine, we have to find this boy. His death is going to be unspeakable. Agonizing. I was a doctor. I know every single thing that’s going to happen to his body if he doesn’t get some insulin.” “They have to know that. They won’t kill him until they get their money,” Catherine insisted. “They haven’t even set a time for the money to be paid.”

  “That you know of. You said yourself you’re not sure that all the messages from the kidnappers are coming through.”

  “Then we need to hurry.” She tilted her head back to lock gazes with him. “Ever since you had to go back on the run…” She cleared her throat. “If it feels wrong, promise you’ll pull back.”

  “I will.”

  They walked together back through the alley. Catherine couldn’t know that his predator senses were replaying Claudia McEvers’ last moments as if he were physically present. Ghostly white images projected how hard she had fought for her life. Martial arts moves, kicks, all to no avail. She had been very surprised. The pain and terror as the gun butt came down again and again.

  And then, as he was about to step out of the alley onto the sidewalk, he smelled the weirdest scent. It took him a couple of seconds to figure out what it was, but even then he didn’t know what it was called.

  “Those bright red cherries that they put in drinks,” he said. “What do you call them?”

  “Maraschino cherries?”

  “I can smell them. And… coconut. Popcorn. It’s a mixture. Do they have something like that on the menu in the diner? A dessert?”

  “I don’t know. We didn’t look at desserts.” She sniffed. “I can’t smell it.”

  “You’re lucky. It’s so sweet my eyes are practically watering.” He began to walk out of the alley, and then he stopped. “It’s strongest here. Right here. Whoever smelled like that waited here.” He cocked his head. “The man who beat McEvers came up beside popcorn guy. A car pulled up and they both got into it.”

  “What about stepladder guy?” she asked him.

  “I don’t scent him down here. He must have gone the other way, around the Dumpster and back into the diner through the door you described.”

  “So he wasn’t afraid to be seen. Making it more likely that he wasn’t a stranger around here. So he might be in the diner right now, working. Or maybe he’s lit out by now.”

  “One way to know.”

  Her lips parted in protest, and then she ducked her head in assent. He was going to do what he was going to do, and she knew there was no talking him out of it. It was game on, and Vincent was at bat.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Ball cap low, Vincent strolled down the street with his hands in his pockets. There was a menu in the window of Mars, and he ran his gaze down the offerings until he got to desserts. Nothing with maraschino cherries, popcorn, and coconut.

  He went in. He saw at once the texting waitress, who barely looked at him. But her heartbeat picked up and she took a step away as he approached.

  Does she know who I am? Is she telling someone to call the police, that she’s spotted the murderer, Vincent Keller?

  She didn’t seem agitated enough. She was on guard but she wasn’t overly stressed. She was acting guilty, he realized. It wasn’t that she recognized him. She was afraid o
f being recognized.

  He sat at the counter. There were a few other people in a scattering of booths. Based on Catherine’s description of the diner, it had gotten busier.

  “Coffee, please,” he said in a voice even lower and gruffer than his normal tone.

  While she turned to a coffee warmer to pour him a cup, he slid off the bar stool and headed toward the back. It was convenient that the bathroom was located past the open kitchen. Vincent paused on the threshold of the steamy cooking area, pretending to search for the bathroom door, peered into the kitchen, and focused.

  The man who had brought a ladder into the alley was in there. He was standing over a deep fryer. He had red hair, he was a little taller than average, and he wore a soul patch. The tattoo on his bare forearm read Hendrix.

  Vincent looked around for a ladder and saw one in the corner of the kitchen, folded up rather incongruously beside a large stack of oversized cans of tomatoes. Vincent honed in on the ladder and went just a little beast, eyes averted. There was no blood on the ladder, as he might have expected. In fact, he didn’t scent Claudia McEvers or her killer on it. No popcorn or maraschino cherries, either. But he did smell the other odors of the alley, the smells that had been there before Claudia McEvers’ murder. That would place the man in the alley before she’d been killed. Maybe he was innocent of all of this.

  Sometimes a ladder was just a ladder, and a cook was just a cook.

  He must have felt Vincent’s gaze on him. His heartbeat accelerated into overdrive and fear-sweat clogged Vincent’s nostrils. The man was terrified. Feigning nonchalance, he walked over to a deep fryer and lifted up the basket, checking the fries dripping with hot oil. He was trembling.

  Vincent continued his journey to the bathroom, opened the door so that it appeared that he had gone inside, and texted Catherine:

  Yes. He’s here. Wait. Conceal.

  He waited for the guy to leave the kitchen.

  Bingo.

  Now in a black jacket, the cook furtively darted into the hall and hurried into the dining room. Vincent heard the front door open and close. He moved back into the dining area himself, dropped some bills beside his cup, and left.