Dead Right

by Cate Noble

His daughter. To Dante’s knowledge, Remi St. James had no children.

  “Mom mentioned his daughter. Said we’d played together as young children, though I don’t recall it.” Dante shuffled the remaining photos he still held. “In fact, this is supposed to be a photograph Mr. Barry sent my mom a few years back.”

  Sally cocked her head to one side as she looked at the photograph of Catalina Dion. “I’m not sure. The hair’s different. But…” Using her fingers, she cropped off the blond hair, then nodded. “Yes, that’s her. I only met her twice, but I recognize her eyes.”

  Cat’s eyes. Dante blocked the memory of flashing green eyes.

  “What’s different about the hair?” he asked.

  “When I met her, it was shoulder length and red. A tacky artificial orange-red. Like a wig.”

  “And when did you last see her?”

  Sally glanced at the calendar on the wall. “The day her father died. July second.”

  Chapter 15

  Freeport, Grand Bahamas

  July 8

  (Present Day)

  Lunch with Sally yielded little new information regarding Remi St. James. According to her, Mr. Barry had been treated like an A-list celebrity.

  “I wasn’t even certain that was his real name,” she admitted. “We do have patients who come and go under extreme privacy measures. Frequently, the administrative staff aren’t even aware of their presence.”

  Over the course of an hour and a half, Dante learned that St. James had been a patient at the clinic for less than three months and that initially the treatment appeared to arrest and reverse the progression of his Alzheimer’s.

  “Unfortunately, about a month ago, he suffered a stroke,” Sally said. “Which left him largely paralyzed and unable to continue with the treatment.”

  Dante read between the lines. Without the experimental drugs, St. James faced the certainty that the Alzheimer’s would return.

  Jesus, did the people coming here realize they faced eternal treatments? And had anyone questioned the connection between the treatment and the stroke?

  Focus on Cat. “You said his daughter only visited twice. When was the first time?”

  “Right after his stroke. Come to think of it, that first time she was accompanied by an elderly gentleman in a wheelchair.”

  This piqued Dante’s attention, and while Sally couldn’t provide any other description, it did prove Cat had an accomplice. No doubt the wheelchair was a ruse.

  “If Mr. Barry was paralyzed,” Dante said. “How did he kill himself?”

  “According to the coroner, he bit into a cyanide-type capsule. Technically, I suppose it was an assisted suicide.”

  Sally used the term as if it were a decision born of loving compassion. The Cat Dante recalled from the video had no such compassion.

  “Could it have been something other than an assisted suicide? I mean his daughter had just visited.”

  Sally dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. “No. Absolutely not. A nurse had been with him several hours after his daughter left. From what I understand, cyanide is fast acting. We do believe his daughter hid the capsule in his sheets, where he could access it with a slight turn of his head.”

  Dante grimaced at the thought of spending his days strapped to a bed, while slowly losing his mind. Yeah, cyanide would do the job.

  “In her own way,” Sally went on, “his daughter may have thought she was helping him. He, um, let it be known how he felt in regards to his prognosis.”

  “Guess we’ll never know.” At least not until Dante located Cat.

  Sally had driven her own car and had to rush off for an afternoon appointment, but before leaving she gave him her personal cell phone number with a sly wink. “Call anytime.”

  After settling the tab, Dante left the restaurant and made his way through the crowded Port Lucaya Marketplace. He’d suggested this spot for lunch both to support his image as a visitor and to get Sally as far removed from the office as possible. He wanted her guard lowered; he wanted to distance her from her business setting.

  It had worked. Short of producing St. James’s medical files—which the coroner had—she had answered his questions. And raised a few. Dante couldn’t reconcile the two images of Cat. One as a dark angel, one as a cold-blooded murderess. Her presence here on July 2 also skewed the timeline of events, the logistics.

  If Cat had indeed been in Freeport less than twelve hours before Dante’s boat blew, she had to have help. And Dante now had a pretty good idea who that helper was.

