A Killer Past

by Maris Soule

  At the same time Jack pressed the doorbell, he also heard a car door open and close. A glance back told him a man had gotten out of the Impala and was walking toward Mary Harrington’s house. Jack watched the man as he neared and noted several things. The guy walked with an air of self-assurance, looked to be in his fifties or sixties, and had a touch of gray in his brown hair. Although the temperature had to be in the mid-thirties, the man wasn’t wearing an overcoat, and his suit looked tailor-made. Jack could also tell the guy was carrying. The gun barely made an impression beneath the black jacket, but years of experience had taught Jack the signs of a concealed weapon – the way a jacket hung and moved as it brushed over the holster.

  Jack automatically moved his arm to his side, ready to reach for his weapon.

  The man walking toward him smiled and moved his arms away from his sides in a passive gesture, but Jack didn’t relax. ‘Afternoon, Sergeant,’ the man said as he neared. ‘She’s not home. At least she’s not answering the door.’

  ‘Have we met before?’ Jack asked, wondering how the man knew his rank.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. I’m Agent Burrows. Department of Special Forces.’ He stopped a comfortable distance away.

  Jack watched as Burrows removed a folder from his inside pocket and flipped it open, showing a badge and ID card. He handed it to Jack, who took a moment to read the information.

  The Presidential Seal looked official, the photo a decent picture of the man standing in front of him, and the name – David Jerome Burrows – followed by the word ‘Agent’. Jack handed the folder back. ‘And you know me because…?’

  Again Burrows smiled. ‘I looked you up, Sergeant. Jack Rossini, Criminal Investigator for the Rivershore Police Department. Age fifty-eight. Widower. Two sons, one working for the FBI. You shouldn’t use your son to do your investigating, Sergeant.’

  There’d been a hint of warning in that last statement. When his son said he’d be contacted, Jack hadn’t expected it to be a personal meeting. ‘I believe in being thorough,’ he said, unwilling to make excuses for asking John’s help.

  ‘Has Mrs Harrington been involved in a crime?’

  That was the rub. ‘Not officially.’

  ‘So this is personal?’ Agent Burrows gave him a quizzical look. ‘Isn’t she a bit old for you?’

  It took Jack a moment before he understood and laughed. ‘It’s nothing romantic.’

  ‘Then what is it?’

  Jack didn’t like being questioned, didn’t like feeling threatened. Although he hadn’t seen Burrows move, the man seemed closer than before. Jack had to look up to see his face. ‘I think she was attacked a couple weeks ago.’

  ‘Is she all right?’

  Jack heard the concern in Burrows’ voice, saw it in his eyes. ‘She’s fine.’ His turn to smile. ‘I can’t say the same for the two boys who attacked her.’

  Burrows nodded. ‘What did she say about the attack?’

  ‘That’s the problem, she denies she was attacked, says she wasn’t there.’

  ‘But you’re sure she was.’

  If he hadn’t been before, he was now. Agent Burrows’ presence was telling more than the agent probably intended. ‘Who was she before she moved here?’

  ‘No one you need to worry about.’

  He wished that were true. ‘The two boys that jumped her were part of a gang. I’m pretty sure they’re looking for revenge. Her place was broken into last night.’

  ‘And…?’ Burrows frowned. ‘What did she do?’

  ‘She was at a meeting when the break-in occurred. She called us when she realized someone had been in the house.’

  ‘Anything taken?’

  ‘She said no.’ But Jack knew she’d lied before. Why not this time, too? ‘Is there something they could have taken that she wouldn’t want the police to know about?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Burrows said, again smiling.

  The guy’s smug attitude irked Jack ‘I can’t say I’ve ever heard of the Department of Special Forces.’

  ‘We try to keep a low profile.’

  ‘When she was younger, was Mrs Harrington a member?’

  ‘No.’

  That was all Burrows said. A flat ‘no’ that Jack interpreted to mean ‘End of conversation’. But he wasn’t ready to end it. ‘I know she’s had martial arts training. I couldn’t find any record of her being in the military. FBI? CIA?’

