by Susan Fleet
After an eternity, a weak voice said: "Elysian Fields and Filmore. Hurry." Kelly’s voice.
Then, loud and clear over the radio handset: Pop-pop-pop.
Gunshots. He clenched his fists. “Damn it to hell!”
Dispatcher: “Attention all units. Officer down at Elysian and Filmore. Unit 12, please report.” Unit 12 was Kelly’s patrol car.
His heart was a machine gun inside his chest. Pulling on jeans and a T-shirt, he listened for a response on the radio.
Nothing. Kelly was in trouble.
He jammed his SIG-Sauer in his holster, grabbed his car keys and ran out the door.
CHAPTER 18
As the elevator descended she tore off the beach hat and the blond wig and stuffed them into the Neiman Marcus bag. Her head throbbed in rhythm with her racing heart. Every minute was precious. By now the guard might have called the police, and Boston Police Headquarters was only two blocks away. She had to get out before the cops got here. She yanked off the scrunchie that held her ponytail and shook her head, letting her long dark hair fall to her shoulders.
The elevator eased to a stop and the door slid open.
An ice-pick of panic gored her midsection. Beyond the plate-glass windows in the lobby, blue lights pulsed in a strobe-like effect. The cops had already sealed off the exit from the parking garage. She would have to escape on foot.
But she couldn’t get out this way. The cops outside would see her.
She heard sirens. More cops. Tonight had been a disaster. Oliver was dead and the guard would have described a blond woman in white culottes who refused to stop when ordered. She dug a blue denim jacket out of the bag and put it on. No more blond wig, but she couldn't hide the white culottes.
The sirens grew louder and went silent as two cruisers jolted to a stop outside the hotel, lights flashing. Four uniformed officers jumped out, guns drawn. She thought her heart would stop. If they came in the hotel, they would see her. Her heart slammed her chest. She felt light-headed. Afraid she would faint, she dug her nails into her palms. Saw the four cops run to the squad cars guarding the parking garage exit.
Any minute they would come in the hotel. If she left the elevator alcove, the clerk at the check-in desk around the corner would see her. To her left, centered in the wood-paneled wall of the alcove, a sign on a door said: Employees Only. Without hesitation, she opened the door and entered a long narrow room. To her immediate left, white curtains dangled from three vacant changing stalls. Beyond them, gray-steel lockers lined both walls.
At the far end was a metal door with a red Exit sign above it.
But to reach it she would have to pass the half dozen wooden benches in front of the metal lockers. A small dark-haired man, Hispanic by the looks of him, sat on one bench lacing a pair Nikes.
She set her face in a neutral expression and walked toward him.
“You work here?” he said in a thick Spanish accent, frowning at her.
In rapid French, she said, “I’m meeting Angela outside. I’m late and she’s waiting for me!” And kept walking toward the exit.
“Wha'?” he said. “I don’ understand you.”
She reached into the Neiman Marcus bag.
If he tried to stop her, she’d shoot him.
_____
Frank got on the I-10 and headed for the Elysian Fields exit. His cell phone rang. He grabbed it and Kenyon Miller said, “Yo, Frank. Where y’at?”
“On the I-10 headed for Elysian Fields. What happened?”
“I’m at the scene." A pause, then a deep a sigh, Miller clearly struggling for control. "Fucking maggots shot Ben in the head. He's gone. Kelly’s in an ambulance on her way to City Hospital.”
“Christ! How bad is it?”
“EMT said she took a slug in the left side near her heart.”
His chest felt like a gigantic hand was squeezing it. After spending two years with Kelly, a woman he'd grown to love, he didn’t want to lose her.
"I told her you were on the way, held her hand and told her to hang in there."
“Did they get the shooters?”
“Got two of ‘em. One got away. You going to the hospital?”
“Heading there now.”
“Me, too. Vobitch is already there. He got pretty fond of Kelly, you know, when she was working Homicide. And so did I.”
“Thanks for calling me. See you at the hospital.”
He took the next exit, got back on the I-10 headed west and hit the lights and sirens, recalling the case he and Kelly had worked together two years ago. Kelly had survived that one. Now she was in a hospital, fighting for her life.