  He tugged out his cell phone and hit Travis Franks’s number. While waiting for the number to ring, he pressed the phone to his ear, trying to block the snatches of conversation that floated his way in English, Italian, and French. A small child cried in the universal language of tears.

  “I found St. James,” he said when Travis answered.

  “You don’t sound too happy about it.”

  “Hold on.” He ducked into an alcove, where it was quieter. Then he filled Travis in on what he’d learned.

  “Damn shame he’s gone,” Travis said. “The man was a legend. Did you convince your contact to let you have a look at his records?”

  “The clinic turned all his files over to the medical examiner. The ME’s holding his body, pending a full investigation.”

  “I’ve got contacts down there,” Travis said. “Maybe I can get prints to verify it was in fact St. James.”

  “I’m curious what his records have for personal data, too.” While it was likely all fabricated, Dante knew better than to assume. It wasn’t unusual for a big case to turn on the smallest, most unobtrusive slip.

  “There’s only one other person we can’t account for now,” Dante went on. “And that’s St. James’s former girlfriend, Giselle Barclay. She and Cat knew each other. The first time Cat visited St. James, she was accompanied by someone in a wheelchair. I suspect that may have been Giselle in disguise.”

  “Best friends forever,” Travis said.

  “No shit. Cat’s final visit here was the same day my boat was destroyed. Even with a private plane on standby, she would have been hard-pressed to have gotten to Key West in time to procure and set the explosives.”

  “I’ll start by getting the passenger manifests, both commercial and private, for July second.”

  “I can look over the lists, too.” Dante didn’t expect Cat to use one of her better-known aliases, but an obscure one might jump out.

  “I’ll also dig deeper on Barclay’s and St. James’s relationship,” Travis said. “When are you headed back to Key West?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Call me tomorrow.”

  After disconnecting, Dante rejoined the crowd. As he headed toward the taxi queue out front he stepped sideways to accommodate a woman pushing a double stroller the size of a Mac truck. He accidently brushed shoulders with a woman headed in the opposite direction.

  That’s when he smelled it.

  Cat’s cologne.

  Dante jerked as if physically struck. What the fuck?

  He sniffed the air but the elusive scent had already dissipated in the balmy breeze. Turning on his heels, he quickly retraced his steps.

  There! He caught the scent again.

  It was a no-brainer that she’d tailed him, and that she now wanted him to follow her trail. Alert, he eyed the crowd, looking for the trap. This had SET UP written all over it.

  “Come on, show yourself,” he muttered.

  Heading back toward the restaurant, he followed the maddening scent. It was stronger now. Consistent.

  He concentrated on the knot of people dead ahead, zeroing in on one woman who was hurrying away. From him. She was the right height, right build. A scarf covered her hair. One of Cat’s favorite tricks. In certain cultures/locales, a nondescript scarf hid hair color and style, made the person less noticeable.

  Moving in closer, Dante inhaled again, confirming that she was the source of the scent. She walked even faster now, her six
th sense undoubtedly kicking in and letting her know she was being followed.

  That was the point of this whole charade, right? To lead him to a more private spot, where she probably had an ambush ready. He had to keep her out in the open.

  No.

  He had to catch her. Now.

  Rage-tinged adrenaline roared in his ears as anticipation spiked. He was directly behind her. Sweet Jesus…this was it!

  He grasped her upper arm firmly and spun her back toward him, simultaneously pulling her tightly into his embrace.

  Touching her gave him a jolt. A blast of emotional overload. God, I love this woman.

  At the thought, a lightning bolt of electricity seemed to spear his brain, disorienting him. This woman…this bitch had betrayed him.

  He had her crushed fully against his chest now, her arms pinned. His hand slid up toward her neck.

  “Darling!” He brushed his lips close to hers. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  The woman’s shrill cry of outrage broke through the haze.

  A hand grasped Dante from behind just as it registered. This isn’t Cat. The woman he held was Asian and addressed him angrily in Japanese.

  It wasn’t…. her.

  The grip on his shoulder tightened. “Let go of my wife!”

