Natalie's Revenge

by Susan Fleet

  “Gorgeous,” he agreed. “What’s your article about?”

  Blindsided, she froze and her brain seized up. Unable to think of an answer, she joked, “About to go up in smoke if I don’t find another expert to give me a quote.”

  He nodded and said nothing, gazing at her expectantly.

  His question was perfectly legitimate, and she cursed herself for not preparing an answer. Then she remembered an article she’d seen in one of the newspapers at the library.

  “It’s about electric-powered cars and the problems owners might have recharging them. The expert that stood me up teaches at MIT.” She flashed her charming smile. “But that's boring. Tell me more about your antiquities. I don’t know much about early art, and I’d love to hear about it.”

  Be what they want you to be. Oliver James was a successful man who’d made a fortune, got bored and decided to do something he considered altruistic.

  Nabbing crooked art dealers. She was playing with fire.

  But taking risks were nothing new to her. Since her mother's murder twenty years ago, she had taken dozens of risks: in Pecos, New York, Paris, and most recently in New Orleans.

  Oliver patted his lips with a napkin. “Most of what I do is rather boring, but when I get a hot tip, it gives me a rush.” He grinned and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “The thrill of the hunt.”

  The thrill of the hunt. That she understood perfectly.

  Under her prodding, he told her about other art objects he had acquired, ones that weren’t fakes. And forgot about electric cars.

  After the waiter cleared the table, Oliver leaned back in his chair, gazing at her. “Robin, I’ve enjoyed our time together more than I can say. I find most women boring, but you’ve had some interesting experiences.”

  You have no idea. “Thanks, but no more than you have.”

  “It strikes me that we’re a lot alike. You hunt for experts to add authenticity to your articles. I hunt for art objects and authenticate them for myself or other buyers.”

  “The thrill of the hunt,” she said, smiling at him.

  “Exactly.” Gazing at her with his sexy sky-blue eyes, a look that made her body tingle. “I’m staying in town tonight. Would you like to have a nightcap?”

  He didn’t say in my room but she knew that’s what he meant. And she knew how to play the seduction game. First came the flirtation, then they tried to close the deal. And she knew the best response.

  Never act eager. Make the man pursue you. The thrill of the hunt.

  “This has been a wonderful evening, Oliver. I’ve enjoyed it tremendously, but I’m afraid I have to pass. I have an early appointment tomorrow.”

  She smiled to soften the rejection, a genuine smile. Her interest in Oliver James went far beyond simple attraction. It had been three years since she’d slept with a man she cared about.

  He took out a business card and gave it to her. “The top number is my business phone, but my cell number is below it. I hope you’ll call me the next time you’re in town.”

  She put the card in her purse and pushed back her chair, a move that took considerable self-discipline. She wanted to go to bed with Oliver James. Every inch of her body yearned for it. But it wasn’t going to happen tonight.

  She had to keep her eyes on the prize.

  Tomorrow she had to buy a gun.

  NATALIE

  1998

  Before I could work for The Service, I had to take some blood tests, including one for AIDS, and a physical. Lin said he was sure everything would be fine. I took the medical exam and the blood tests the week before Christmas.

  Three days after New Years Lin called my cell. “Our limo will pick you up tomorrow at noon. Tell the Platinum-Plus club you’re moving out of state, pack your things and say goodbye to your boyfriend.”

  I'd told Lin about Darren, but I wasn’t going to tell Darren anything. The next day after he went to work I wrote him a note. Dear Darren, I have to go to Iowa. Big medical emergency in my family! Love, Jennifer XOXO.

  Then I called Val and thanked her for being such a great friend. I said I’d found a new job in California and wouldn’t be seeing her for a while.

  Probably never, but I didn’t say this.

  Val said: You’re so talented, Jennifer. I wish you the best. Keep in touch.

  The limo drove me up along the Hudson River to a secluded estate near Tenafly. At the end of a long winding road lined with fir trees, we stopped under the portico of a big three-story mansion. Lin opened my door and said with a big smile, “Welcome to The Service. Let's go over some details.”

