by Susan Fleet
But that didn't change the facts. He might have helped crack the Gardner case, but Natalie Brixton had escaped.
He checked the time. 1:15 AM. Already Sunday, Day Three on Homicide #98, Angelique dead on the floor in a pool of blood, her distraught son wailing for his mother, who'd been shot by his father. By the end of the year the homicide count would be over a hundred.
“Okay, Frank, truce,” Kelly said. “It's late and we have to work tomorrow. You want to sleep here?”
“Not tonight. I need to grab a few winks before I go back to the office.” If he could get to sleep, his mind going 100 mph, reviewing what he'd already done and what still needed to be done.
Kelly rose from her chair and kissed him. “Thanks for letting me vent, Frank. Not that it changes anything, but it helps to know that you understand how I feel.”
He caressed her cheek. “I understand completely. We'll get him sooner or later, Kelly.”
And sooner or later he was going to get Natalie Brixton.
CHAPTER 6
SUNDAY December 12 1:30 PM – Venice
Mired in a melancholy mood, Natalie wrote her landlord a check for the balance of the lease and put it in the envelope on her kitchen table with the note. So sorry to terminate the lease, but I must go to America. My mother is ill. She included no forwarding address. Other than utility bills she received no mail here. Her check would cover any recent charges.
Last night she had talked to Pak Lam, leader of a Chinese tong in Boston, known to associates as the Mountain Man. She leaned back in the chair, picturing her adopted father, his glossy black hair, warm dark eyes, and the terrible scar on his face. The disfigurement he had suffered when he took revenge upon the men who had murdered his wife and six-year-old twins.
In August he had given her the passports he had obtained for his son and daughter, born two months before her own birth. Now her photos were on the passports. In the Ling Lam photo, the one she was using now, she had long black hair. In Liang's passport photo her hair was short. Disguised as a young man, she had used it to escape her pursuers and fly to Europe. Tomorrow she would use it to escape from Venice.
Take a train to Geneva, Switzerland, Pak Lam had told her, and board another train to Lyon, France. His contact would meet her at the station. Chinese tongs knew no borders. Pak Lam had contacts all over the world. As soon as her bank opened tomorrow she would close her account and take a taxi to the train station.
Giancarlo wanted to take her to the Guggenheim tomorrow, but she'd managed to stall him off until Tuesday. When he came to get her and she didn't answer the door, what would he think? Would he miss her? She'd grown rather fond of him, not the intense love she'd felt for Willem, but he was a pleasant companion and a considerate lover. Unlike some men she'd known, he had treated her well.
Two weeks ago he had taken her to La Perla, an expensive restaurant on the island of Murano, where the world-famous Venetian glass was made. After a sumptuous meal—zuppa di pesce, ravioli stuffed with chicken, and grilled sea bass accompanied by glasses of fine wine—they walked hand in hand to the vaporetto stop. But Giancarlo said, “No water bus tonight. I'll hire a gondola.”
“No,” she protested. “It's too expensive.” But he had insisted.
Their gondolier, an older man dressed in the traditional white shirt with horizontal navy stripes and dark baggy trousers, said, “I give the two lovebirds a romantic ride back to Venice and sing for you, no extra charge.” His price: almost 200 dollars, by her calculation.
They stepped into the gondola and settled onto the padded seat. Giancarlo put his arm around her, holding her close as the gondola cruised under the moonlight and the twinkling stars. After they passed the St. Mark station and entered the Grand Canal, the gondolier began to sing “Nessun Dorma,” from Puccini's opera Turandot.
“A beautiful love song,” Giancarlo murmured, hugging her closer. “A fitting aria for a beautiful woman who has charmed me completely.” Then he launched into a lusty version of O Sole Mio. The gondolier frowned at him, and they fell out laughing. Captivated by the moonlight and Giancarlo's amorous overtures, she had invited him into her bed for the first time. She could still remember her shuddering climax and his murmured endearments as they lay in bed afterwards.