  ‘It’s time you drop the investigation, Sergeant.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘Your actions could have consequences.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’ Jack had never responded well to threats.

  Once again Burrows gave Jack a smug smile. If the man was going to say anything more, he didn’t have a chance. The sound of a car caught their attention, and both Burrows and Jack looked up the street. Jack recognized the gray Chevy as the one parked on Archer Street the night before Halloween and registered to Harry Harrington, now deceased.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  MARY SLOWED HER car as she neared her house. She recognized Sergeant Jack Rossini, but she wasn’t quite sure about the other man standing by her front door. He looked vaguely familiar. A memory from her past? She knew they’d seen her, that Rossini must have recognized the car. For a brief moment she considered driving by, but just as quickly, she realized that wouldn’t solve anything.

  Besides, she was curious about the other man.

  Where did she know him from?

  Damn old age. The memory was definitely going. She hated it when she couldn’t remember a word or a name. It was there, on the tip of her tongue, but not there. It would come to her later, sometimes hours later.

  Absolutely frustrating.

  She pulled onto her driveway and parked. She’d nailed the garage door shut last night, after the police left. If someone was going to break in through the garage, it wouldn’t be as easy this time. Not with all the nails she’d used.

  She left the groceries she’d purchased in the car. She wanted her hands free when she talked to the two men. Not that she thought Rossini would try anything, but something about the way the other man stood made her wary. He made her think of a leopard, poised to attack, his eyes riveted on her, slightly narrowed and piercing.

  It came to her then … who he was. David Burrows had been twenty-one when he joined ADEC. He was six years her junior, fresh out of college, smart, and ambitious. Even back then he’d narrowed his eyes the same way when concentrating. In his twenties, he’d been tall and lanky. He was still tall, but over the years his shoulders had broadened, and she noticed his suit didn’t completely conceal the weight he’d gained around his middle. He’d also acquired crow’s feet near his eyes, a set of worry lines near his mouth, and quite a bit of gray in his sideburns. Not that any of those changes made him less attractive than back when they worked together. What a pair they’d made. While she seduced the men, David’s looks had captured the women’s attention. She’d liked him back then, maybe too much, but they’d kept their relationship professional, and when she left the agency, she’d told him he’d go far. He’d said he hoped so.

  ‘Is it really you?’ she asked, looking at David as she neared the two men, but afraid to use his name in case he was using another.

  ‘David Burrows in the flesh,’ he said, giving her a wink before he looked over at Rossini. ‘The sergeant here was telling me your house was broken into last night. How dreadful.’

  ‘It was upsetting,’ Mary said, not quite sure why either man was at her house. ‘Sergeant Rossini, what brings you here? I thought I told those two officers everything they needed to know last night.’

  ‘Just doing a little follow-up.’ Rossini glanced at the man standing near him. ‘Agent Burrows here has been filling me in on your past.’

  Mary doubted that, and she saw the slight shake of David’s head. The message was there. Tread carefully. ‘It’s been a long time since David and I have seen each other. A very long time.’ She smiled
and looked at David. ‘You’re an agent now?’

  ‘With the Department of Special Forces.’

  ‘We met when I was traveling in Europe,’ she told Rossini, sticking to the story she’d been given when leaving the agency and hoping David hadn’t said anything to the contrary. She looked at David. ‘How did you know where I lived?’

  ‘I saw your picture in an article about physical fitness. I was surprised. You were always one to avoid publicity.’

  His message was subtle but there: she shouldn’t have given the interview.

  ‘That article was a mistake on my part,’ she said, willing to admit her mistake.

  ‘It’s on the Internet now, you know.’

  She hadn’t known. ‘Big mistake,’ she repeated.

  ‘I thought it was a good article,’ Rossini said, watching her a bit too closely for her comfort.

  She shrugged. ‘As David said, I don’t really like publicity.’