  The Service would pay me $500 a week for my training. “When we think you’re ready," Lin said, "you’ll fly to Paris for more training. You can brush up on your French, Laura.” He handed me a New York state driver’s license with my photo on it. The name on the license was Laura Lin Hawthorn.

  “Laura Lin is the name you will use with your clients. Lin is my brand name for the girls I recruit. Clients know they will have a satisfying girlfriend experience with my girls. Never give them your last name."

  I nodded. Changing names was nothing new for me.

  “I need your old identification papers.” He held out his hand and waited while I took out my driver's license and Social Security card. “And your cell phone, please. I have a new one for you.”

  So I gave him my cell. In a way, that was a relief. I didn’t want Darren or Val calling me. If they did, I'd have to lie and make up a story. Now I would have a new cell with a new number. And a new name.

  Laura Lin Hawthorn. I liked it. Laura Lin, to my clients.

  Then Lin took me to meet Madame Romanov, a petite woman with raven-black hair, ivory skin, small dark eyes and thin lips slathered with crimson lipstick. She reminded me of Ann Bancroft in Point of No Return. But I wasn’t going to Paris to kill anyone. I was going to be their girlfriend.

  Later when I asked Lin if Madame Romanov was from Russia, he said, “She would like everyone to think so.” He was wearing smoke-tinted glasses. I never saw him without them, indoors or out. I could barely see his eyes. I wondered if he was trying to hide his Asian heritage, but I didn’t ask. Maybe he was from Russia. I didn't ask about that, either.

  Madame—that’s what I always called her—gave me a list of what I would learn. Her haughty manner made me anxious at first, but she was extravagant with her praise when I got something right. My makeover began with the beauty stylist. Ellen raved about my long glossy-black hair. After she trimmed it to shoulder length, she said, “You have beautiful eyes, Laura. Sometimes you may want to downplay the Asian look. Other times you may want to enhance it.” She showed me how to do this with makeup.

  Next came lessons in table manners and proper etiquette while eating and drinking. I was already way ahead of Bridget Fonda in Point of No Return. I didn’t chew with my mouth open, and I knew about place settings and wine glasses from working at Longhorn Jack’s. Even so, I learned a lot about fine wines and which ones went best with certain meals.

  Then came lessons on how to walk gracefully. That was easy. Even in my six-inch spike heels I could walk with confidence. Madame was impressed. By then I was starting my third week of girlfriend training. For two days, Madame quizzed me on current events. Thanks to my Dedication to Study, I did very well. I still read a newspaper every day and surfed the Internet, which was great for breaking news and politics.

  But Madame said I was weak on sports. The only teams I knew about were in New York. She told me to always study the sports pages. “Even cultured men are gaga about sports,” Madame said.

  I had to use all my willpower not to laugh when she said gaga. I was certain this word did not come easily to her. But Madame prided herself on being au courant with slang.

  Then she sent me to a young woman with stunning green eyes and a radiant smile. Lisa asked what my sex preferences were. I wasn’t expecting that! Lisa said The Service wanted a list of what I would and would not do with clients. Her questions we
re very specific. I said I wanted nothing to do with whips and chains or bondage, threesomes or anal penetration. Then Lisa showed me how to fake an orgasm. At first I didn’t know what she meant. I had never had an orgasm. But thanks to my acting skills, I caught on fast.

  In my free time I read newspapers and magazines, watched TV and used my laptop to surf the Internet. For my fourth week Madame sent me to the gym. Mr. Takagi, the instructor, was taller than most Japanese men, six feet at least. He had shiny black hair and appeared very fit in his shorts and T-shirt.

  He led me to a padded mat and positioned me opposite him.

  “What will you do if a client asks you to do something you do not want to do?” he asked, and grabbed my shoulders with both hands. Without thinking, I elbowed him hard in the ribs, spun away, did a taekwondo spin move, kicked him in the chest and knocked him on his ass.

  I thought he'd be angry, but when he rose to his feet he was smiling.

  “Which dan have you achieved in taekwondo?”

  “First geup,” I said proudly. “My teacher in Texas was a fifth-dan.”