____
She burst through the exit door into the darkness of night. More sirens. She looked right. A security guard in a blue uniform was running toward Huntington Avenue. If he turned and saw her, it was all over. She vaulted a low brick wall onto St. Botolph Street and ran to the opposite sidewalk. No shouts. No shots. She took off at a dead run, her feet pounding the pavement.
Two blocks later, gasping for breath, she leaned against a telephone pole and vomited in the gutter. She wiped her mouth, her thoughts in a whirl. The Colonnade Hotel was around the corner on Huntington one block away, a temporary sanctuary.
She got her breathing under control, put on dark glasses, rounded the corner and walked to the entrance. Swinging her Neiman Marcus bag, she sauntered past the desk and entered the hotel gift shop. She grabbed a Boston Red Sox cap off a display and went to the register.
A sleepy-eyed woman and smiled at her. “Last minute souvenir?”
She smiled back. “Yes. My brother would kill me if I didn’t get him one.”
She paid cash for the cap and hurried to a restroom. She put on the Red Sox hat and studied her image in the mirror. What did people notice about you, really? Your skin color: white, black or brown. Your hair: long, short, light or dark. And your build: tall or short, fat or thin.
Now she looked like a college student who’d been shopping, carrying a Neiman Marcus bag, a baseball cap set at a rakish angle on her head. But she had to get to Nashua before the cops found Robin Adair's car in the parking garage. Oliver James and the CIA operative he’d refused to name knew Robin's address. Oliver was dead, but the CIA man wasn’t. And Robin Adair's address was on the Honda's registration.
She returned to the hotel lobby and went outside. Miracle of miracles, a yellow cab was coming down Huntington Avenue. She stepped off the curb and waved.
When the cab pulled over, she got in the back seat.
“Hi, could you take me to Logan Airport?”
_____
City Hospital, New Orleans
Surrounded by antiseptic odors and the hiss of oxygen, he stood beside Kelly’s bed. Hooked up to tubes and beeping monitors, she looked utterly defenseless, face ashen, eyes closed. Two years ago she had held an armed killer at bay until backup arrived. Tonight she'd held off three thugs, had even managed to wound one of them.
The thought of her standing alone against her attackers tore him up. His throat thickened and he turned away. The nurse had said Kelly would probably wake up soon and he didn’t want her to see his anguished expression.
He conjured a vision of her mischievous sea-green eyes and the sound of her low-throated laugh. When was the last time they’d shared a laugh? The night he’d shown her the security video when they were talking about female assassins. Three nights ago. Eons ago.
Her eyes fluttered open and settled on his face.
“Hey,” he said softly. “You’re okay. You’re going to be fine.”
Speaking the words he’d want to hear if their situation were reversed.
She tried to smile. “I’m still out of it, Frank. But I’m glad you’re here.”
He kissed her forehead. “Where else would I be? The doctor said after some rehab, you’ll be fine. Did he talk to you?”
“Yes, but I was too woozy to catch most of it. Tell me what he said.”
“The slug bounced off your clavicle, chipped off some fr
agments. That’s why the surgery took so long.”
He didn’t mention what else the doctor had said. She was lucky the slug hadn’t hit a major artery. If the path had been four inches lower it would have hit her heart and she’d be dead.
“How’s Ben?” Kelly asked, her eyes fixed on his.
The question he’d been dreading. He took a white Styrofoam cup on the bedside table and pulled the tab off the straw. "Here, have some water."
She waved it away. “Tell me about Ben. They shot him, didn’t they.”
He took a deep breath and let it out. “Yes.”
“So? How is he?” Her sea-green eyes seemed darker than usual, dark as the ocean depths. When he didn’t answer, her eyes welled with tears. “He’s dead, isn’t he.” A tear spilled over and ran down her cheek.
Fighting for control, he kissed her forehead again. “The most important thing right now is for you to rest and get better.”
He took a tissue out of the packet on the nightstand and wiped the tears away. “Kelly, I know you and Ben were tight. He was a great guy and a great partner. But you did what you could. You shot one of those maggots and—”
“Did you get them?” she whispered.
