They filed through the door and headed down a back hall to the exit.
“On to Phase Two of ‘Catch the Murderer with the Media,’” Pixie said. Chauncey forced himself not to smile and pushed her ahead of him. He couldn’t wait for the reception.
Chapter 7
At the reception, every other person in attendance was either law enforcement or media. But the cover was perfect for the crowd since this was a reception to introduce the latest man on exchange from Scotland Yard, namely him. The BPD already had a reception planned, albeit not necessarily at the governor’s mansion and not necessarily with so many members of the press.
He’d practically wrestled with Sophia over her costume for the evening. Her only concession was to wear a dark wig in a gorgeous French twist-style updo, the special high heels and glasses over colored contact lenses to change her charming green eyes to brown. Still. He’d know her anywhere. The dress she wore did nothing to disguise her shape, which was their major bone of contention. She didn’t want to look dowdy in the outfit he wanted—but that was the point—to disguise her generous curves by making her appear overweight. She also refused the suggestion of special makeup to make her look older and gray hair at her temples. So much for her promise to obey.
It hadn’t helped that David was persuaded by Grace to take her side. At least they had the policewoman in her red wig and shimmery emerald dress as the decoy. She wore green contacts and flat shoes but little else to enhance her appearance. Not a great match, but Azzam hadn’t gotten a close look at Pixie. They were banking on it. A frisson of nerves at the back of his neck caused him to loosen his collar as he stood watching her.
Except for that one time, at the town house when he crashed the filming. Chauncey wasn’t sure at all how good a look Azzam had gotten of Pixie before he’d arrived. According to the film they’d watched sixty or so times, she’d fled as soon as she’d seen the man. But Azzam could have gotten a good look when he took his shot. That circling thought continued to disquiet him.
The rule was they wouldn’t speak to each other that evening. She was there as an executive assistant for the Exchange Program office in Boston. He watched her now, being escorted around by Joe who subbed in for him as her bodyguard for the night. They were chatting up one of the few blokes in the room who was not media or law enforcement. A visiting dignitary from Italy. He walked in their direction. Polly the policewoman looked up at him, puzzled.
“We should stay close. Let’s see if we can find out more about this Italian man,” he said to her. She nodded dutifully.
After an hour, as the affair remained uneventful, Chauncey took Polly, who he had a hard time remembering to address as Sophia, outside. “Let’s act like we’re leaving to see if we can stir things up, if there’s anything to stir up.”
When they got outside, they stood under the front portico, presumably waiting for their car to be pulled around. He said nothing. Polly looked up at him as if she were about to speak when an explosion tore the evening air.
“Sounds like that came from outside the front gate,” Chauncey said. He grabbed Polly’s arm and pulled her back. “I can’t see what’s going on. It’s on the other side of where the hedges and trees border the fence.” Several men responded, running from all corners of the property in the direction of the sound.
“It sounded like bottle rockets, but that could be him setting a trap. You stay here. Call David and let him know what’s going on,” he said to Polly and then took off down the drive toward the tree line, joining the half a dozen young men that had been stationed out front for this duty. Then it dawned on him, as he got almost to the bushes, that that left no one out front except Polly. He stopped short and turned, about to yell to her to go back inside, when he saw he was too late. She was gone and a van sped past him.
He took aim at the van’s tires. He didn’t dare aim at the windows. One of the tires blew out but the van kept going amidst the gunfire of several of the other men.
“Hold up your fire, there’s an officer on board,” he yelled. He spotted the car that Joe had been using to chauffeur him and Sophia around and ran for it. A couple of the men joined him. He jumped in the driver’s seat, checked to find the keys in the ignition and started it up. One of the men jumped in beside him. He nodded and then spoke to the others outside his car while he shoved the car into gear and jerked forward.
“Report to David and the governor right away. Azzam’s men have Polly in that van. There are at least two of them. I’m giving chase, but any hints on where they may be headed would be helpful. Have David call me.” He shouted the last as he sped away through the gate. He noticed a couple of men behind them jumping into another car.
He turned to the officer next to him. “I shouldn’t be driving. I have no blasted idea how to get around this city.” He swung the car left on screeching tires and they headed in the direction they’d seen the van go, but they quickly got to an intersection and had no clues about where the van had gone from there. He kept going straight and took his phone off the clip on his belt, pressed the number one, and waited for David to pick up.
“They’d be headed right here if they were going for the highway or headed to the airport,” the officer in his passenger seat told him anxiously.
“I doubt they’re leaving town just yet. They haven’t got what they came for. Namely me. Maybe they’ll slow down so I can catch up to them. Be prepared for an ambush.”
That got a look from the man. He called the officers behind him on his two-way and gave them the warning. Meanwhile, Chauncey continued to drive straight at breakneck speed until he spotted a van ahead. But it wasn’t the same van, unless they’d changed the plates in the middle of this chase.
“Damn it.” He lost his line. He pulled over and called David back again.
“We can’t give up chase now—that was Polly,” the officer said.