  Rossini kept looking at her. ‘So I’ve noticed.’

  ‘The sergeant said you’ve been having some problems with a local gang.’

  ‘He seems to think so.’

  ‘Come on, now,’ Rossini said. ‘Are you going to tell me you don’t think they broke into your place last night?’

  He sounded irritated. She didn’t care. ‘I have no idea who broke into my house.’ And that was the truth. ‘Anyone could have. Ella advertised that meeting all over the neighborhood. I’m surprised other houses weren’t broken into with all of us at the school.’ It would seem logical. ‘Were other houses broken into?’

  ‘None that we’re aware of.’

  ‘Well, they didn’t take anything, so maybe we all came home before they had a chance to do more than break into my place. Now, is there anything else?’ She wanted Rossini gone so she could talk to David, see what he’d said to Rossini, and if that damn article had compromised her situation … turned her into a termination.

  Rossini looked at David, then at her. ‘I suppose I could come back later.’

  ‘Good. My friend and I have some catching-up to do.’

  Again he looked at the two of them. ‘I’ll bet you do. I’ll see you later, Mrs Harrington.’

  She watched him go to his car. David said nothing, but she was aware of his presence, the way he was looking at her. Only after Rossini drove away did she face her former partner. ‘Well, I won’t say it’s good to see you, not under the circumstances. Should I bother getting the groceries out of my car, or figure I’m not going to be around long enough to worry about anything spoiling?’

  He smiled. ‘It’s good to see you, Pan. And I’ll help you with those groceries.’

  ‘I’m Mary, now,’ she said as David walked with her back to her car. ‘Mary Harrington. But, of course, you already know, don’t you?’ He would have seen her name in that article. ‘It’s not the article and picture that has him nosing around.’ She handed him the heaviest of the two bags of food. ‘It’s because I was attacked by a couple of punks.’

  ‘The sergeant said you came out the better in that confrontation, but won’t admit it.’

  ‘Came out the better?’ She laughed and pushed the car door shut. ‘I nearly had a heart attack. Had bruises and sore muscles for a week.’ She led the way to her front door. ‘I thought I was in decent physical shape. Well, let me tell you, I’m not. This getting old is the pits.’

  He chuckled. ‘You’re telling me. I worked out with one of the younger agents last week and was stiff and sore for days. I’ve had a desk job for too long.’

  ‘You’re looking good.’ She glanced his way before turning the key in the door. ‘Damn good. You married?’

  He shook his head. ‘You know how it is in this job.’

  ‘So is ADEC now called the Department of Special Forces?’

  ‘It is this week. Today.’ He followed her into the kitchen. ‘The badge generally works, especially with these smaller police forces. Ever since 9/11 anything that sounds like national security works.’

  ‘Congress still has no idea what the agency does?’

  ‘Not so far, thank goodness.’

  She picked up on his irritation and looked back at him. ‘Not so far?’

  ‘A couple of hotshot senators have decided to take a closer look at the budget. Gotta seem like they’re trimming the deficit, you know. The assholes are questioning every expenditure. Asking questions about what we actually do.’

  David had always had a negative opinion of politicians, so his attitude toward members of Congress didn’t surprise her. ‘You think they’ll figure out ADEC isn’t really worried about controlling the environment?’

  He grunted. ‘I told them the money is used to rid the environment of anything that will damage our way of life here in the United States. They don’t need to know anything more.’

  She sat her bag of groceries on the counter and turned to face him. ‘And is that why you’re here, David? To get rid of me before I damage the agency’s way of life?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  She knew the answer. ‘That you wouldn’t tell me if you were. That if you are here to eliminate me, one of these days, maybe today, Sergeant Rossini will find me dead, and it will either appear that I died of natural causes or that I committed suicide. Or maybe it will look like that gang did it. No one will know who I was or what I did in the past. Mary Smith Harrington will be buried next to her husband. One more loose end tied up.’

  ‘Rossini has been checking into your past, you know.’