“We got two. One got away, but we’ll find him, I promise.”
She closed her eyes, and he knew she was processing the information.
“Kenyon Miller and Morgan Vobitch are waiting down the hall. They're worried about you.”
Her eyes fluttered open. “Aw, what sweethearts.”
He forced himself to smile. “They want to come give you a kiss, but I don’t want to leave you alone with 'em while I’m not here.”
She gave him a weak smile. That made him feel better. If he could make her smile, maybe they would get through this. “Want me to call your dad?”
Her eyes widened. “Jesus! I didn’t even think about that. Would you?”
“Sure. Give me the number.”
She spoke it aloud and he wrote it on his palm with a pen. He caressed her cheek. “I’ll tell Kenyon and Morgan they can't stay long. You need to rest. I’m gonna go call your dad, but I’ll see you tomorrow bright and early, okay?”
She gave him a dreamy-eyed smile. “Okay, Frank. Be careful.”
His throat tightened. Terms of endearment. “You’re gonna be fine, Kelly. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He walked down the hall to a bench where Miller and Vobitch sat side by side, talking in low voices. They saw him coming and rose to their feet.
“How is she?” Vobitch asked, his face knit in the mother of all frowns.
“Damn lucky to be alive according to the doc, but she’ll be okay.”
“Thank God for that,” Miller said, relief plain on his face.
“I told her you guys want to say hello. She seemed happy about that.”
Vobitch clenched his jaw, his eyes somber. “Does she know about Ben?”
"Maggots." Visibly upset, Miller clenched his fists. "I'm gonna find the fuckhead that shot Ben and tear him a new asshole."
“I didn’t want to tell her," he said, "but she guessed. I want you to go in there and tell her she’s brave as hell and she did everything she could, ‘cause right now she’s got survivor’s guilt, you know?”
“We will,” Miller and Vobitch said in unison.
“Thanks. Now I gotta go call her father and tell him what happened.”
_____
She sank lower in the backseat of the taxi, stomach churning. Traffic on Huntington Avenue was at a standstill. Twenty yards ahead of the cab, police cars with flashing blues were parked helter-skelter outside Copley Place and the adjacent Marriott Hotel. She hugged her ribs, trying to quiet her racing heart.
“Where you headed?” asked the driver, eyeing her in the rearview.
She met his gaze, forced herself to smile. “Australia.”
His face registered amazement. “You’re going to Australia without any luggage?”
For some reason his question calmed her. Focus. Invent a story. Don’t think about that police officer over there directing traffic who might see you in the backseat of the cab and arrest you.
“My brother's waiting for me in Terminal E with my luggage. Our flight leaves at six and we don’t want to miss it.” She mustered another smile. “I can’t wait to get to Sydney.”
Seemingly satisfied, he put the cab in gear and inched forward. Traffic was moving now as the cop waved his flashlight in jagged swoops, directing vehicles around the squad cars. She held her breath as the taxi drew even with the cop, her palms damp with sweat. But the cop waved the taxi along with his flashlight and focused on the car behind them. Weak with relief, she unclenched her fists. She was free. For the moment, anyway.
Once they cleared the traffic jam it took only fifteen minutes to get to Logan Airport. The cabbie drove her to Terminal E, the departure and arrival point for international flights. When they entered Departures, a State Police cruiser stood outside the Aer Lingus entrance to the terminal.
She had the cabbie drop her at the Air France entrance fifty yards beyond the cruiser, paid him in cash and added a generous tip. Fighting a desperate urge to run, she sauntered into the terminal and went to the nearest restroom. Most of the State cops she’d seen at Logan were men. She doubted one would follow her into a women's restroom. She splashed cold water on her face, cupped her hands and swished water around her mouth to get rid of the disgusting taste.
Her insides had stopped shaking, but her legs hadn't. And her mind was going 70 mph. An express bus ran from Logan to Nashua, but not this late. She would have to wait here overnight. Dangerous. State police officers patrolled the terminal round the clock, and the officers at the airport, train and bus stations would be especially vigilant.