  Dante complied immediately, moving backward, struggling to control and defuse. What the hell had just happened?

  “I am very sorry!” Dante said.

  The woman huddled behind her husband as Dante continued his apology, aware that more than one person stared. “Boy, did I mess up! My wife is wearing a scarf just like that. And she has that same cologne.”

  “And where is this wife of yours?” The man looked unconvinced.

  Dante twisted his head, taking in the crowd. “Beth was supposed to meet me here. If you’ll wait, I’m sure she’ll be along soon and you’ll see for yourself how I made the mistake.”

  The man turned to speak with his wife, in what Dante assumed was an explanation. The woman nodded and shrugged once, before shaking her head.

  “We do not wish to wait,” the man said. “In the future you should be more cautious.”

  “I will. But wait. Would you mind asking your wife the name of the cologne she’s wearing? Beth’s been hinting that she’s almost out and her birthday is next month. I’d like to pick some up, duty-free, as a surprise.”

  At first it seemed the man was going to refuse. Then he sighed and addressed his wife once again.

  This time the woman smiled. “Ahhh.” Opening her handbag, she withdrew a slip of paper and scribbled a note, which she passed to her husband with another flurry of Japanese.

  Clearly put out, the man quickly translated his wife’s writing to English before thrusting the paper at Dante. “She said it’s a custom blend and very expensive. From Hong Kong. Here’s the formula name and website, so you can order something similar.”

  Bowing in thanks, Dante watched them hurry away. He pocketed the note and immediately ducked inside the nearest shop. He pretended to look at a rack of souvenir shirts, forcing his hands to quit trembling.

  What was wrong with him? The blind rage that had come over him had been instantaneous and mind-numbing. He had been ready to shake the woman violently when he’d thought she was Cat.

  Yes, Dante had always had a temper, but he’d also always been able to control it. And yes, he wanted—hell, he lived for—the chance to even the score with Cat. But what he’d just felt, that strong desire—need—to snap her spine in half, had been nearly uncontrollable. He had to get a grip here.

  Dante pulled out the scrap of paper and read the woman’s note. He hadn’t considered that the cologne was a private label, and yet it made perfect sense. Cat used to tease that few men could afford to cater to her fondness of designer clothes, expensive jewelry. The woman had champagne tastes.

  He wanted to contact the perfumery ASAP, figure out a way to access their customer list. If by chance they kept it on computer…

  Feeling calmer, Dante left the store. Tugging out his cell phone again, he punched in Rocco’s phone number. He needed to bring his friend up to speed on Remi St. James, but he also wanted to see what kind of contacts Rocco had in Hong Kong.

  For the first time since the explosion, he felt encouraged. He hadn’t caught up to her yet, but he was getting closer. He could feel it.

  Perhaps the cologne was a bigger clue than he realized.

  Chapter 16

  Key West, Florida

  July 8

  (Present Day)

  Rocco shifted his laptop onto the coffee table in Dante’s living room. Damn thing was scorching his legs.

  DOWNLOADING…35% COMPLETE flashed on and off. He closed his eyes, felt the fatigue of reading an LCD screen for too long.

  Travis had been sending copies of Rocco’s case files. He’d omitted the ones that duplicated what Dante already had, but still the number of cases they hadn’t worked together surprised him.

  Initially, he’d been printing them, but ran out of ink cartridges and didn’t want to stop to run to the store. And so far, nothing major—or even minor—had surfaced. He hoped that would change with this next batch; the cases he’d worked while Dante had been believed dead.

  Gone, he corrected. If Rocco lived ten thousand years, he’d still never forgive himself for not looking harder, faster, better. The thought of his friend being held and tortured all that time…It sickened Rocco to recall how many times he’d been in Southeast Asia during that same period.

  Yeah, Dante wanted, and rightfully deserved, a full measure of vengeance, but damn it, Rocco burned for it, too. For his friend and for himself.

  He cracked an eyelid, to check the screen. 55% COMPLETE.