But she couldn't think about that now. She had to forget Giancarlo's endearments, his charming smile and his sexy dark eyes. Forget Venice, too. She was no longer safe here.
She went in her bedroom, towed her suitcase to the living room and parked it beside the sofa. Her travel outfit was in the bedroom, a short black wig, well-worn jeans and the MIT sweatshirt she wore when masquerading as Liang Lam. Another chapter of her life was about to begin. C'est la vie. After tomorrow she would be speaking French again.
She returned to the kitchen and heated some minestrone soup for lunch. But she had no appetite. For many years she had made her way through life alone. No family. No close friends. Always running. Always hiding. Trusting no one. Tomorrow she would leave Venice forever. She should be relieved. Instead she felt only a deep sadness.
She didn't want to live in another new city, hiding her identity, lying to people, keeping her distance, confiding in no one.
Venice held so many happy memories. The elderly Italian men in the cafe where she got coffee each morning, smiling at her and saying good morning. Her daily run along the canals, the glorious sunlight sparkling on the still waters, her camaraderie with the women at the shelter.
Most of all she would miss the children in her ESL class, gazing up at her with adoring eyes. For the first time in her life she felt like she was doing something positive and good. Teaching little kids in a shelter for battered women how to speak English in case their mothers had to flee to a safer city, or another country perhaps, where English was spoken.
How could she leave them?
The doorbell cut into her joyous memories, sending her heart racing.
Polizia! They had seen her on the security tapes at the Guggenheim Museum and wanted to question her. But if she didn't answer the door, they would assume she wasn't home and come back another time.
She ran to the living room and shut off her stereo, cutting off the Chet Baker CD she'd put on to dispel her mournful mood. She heard footsteps on the stairs. Rigid with fear, she stared at the door.
A soft tap sounded on it. “Laura? It's Giancarlo.”
At first she felt relieved that it wasn't the polizia. But why was he here? He never came here without calling first. She didn't want to talk to him, but there was no way to avoid it. She took a deep breath to calm herself and looked around the room.
Damn! Her suitcase stood beside the sofa, and her Beretta was hidden inside. “Just a minute,” she called.
She carried the suitcase into her bedroom, ran to the far side of the bed and laid the suitcase flat on the floor out of sight. Giancarlo wouldn't be coming into her bedroom today.
She returned to the living room, took a moment to slow her breathing, unlocked the door and opened it.
Giancarlo stood there, not smiling, his dark eyes serious. “Sorry to stop by without calling, but I've got some questions for you.”
Alarm bells clanged in her mind. “About what?” she said, making no move to invite him inside.
“About what you told me last night.” He pushed open the door, stepped into the room and shut the door, gazing at her, his lips set in a grim line. He seemed angry. But no more angry than she was.
An eerie calm settled over her. If someone challenges you, attack.
“Is this so important you had to interrupt my lunch and barge into my apartment uninvited?”
His expression hardened. “You've been lying to me, Laura. Or should I call you Natalie?”
Her stomach clenched in a spasm of fear. How did he know her real name?
“What are you talking about?” she said.
He smiled, not his usual charming smile, a triumphant smile.
“Ever since we met you've been lying to me, Natali
e. Pretending to be an innocent teacher of English. Ling Lam on your passport, calling yourself Laura.”
Stunned, she saw her world crumble like an iceberg shedding chunks of ice into the frigid sea, just as it had in Boston four years ago. Oliver, her lover, saying his CIA-agent friend had investigated her, saying he knew who she really was. Forcing her to kill him.
Now it appeared that Giancarlo also knew who she was.
Her heart turned to stone.
Like Oliver, Giancarlo had deceived her, pretending to be her friend, lying even as he made love to her. Questioning her, like Oliver.
How did he know about her fake passport? Not that it mattered. She had to get out of here, now, not tomorrow. The Beretta was in her suitcase, fully loaded. She didn't want to shoot him, but if he tried to stop her, she would. As these thoughts whirled through her mind, she maintained a neutral expression, revealing nothing.