Assuming Boston PD had put out a description of the woman leaving Oliver’s room, they'd be looking for a blond woman in white culottes. She'd ditched the wig but not the culottes. If only she’d bought a pair of Red Sox pants to go with the cap. But she’d been too desperate to escape.
She used the toilet and returned to the departures area. Terminal E was deserted. No passengers. No shops open. No clerks at ticket counters. She felt conspicuous. Visible through the plate-glass windows facing the roadway was the French-and-electric-blue State Police cruiser. A trooper in a distinctive State Police hat sat behind the wheel.
Monitoring his radio, no doubt. For all she knew, he was listening to her description right now.
It was almost midnight, but a few flights might still be leaving Terminal B. A shuddering yawn wracked her. She was exhausted, her legs shaking with fatigue. She needed someplace to rest where the cops wouldn't find her. Shuttle buses circled the airport roadway 24/7 to transport passengers and workers between terminals, but to get it she'd have to wait outside and that would attract the trooper’s attention. She began walking toward Terminal B, her footsteps echoing in the deserted glassed-in corridor.
Five minutes later she trudged into Terminal B, and spotted a State trooper inside a glassed-in area facing the airport roadway.
She ducked into a restroom. A tall woman with pecan-brown skin stood at the sink, washing her hands, an airport worker, judging by her green coveralls.
“Excuse me, do you know if any stores are open in this terminal?”
“Try Hudson News,” the woman said, not looking at her. “It's a couple doors down on the right.”
“Thanks.” She left the restroom, spotted the Hudson News sign and hurried to the store. Perched on a stool inside a kiosk, a slender Hispanic woman with silver hoop earrings was reading a paperback. The only other customer, a young man in jeans and a T-shirt, stood at the magazine rack, leafing through a Sports Illustrated.
She picked out a souvenir T-shirt and a pair of navy sweatpants with a Red Sox logo. At the back of the store, she took a bottle of Aquafina out of a cooler and grabbed a package of trail mix from a wire rack. Then she noticed the knapsacks hanging from hooks along one wall. Perfect. She needed to hide the Neiman
Marcus bag. And the gun.
She chose a black knapsack and took everything to the register.
The woman stifled a yawn. “Find everything you wanted?”
“Yes, thank you.” She paid cash and returned to the restroom.
Now it was empty. She changed inside a handicapped stall, came out and studied herself in the mirror. She looked like a different person: a white T-shirt with BOSTON emblazoned across the front, navy sweatpants and a Red Sox baseball cap. She strapped the black knapsack over her shoulders. Inside was the Neiman Marcus bag. At the bottom of the knapsack, concealed by the clothes she’d removed, was the .38 Special.
She went downstairs to Arrivals, walked past two baggage carrousels and went out to the glassed-in cubicle where the bus passengers waited. No one was waiting now. Taped to the glass was a schedule. The first bus to Nashua departed Terminal A at 8:10 a.m, stopped at Terminal B two minutes later.
Another yawn wracked her. She was exhausted, but she had to stay alert until she got on the bus, seven long hours from now, provided a State cop didn’t stop and question her. If he did, she was done for.
Our Lady of the Airwaves, a Catholic chapel, was on the ground level between Terminals B and C. During the day, a priest said Masses there. The chapel was open 24-7 for people to pray if they so desired. She didn’t intend to pray, but she desperately needed a place to rest.
Ten minutes later she sank onto a wooden pew at the rear of the darkened chapel and set her knapsack beside her. Ten rows ahead, a circular light fixture cast a rosy glow over the altar. Two spotlights lit up large statues on either side of the altar, but the rest of the chapel was dark. To keep herself from falling asleep, she prioritized her tasks. If she could get to her condo without being arrested, Robin would disappear. She already had a car. But she had to decide what to take with her.
She closed her eyes and pictured her clothes closet.
A horrific image blindsided her: Oliver lying on the carpet, blood pooling under his head, eyes vacant and staring. Accusing eyes. Chills wracked her, and tears stung her eyes. What sort of person was she?