  ‘He’s a nosy cop.’

  ‘Someone else, too.’

  ‘Someone else? Who?’

  ‘Peter Dubois.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone by that name.’

  ‘You killed his mother.’

  ‘Oh.’ She stared at him, remembering back in time. The boy coming in the back door, calling out, ‘Mama.’ The look on his face, seeing her with the gun in her hand, his mother on the floor. Bleeding. Dead.

  In that instant, she’d raised the gun and pointed it at the boy, thoughts flying through her head. She could have shot him, made it look like Mendez killed both the mother and her son. But no one had told her there’d be a boy. Pandora Coye’s assignment was to kill an international drug dealer’s girlfriend using the dealer’s own gun to commit the murder.

  According to the file they gave her on the woman, her name was Isabella – Isabella da Bello – and she was not only Dario Mendez’s girlfriend but also his partner. She was an Italian, in her mid-thirties, of medium height and build, with dark hair and brown eyes.

  There was nothing in the file about children.

  Maybe, if there’d been a decent picture of the woman, Pandora would have realized she’d been given the wrong address, was at the wrong house. But no, the only pictures she’d seen of Isabella da Bello were grainy, distant shots, and the woman who lived at the house Pandora entered fit Isabella’s description. At least she sort of did.

  Turned out Francine Dubois was French, not Italian, and Francine Dubois had a six-year-old son.

  Kill the boy.

  That day, almost forty-five years ago, those words had echoed in her head. She’d known she should kill the boy. Had to. If the boy lived, he would tell the police his mother wasn’t murdered by Dario Mendez but by a woman. A woman the child could identify.

  Kill the boy.

  In his eyes, she’d seen the shock, the disbelief, and then the fear. Finger on the trigger, she’d fought an internal war. He was so young, was an innocent. Why didn’t they tell her the woman had a son?

  She knew that within the hour Dario Mendez would die in a car accident. That was David’s assignment. The French police would probably find Mendez’s car and his body in the ravine along the side of the road to his house after they found his girlfriend’s body. They would assume the drug dealer shot his girlfriend, and then died on his way home. After all, the gun used to kill da Bello would be found in the car with his body. The police would write it off as fate, an evil man kille
d by his own recklessness.

  At least that was how it was supposed to go.

  But she’d never killed a child. Never.

  Mary shook off the memory. ‘This Peter Dubois,’ she said. ‘Is he still living in France?’

  ‘His maternal grandparents adopted him. They brought him back to the United States and he grew up in Florida. From what we’ve discovered, he’s worked at a series of dead-end jobs, was fired from several and quit others, but he’s a whiz with computer stuff.’

  She had a feeling she already knew the answer, but she asked anyway. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘We don’t know where for sure, but he’s somewhere here in Michigan.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  BACK AT THE police station, Jack ignored Allison when she said an Ella Williams had called twice and wanted to talk to Phil or him. He didn’t go to his desk, didn’t take off his windbreaker, and didn’t pay attention to the blinking light on his phone. Without a word to anyone, he headed straight for the chief’s closed door.

  He rapped his fist against the wood harder than necessary, the tension in his body needing an outlet. All the way back to the station he’d strangled the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Over and over he’d cursed himself for letting the presence of a man – a complete stranger – intimidate him.

  Not once in his twenty-four years with the Rivershore Police Department, or his ten years on the force in Chicago, had he actually felt his life was at risk simply by talking to another man. Even the day his partner was shot and killed, and he himself was dodging bullets, he hadn’t felt the same sense of danger. Back then, the adrenaline had kept him going, had guided his reactions. Only after the shooter had been killed did Jack’s legs start shaking and the realization of how close he’d come to being shot himself set in.

  ‘Come in,’ Wally called out from the other side of the door.

  Jack stepped inside the office and closed the door behind him. For a moment he stood where he was, not quite sure what to say or do next. Then he headed for one of the two chairs in front of Wally’s desk and sank down onto it.