Which seemed to make him angrier. “My Europol colleagues and I have been tracking you for months. Natalie Brixton, traveling under false names on fake passports. Probably because of the warrants for your arrest in America. One murder in Boston, three more in New Orleans. Another for stealing two priceless paintings from the Gardner Museum in Boston.”
Bile rose in her throat. He knew everything. He worked for Europol. If they sent her back to America, she would spend the rest of her life in jail. No way was she going to let that happen.
Anger exploded inside her like a mushroom cloud, worse than when a wealthy businessman had held a gun on her in a New Orleans motel, intent on raping her. But she had defeated him, and she would defeat Giancarlo, too. Every man she'd ever known was susceptible to flattery.
She would lull him into a false sense of security, disable him with one of her Taekwondo moves and escape.
“You never cared for me at all,” she said tonelessly. “It was all an act.”
Emotion flickered in his eyes. Embarrassment? Regret?
Then his eyes grew cold. “You are a very attractive woman, Natalie. You use this to make men do what you want. You've had plenty of practice, right? Working as a prostitute in Paris and London?”
Fighting the fury that raged inside her, she said nothing.
This evil man had slept with her, knowing all along he was going to arrest her. He didn't deserve to live.
“You lied when you told me you hadn't seen the exhibit at the Guggenheim. You were there on Friday when the shootings happened.”
Her worst fears, confirmed. He'd spotted her on the security tapes. Damned if she'd admit it. How could she have allowed this vile man to seduce her? But she could play a role, too, submissive woman, distraught that he didn't love her.
Using the acting skills she'd studied in high school, she conjured a few tears, brushed them away as they spilled down her cheeks. “You lied to me, Giancarlo. Even when we were making love, you felt nothing for me. It was just business, to make me think you cared about me.”
He clenched his jaw, gazing at her. He opened his mouth as if to reply, closed it, and gestured at her sofa. “Sit down. We need to talk.”
“Don't order me around. I'm not your property.” She turned and stalked into the kitchen. Standing beside the table, she spooned up a mouthful of minestrone soup and forced herself to swallow, planning her moves as he entered the kitchen.
He studied the table, then the counter, searching for something incriminating no doubt. He wouldn't find anything. Her passports were in her purse in the bedroom, but she'd make sure he never saw them. He turned away from the stove and approached her.
Now that she was cornered, a distraught woman scorned by her lover, he seemed happy. Strike when he least expects it.
Her body tensed. Coiled like a cobra. Without warning, she whirled in a spin move and kicked his head.
But at the last instant he pulled back, so it was only a glancing blow. He fell to the floor with a heavy grunt, massaging his head. But sprawled beside the table, he lay between her and the doorway to the living room. She had to get the Beretta before he recovered.
She took two steps back, gathered herself and leaped over him.
Quick as a snake, his hand shot out and he grabbed her right ankle.
She lost her balance and fell to her hands and knees beside the table. Bracing her hands on the floor, she jerked her leg, kicking at him.
But his fierce grip imprisoned her ankle. Damn him to hell!
She grabbed the bowl of soup and threw it in his face.
“Aaah!” He let go of her ankle, grimacing as he wiped broth and bits of noodles from his eyes.
She sprang to her feet and raced through the living room, breathing hard, her heart pounding.
Seconds later she heard footsteps behind her.
Frantic, she raced into the bedroom, circled the bed and opened the suitcase. She pawed through her clothes, flinging them aside, desperate to get her hands on the Beretta.
He charged into the room. “Strega! You're all packed and ready to go, aren't you?”
Like a dog digging up a bone, she flung T-shirts and trousers on the floor until she saw the Beretta, inches from her grasp.
His fist hit the side of her head. Pain shot up her cheek into her eye socket. Before she could recover, he yanked her to her feet.
She slapped his face. “Basta! Vafangulo!” Bastard! Go fuck yourself!
He laughed. “Such naughty words from the prim English teacher!”
She clawed his cheek with her nails, drawing blood.
He hit her again and shoved her down on the bed, pinning her against the headboard. Through clenched teeth, she said, “What, you're going to rape me now?”