“We’ve lost them—for the moment,” Chauncey said. But he was busy thinking that this could be a double trap—a diversion to draw him out. David answered.
“Chauncey? Did you catch up with him?”
“No. Sophia…”
“Don’t worry, she’s under lock and key.”
“Any ideas of what direction they’re heading?”
“Yes. We had a lead that looks like a good bet—a warehouse behind a restaurant: Pier 4. Come back and pick me up. We’ll go in with backup,” David said.
“Who will stay with Sophia?” he shouted. This was not the excitement of cornering a perp but fear that the perp may be a step ahead and outwitting him.
“Don’t worry. We have her covered. This guy wants you so she’s safe with him out playing cat and mouse with us,” David said.
“I have a bad feeling about this. Part of his MO has always been to go after loved ones. As far as he knows, Pixie is a loved one.”
“Is she?”
“We don’t have time for this.” He shut everything else out but the task at hand. He couldn’t be two places at once, and neither could Azzam.
“It won’t be long before Azzam discovers his mistake.” The thought of what that might mean for Polly helped spike his adrenaline. “He thinks he has Pixie and we’ve got a police woman in captivity, hopefully still alive to find.”
He led three undercover police cars to the North End waterfront area. He pulled around to an outbuilding at the rear of the restaurant where their best lead indicated cell activity—possibly related to Azzam—was taking place.
The officer sitting next to Chauncey whispered, “A van. Over there. Parked near the outbuilding.” He pointed.
Chauncey gave instructions over the radio. “We’re eighty percent certain our target is in the outbuilding in the lot at two o’clock. We ready to surround the place? Quietly. No guns blazing—Polly could be inside.” He realized he didn’t know the American law enforcement technical terms and looked at his very young sidekick. The kid looked like Casper’s twin. But he firmed up his jaw, drew his mouth to a line resembling a ste
el cable and nodded. They got out of the car.
The men followed him in his cautious rush to the building. They heard nothing inside. Decision time. He had no idea of the rank or calibre of the assemblage of officers who’d joined him on this chase, but they’d all decided he was in charge. Chauncey decided to make one more call and stepped away from the building into some shadows at the far edge of the lot and rang David.
“We’re at the likely target, we’ve surrounded the small building and there’s not a sound coming from inside. My inclination is to bust in, but Polly is BPD, so I want your blessing on this.”
For a moment he heard the sound of David taking a deep breath on the other end of the line, then he spoke in a coarse voice. “It’s risky, but no time to dance around the matter. Go in. Good luck.”
Chauncey summoned the men on his side of the building and told them all to bust in on a ten count and to radio the other men to relay the message and the count. He gave them one more minute before he started. Sounds of traffic and people from the nearby restaurant filled the night. He strained to listen for noise coming from the building, but there was nothing. The van had been empty.
“On ten,” he said and counted down. The thought that he wasn’t wearing a vest flickered through his mind. But he was the first to go through the door, kicking it in easily. It hadn’t been locked. Dread froze his gut. Azzam had been expecting them.
“Careful. Doors were open—watch for a setup,” he shouted as the men moved forward cautiously.
The small space had only two rooms, and both were half-filled with boxes. They finished clearing it within twenty seconds except for one door that appeared to be a closet.
“Lights,” he shouted. An overhead bulb flicked on. He positioned himself to the side of the door with another man on the other side, kicked it open and led with his gun as he stepped into the room. The dim light from the main room covered what there was to see. He blocked the door, taking deep breaths to control his adrenaline and his rage. Polly lay faceup, draped over the toilet and stabbed straight through the heart with an ice pick and a note skewered to her body.
Chauncey’s gut churned, and he took one more breath so that he could speak. The men clamored behind him.
“What the hell is in there, sir? Is it Polly? Is she all right?” The young officer’s voice sounded in the chorus.
With his rage simmering, if not controlled, he spoke. “It’s Polly. She’s …dead.” He stepped inside and carefully removed the note. He felt a stabbing pain in his own chest as if the pick had pierced him. He turned and squeezed his eyes, willing himself to see only black.
When he came back out of the room, he had his phone to his ear waiting for David to pick up. “No one is to touch a goddamn thing. I’m calling HQ to send the ME.”
The note acknowledged that Azzam knew Polly wasn’t his “special Pixie friend” and that he was tired of chasing Chauncey around, but he’d find sufficient motivation for Chauncey to come to him—back in London.
They called to have the airports monitored immediately.
By the end of the day they still hadn’t seen him go through any of the airports along the East Coast and alerted all airports in the U.S.
“I know we would have spotted him no matter how clever his disguise may have been,” David insisted. It was late, but they still sat in the library of the governor’s mansion. He felt like an official part of the household now.
“That’s the problem,” Chauncey said. “We’ve only been watching U.S. airports. He probably went to Canada or Mexico and flew out of there. Especially since we could only cover the major border crossings.”
“I’ll call my man from Interpol and see if we can get any info on him, especially from Canadian sources, although it may be too late to stop him.”