  Mr. Takagi made a nice face to show he was impressed. Politeness is very important in Asian cultures. “You have mastered your spin and kick moves very well. Did your teacher also show you breaking and jumping techniques?”

  “Yes, and falls for self-defense.” I didn’t mention the pressure points Mr. Carlson showed me. Or my TKD oath: I shall be a champion of freedom and justice. Sometimes it’s best to keep certain things to yourself.

  Mr. Takagi bowed and said, “You do not need any further instruction from me. I will tell Madame that you have passed the physical training. If you would like to work out in the gym, I will leave a note at the desk that will admit you whenever you’d like."

  The next morning Lin called me to his office. When I got there he smiled and said, “Your flight to Paris leaves JFK tomorrow at noon. Take only a few belongings and clothes. We will help you buy whatever else you need in Paris. I’m very pleased with your progress, Laura.”

  His compliment barely registered. Your flight to Paris leaves tomorrow. I used my TKD focus to keep my face blank, but my heart was hammering my chest.

  He gave me a U.S. passport with Laura Lin Hawthorn’s name and my photograph. I thanked him and left the office in total panic. Tomorrow I would fly to Paris, but I had to make an important phone call. I had been meaning to do this, but I was too scared. Now I didn't have a choice.

  In my room I called the New Orleans Police Department, not 911, the main number. My stomach felt like snakes were crawling around in it. When a male voice answered, I said I wanted to speak to someone about a cold case. I knew the lingo from watching the cop shows on TV.

  He asked what type of case and when was it.

  “A murder,” I said. “October twenty, 1988.”

  He put me on hold and transferred me to Homicide. My insides were shaking. Mom had been waiting almost ten years for me to avenge her, and I hadn’t made much progress. That made me feel ashamed.

  A new male voice said, “Homicide, Sergeant Daily.”

  When I told him what I’d told the first man, he said, “Hold on while I look it up on the computer.”

  He sounded bored, like people got murdered everyday and it was no big deal. More waiting. More heart pounding. My hand was sweaty on the phone.

  “Okay,” Sergeant Daily said, “I found the case file. The lead detective was Jane Fontenot, but she doesn’t work Homicide anymore, she’s in Sex Crimes. I think she’s working today, let me transfer you.”

  I cringed. Sex Crimes? Is that what they thought Mom's murder was?

  The phone beeped a few times and a woman's voice said, “Lieutenant Fontenot.”

  I was so flustered I couldn’t speak.

  “Hello? Sergeant Daily said you had a question about a cold case?”

  “Yes. About the Jeannette Brixton murder, October twenty, 1988.”

  After a short silence Lieutenant Fontenot said, “Who are you?”

  I could hardly breathe. I spoke the first name that entered my mind. “Mary Brown. I'm calling on behalf of Natalie Brixton, Jeannette’s daughter.”

  “Natalie. How’s she doing? She must be all grown up now.”

  Her voice sounded warm, like maybe she cared about me. Then I realized she was the woman who came to the apartment that day, the most terrible day of my life. I couldn’t remember what she looked like. All I remembered was the horrible sick feeling inside me when she told me Mom was dead.

  “Natalie's fine," I said. "She asked me to call because she’s in Australia and calls from there are expensive.”

  “Uh-huh. And what did you want to know?”

  “Um, Natalie wants to know if you have any leads.”

  “Okay, you’ll have to bear with me, because I’m not working Homicide anymore, I’m in Sex Crimes. And it’s been a few years—”

  “Almost ten,” I said. “Ten years in October.”

  “Right. I don’t have the file in front of me but as I recall we got no forensic evidence from the body, no DNA, no semen on or inside the body.” She cleared her throat. “Sorry, but some of this is, uh, rather unpleasant. We collected some fibers from the room, but we never found a match. We didn’t have much to go on. No one saw anyone go into the room. Or leave it.”

  “Does that mean you never had any suspects?”

  “We had the names of men known to frequent that particular hotel for, uh, sexual encounters with women. I interviewed them and got nowhere.”