“I have no interest in having sex with you,” he said coldly. “Now we will sit down and I will tell you what will happen if you do not cooperate.”
Gripping her arms, he dragged her into the kitchen. Avoiding the puddle of soup on the floor, he sat her down at the table. “Do you promise not to run? Or must I tie you to the chair?”
She spat in his face. “I promise nothing.”
He slapped her again, bringing tears of pain to her eyes. “Suit yourself, bitch.”
He took plastic flex-ties out of his pocket and cuffed her to the chair, first one wrist, then the other. Gripping her jaw in his hand, he said, “You have two choices, Natalie. Cooperate or go back to America to face those murder charges.”
She closed her eyes, picturing Frank Renzi, the relentless homicide detective.
“Look at me!”
She opened her eyes and glared at him. “You're disgusting.”
He smiled, the pseudo-charming smile she knew so well.
“No, I am Europol Agent John Conti, working with Generale Cesare Valenti, head of the Venice carabiniere. We want to catch the men who murdered Sophia Ruffino and put her husband in the hospital. We hope to rescue their five-year-old daughter, Bianca.”
The girl she'd seen in the museum with the terror-stricken eyes.
“Soon they will fly to New York City. The wife of one of the robbers wants to hire a nanny to care for the girl. We want you to be their nanny.”
Natalie said nothing. If that's all they wanted, maybe she would cooperate. For a time she had lived in New York City. After she got there, she would find a way to escape.
“What do I get in return?”
“The murder charges in Boston and New Orleans will be dropped. You will plead guilty to the theft of two paintings from the Gardner Museum and be put on probation. No jail time.”
“He will never agree to this.”
Conti frowned. “Who?”
“Frank Renzi. He will never agree to it.”
“How do you know?”
“He hates me. I shot him once and he has never forgotten it.”
Her tormentor smiled. “Perhaps I can persuade him.”
She said nothing, thinking, When hell freezes over.
CHAPTER 7
MONDAY December 13 – 7:45 AM – New Orleans
Frank finished checkin
g his messages, left his desk and stared out the Homicide office window. It was a gloomy day, dark and dreary to match his mood. Seventy-two hours after Angelique's murder they didn't have squat. Nothing useful from the tipline, no chatter on the street, no tips from any CIs. David was at Iberville digging for leads, hoping to catch people before they went to work.
Yesterday he and David had wasted three hours driving to Bay St. Louis. Rumor had it that King Rock, supplier of good times in New Orleans, had branched out to the Gulf coast, using his cousin to supply gamblers with their drug of choice: crack, heroin, coke or Oxy pills. His cousin, Tariq Barrett, street name Ace, lived near two gambling casinos.
Feigning innocence, Ace said he had no clue why they had any interest in him. Frank told him to cut the shit and tell them where King Rock was. Ace claimed he hadn't seen him for weeks. They searched the apartment, found nothing to indicate King Rock had been there, and drove back to New Orleans.
Because Rocket Man had fed him a load of crap.
Contemplating the day ahead, he sipped his take-out coffee. Last night he'd slept almost four hours, not nearly enough to prepare him for today's problems. Vobitch was at Headquarters. Thanks to the incessant media drumbeat, the NOPD top brass were up in arms because a young woman had been murdered in a public housing project. When Vobitch got back, Frank had to deliver his daily report. No murder weapons, no SUV registered to King Rock, no clue as to his whereabouts.
The only good news: last night he'd gone to see Kenyon, who looked a lot better than the last time he'd seen him. Last night he was sitting in a chair beside his hospital bed, his bandaged leg elevated on the footrest. Tanya was thrilled. Kenyon was going home on Monday. Kenyon was too, but he had put on a show, pissed and moaned, saying he'd have Tanya on his back, making him do his PT exercises.
His phone rang. Hoping David had a lead on King Rock, he grabbed it and said, “Renzi.”
“Detective Renzi, this is Agent John Conti calling from Venice, Italy. I understand you were involved in the investigation of an art theft at the Gardner Museum four months ago.”