  “Shit!” A small warning flashed at the bottom. LOW BATTERY. How long had that sucker been on? He stood up, knocking a stack of files off the table. Where in the hell had he put the charger?

  Spying a black cord poking from under a stack of papers across the room, he quickly retrieved it. But not without triggering a file avalanche.

  Ignoring the mess, he plugged the laptop in. Five seconds to spare. Not bad. 75% COMPLETE. By the time he got another cup of coffee, it would be finished.

  If Dante’s place had looked like a disaster when he’d left yesterday, it now resembled a junkyard hit by an atomic bomb. And until they shredded and burned all these documents, he didn’t dare check on a maid service either.

  Searching the cabinets for garbage bags, Rocco grabbed several and started loading up the obvious secure trash—food wrappers, boxes, beer and soda bottles.

  Two trips to the Dumpster later, the place did look better. Still not the Taj Mahal, but better. Now his friend needed garbage bags and ink cartridges. And coffee.

  With the last cup of Joe in hand, he returned to his laptop. 95% COMPLETE. That last 5% always took the longest to download. Go figure.

  He glanced at the time: 3 p.m. He would need to take off late that evening to avoid—for as long as possible—the appearance that he and Dante were working together. And God knows he could sift through reports anywhere.

  Changing screens, he checked e-mail. It was too soon to expect any information out of Hong Kong, not that he expected any miracles on that front.

  After Dante had called from Freeport earlier this afternoon, Rocco had done a preliminary check on the perfumery. He recognized the address on the firm’s website: one of the newest shopping districts in Hong Kong. Millionaire Mall. Exclusive.

  He’d even called the place, under the guise of ordering perfume for his girlfriend. The proprietor spoke perfect English and, once started, chattered endlessly about his rare oils that spanned the globe from Russia to Rio, and how he had perfected a distillation process. Blah, blah, blah.

  When it came to perfumes, Rocco only cared how the end product smelled on female flesh. Naked flesh. The really good stuff didn’t need clothes to enhance it.

  Twice Rocco steered the conversation back to the specific bl
end the woman in Freeport had worn. In the background he’d heard the faint click of computer keys, as if the man were checking his records. That they were computerized held promise from a hacking aspect.

  “That fragrance has already been commissioned for four women. That’s our maximum,” the man apologized. “However, we can create something like it, yet different—better!—for you.”

  Four women. Was one an alias for Catalina Dion? Before hanging up, the man reminded Rocco that they cheerfully accepted all major credit cards. “Our initial consultation fee is five hundred dollars U.S.”

  Five hundred and no cologne yet?

  Obviously, Cat hadn’t changed. While Rocco had never gotten to know her well—he’d been pretty much consumed with his own personal disasters back in those days—what he recalled was a picture of class. The tasteful, understated kind purchased with Black Amex cards.

  Had that taste for the good life proved too tempting? When Remi St. James closed shop, had Cat found it easier to make a living selling secrets? The money could be colossal depending on what you knew. And whom you knew. Catalina Dion had worked for many different agencies, including the late, great Remi St. James. She had to be a freakin’ gold mine of knowledge.

  But what had caused her to turn? Or had that been her plan from the start? Infiltrate the allied world’s highest levels of security, earn accolades, earn trust, all while salting away secrets for a rainy day.

  He shook his head. It didn’t fit, but he’d learned long ago that logic rarely applied to anything outside of math and geometry.

  He scanned his e-mails, unable to resist opening a couple bawdy jokes from one of his buddies in Afghanistan. In a wired world, where a joke could be worn thin after two bouts with a handful of Microsoft Outlook users, this guy always had fresh stuff.

  Rocco’s computer burped—sound effects courtesy of that same buddy—signaling the download had finished. Closing out e-mail, he opened the new files and began perusing folders. There was one job in particular he was searching for.

  “Now where the fuck are you?”

  The last file—figures—was it. He pulled the computer back on his lap and began reading reports. Ever since Travis raised the possibility that the explosion could have been meant for both men, something had been bugging Rocco. Something that pertained to one specific job.