“Maybe you and your lovely wife should go home, David. The doctor’s sedative must have knocked Pixie out by now.” He twirled the remains of a drink around the bottom of his glass. “We—I—shouldn’t have told her about Polly—not all the details.” He finally spoke the words that had been haunting him along with the note and the ice pick.
“She would have found out. The whole house knows. It was damn difficult to keep a lid on the press. Luckily no one from the reception caught up with you,” David said. He took his time standing and straightening from his cushy arm chair.
“Maybe. The implications are enormous for her.” He looked down at his glass. Then he stood to see David out.
“You care more for your assignment than is professionally warranted.” David slapped him on the back. “Tread carefully, my young man. I care very much about Pixie myself. I wouldn’t want to see either of you hurt—by Azzam or by each other.”
Chauncey gruffed a non-laugh. “You are wise. But unconvincing as you walk around with the likes of Grace on your arm.”
“Point taken,” David said and walked into the entry hall.
“In the meantime, I’ll warn my father.”
“Looks like I’ll have to resort to calling my wife on her cell. This blasted house is too big to traipse around looking for her.”
“I’m heading up that way now. I’ll send her down,” Chauncey said. It would be the perfect excuse to look in on Pixie. He needed to see her—see that she was asleep and at peace for the night.
David gave him a knowing look. “You do that.”
Day 3 at the Governor’s Mansion
Everyone at the breakfast table wore somber faces. Not that anyone wanted to look Sophia in the face, knowing that it might have been—or rather was supposed to be—her with the ice pick stabbed through her heart. Before the deep tremors turned into sobs, yet again, she lifted her chin and bored her gaze into the side of Chauncey’s head until he turned to look at her. It didn’t take more than a second.
He stared back at her. She saw the tic in his jaw muscle jumping like a frog—or maybe a pulse. She was pretty sure there was no pulse point in one’s jaw. Guess he was feeling tense.
“I need to put some things in order,” she blurted.
Everyone looked up. She felt their uneasy stares, but she kept her eyes on him. She should have worded that differently.
“I need to see my parents, and I need to go to the office and take care of things. If you’re going to be sending me away—I know you’re talking about it—then you have to let me do these things.”
“Okay. I’ll set something up. We’ll go to your office. But your parents are away on vacation, as you know. We’ll set up a call at HQ. Be ready to leave in an hour.” His voice and manner were terse.
She smiled at him anyway. He looked down at his food, but she saw the heat on his face. He didn’t like emotion at all. Not her Chauncey. He preferred to pretend to be all business. She felt her own face flush and had to look down at her plate to hide her shock. She felt a thrill. Her heart actually beat harder. She’d discovered his Achilles heel.
It was the same one she had.
He was waiting in the driver’s seat out front under the portico. Joe scowled at him with his arms folded, standing next to the door. He’d had to wrestle the keys away from the man who rightly pointed out that Chauncey didn’t have a U.S. driver’s license. But that, along with a passport and credit cards, was being produced for him as he waited. He checked his watch. His unflappable little Pixie was taking her time on purpose. He knew exactly how long it took her to get dressed when she was in a hurry. The thought caused him to perk up momentarily.
When she emerged she wore a smile and exchanged pleasantries with Joe the chauffeur or butler or bodyguard or whatever he was supposed to be besides a pain in his ass. By the time she opened the door to the car and slid into the seat, her smile had tempered.
“This should be a treat. Remember to stay to the right, will you?” she said.
“You’re welcome. It was no trouble at all to arrange a battalion of security police to meet us at your office building to ensure your safety. None at all.” He pulled out of the drive, giving the gas more gusto than h
e’d intended. His frustrations with the situation somehow translated themselves to his right foot.
“Whoopee. We’re going for the land speed record on the way. I always wanted to be in the Guinness Book of World Records.” She turned to him as they screeched to a halt at a stop sign. “Or you get the record for getting a ticket in the shortest amount of time since pulling from the curb—then you have to explain who you are and what the heck you’re doing. But maybe that would be a good thing, ‘cause then I’d find out who the heck you really are and what the heck you’re really doing.” She folded her arms in front of her and returned her stare to the windshield.
He almost let her trumped-up anger get to him. He almost shot something defensive back at her. Instead he sighed. It was all getting to her, but she refused to acknowledge it. Refused to give into it. He knew what she was feeling. He understood her.
She was a lot like him.
She hadn’t talked much on the way over, or on the elevator ride up, but she became more and more nervous with the flashing of each successive floor. She had no idea why, but her hands felt sweaty. She surreptitiously wiped them across the side of her skirt. She saw his eyes flick to her. The doors slid open before she could think up a smart remark. She was definitely slowing down in the smart remark department. That was not a good sign. She didn’t know what the heck kind of sign it was, but how could it possibly be good?
He gestured for her to go first. She wished he would say something. The dark scowl stuck on his face. She stopped halfway down the carpeted hall in view of the familiar double glass and wood doors of her work home. She turned and touched his arm.
“Promise you’ll be nice and friendly and normal. No scary talk in front of Grace.” She waited.
The Scotland Yard Exchange Series Page 76