  I wanted to scream. Ten years, and this was all I was going to get? Mom had died a violent death. I had to find her killer and punish him. My Vietnamese heritage required it. If I didn't, Mom's angry ancestor spirits would haunt me forever and bring me great misfortune.

  “Please,” I said. My voice was shaking, but I couldn't help it. “Can you give me the names of the men you checked out?”

  “Sweetheart, I can’t give out names to a voice on the phone. If you came to New Orleans—”

  “I can’t come to New Orleans.”

  “Okay. Tell Natalie ...” Long pause, then a heavy sigh. “Tell Natalie I had a gut feeling about one guy, but his wife said he was with her that night. I didn’t believe her, but—"

  “Why didn’t you arrest him?”

  “Because he's a very powerful man, and if I arrested him and couldn’t make the murder charge stick my boss would sent me to Siberia.”

  A powerful man. That was one clue. “Can you tell me his name?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  I wanted to kill her. “Can you tell me why he was so powerful?”

  “Let’s just say he had plenty of clout then, and he’s got even more now.”

  Another clue. The man was still alive. “How did he kill her?”

  “I don't think Natalie needs to know that.”

  Yes, I did.

  “You can tell me,” I said. "If it’s too awful, I won’t tell Natalie.”

  There was a long pause. Finally she said, “He hit her with something. The coroner said it might have been a flatiron, but we didn’t find one in the room.” Another pause and a deep sigh. “The cause of death was manual strangulation.”

  I felt sick to my stomach. Certain I would vomit, I clamped my hand over my mouth. Mom's murderer was a monster. This evil man had strangled Mom. It took me a moment to regain control.

  Finally, I said, “Okay.”

  But it wasn’t okay, it was horrible. Seething with anger, I said, “Does this man still live in New Orleans?”

  “Honey, this guy ain’t going nowhere. Men like him don’t leave town, they just grab more power. He’s a wealthy bigshot with powerful friends.”

  “How did he get to be so powerful?”

  “The same way all these muttonheads get power. Make big bucks, spread it around and collect powerful friends. I’m sorry I can’t help you, sweetheart. When you talk to Natalie, give her my regards and tell her I’m sorry we couldn’t close the case.”

>   I thanked her and hung up. The familiar iceberg invaded my midsection, chilling me to the bone.

  An evil monster had murdered Mom. A despicable man, a wealthy man with powerful friends. And a wife to give him an alibi.

  Not much, but it was a start.

  CHAPTER 13

  Wednesday July 30, 2008 Nashua, N.H.

  To prepare for the gun buy she put on her beige linen suit, pulled her long dark hair into a ponytail and left her second-floor apartment. Look professional but non-threatening. The way to her car went past the swimming pool. Her next door neighbor, a public school teacher with wiry chest hair and a flabby white belly, lay on a plastic chaise beside the pool, soaking up the sun.

  “Hi Robin,” he said. “Going to work?”

  “Yes," she said, smiling. "You do what you gotta do.”

  George owned the unit next to hers. The day she moved in he'd offered to help her. She'd thanked him and declined. The less anyone knew about Robin Adair the better. Whenever she encountered other residents, she smiled and spoke but otherwise kept to herself.

  She got into her Honda Civic. To ward off the glare of the midday sun, she put on her Raybans, got on the Interstate and settled in for the half-hour drive. The gun shop in Hookset was 25 miles away.

  Three years ago when she returned from Paris she had chosen not to live in New York. She didn't want to run into anyone from her previous life: Val or Darren or men who’d frequented Cheetahs or the Platinum-Plus Club. Or her father. But after five years in Paris, she didn't want to live in a little hick town.

  Boston had great cultural offerings and sky-high rents to match. Then she found a listing for a rental in Nashua, New Hampshire. Nashua was only 50 miles from Boston. The state motto clinched her decision. Live free or die. Perfect.

  It was on the license plate of her car, registered to Robin Adair.

  As the Honda ate up the miles, her mind flirted with Oliver James.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about him. His good looks, intelligence and charm entranced her. The attraction appeared to be mutual. He had asked her to call him. Maybe she would. But she couldn't allow Oliver to divert her from her goal. Mom had been waiting too long.