Natalie's Revenge

by Susan Fleet

  Annoyance zinged his gut. He liked Jane Fontenot, but she was stonewalling him and he didn't like it. “I need a name. My favorite DA, Roger Demaris, threatened me today, gave me a week to nail a suspect. If I don't, he'll take me and Vobitch off the case."

  "Figures. Demaris was always a bastard."

  "True, and if Vobitch gets dumped, he might be looking at early retirement. I need a name.”

  Jane's expression softened. “Underneath all the bluster Morgan's a sweet guy. Okay, promise you won't tell anyone where you got the information.”

  “I won’t."

  “Beau Beaubien. Better known as BoBo, the guy that started the GoGo Bars. But you won't get anything from BoBo. He’s dead.”

  Another dead-end. "Damn. When did he die?”

  “Almost three years ago. In 2005 I think it was, after Katrina. You could talk to his widow. And his ex-wife.”

  “How many wives did he have?”

  “Three, but the first one died. The second wife was the one who gave him the alibi. Joereen divorced him not long afterwards."

  “You think it would do any good if I talked to her?”

  “Maybe. She claimed BoBo was slapping her around. He denied it, of course.”

  “Did they have kids?”

  “Two girls. BoBo had a son too, with his first wife. Beau Junior. He runs the Go-Go Bars now.”

  “What about the widow? Is she still around?”

  “Frank, I haven’t been following the saga of BoBo.”

  “Okay. I’ll find her. Thanks for the name.”

  “Be careful, Frank. You’re poking a stick into a hornet’s nest. Bobo was a very powerful guy.”

  _____

  Frank mopped his plate with a slice of garlic bread and said to Kelly, “Great lasagna. Home-made, right?”

  She looked better than she had last Friday, good color on her cheeks, her dark pixie-styled hair glossy. Her low-cut top accentuated her well-toned arms, not to mention her other endowments. Damn, it had been way too long since one of their ardent love sessions, a situation he intended to remedy tonight.

  “Dad made it before he went back to Chicago. He’s into cooking big time, thin-sliced garlic, fresh plum tomatoes, the whole bit. Mom died when I was ten. With five hungry kids, he had to cook.”

  “You don’t talk much about your mom. How come?"

  Her eyes turned somber. “It makes me sad. I never got to know her. I was her only daughter and she didn't get to see me grow up. Sometimes it’s hard for me to remember what she looked like. Before she got sick, I mean." She tilted her head and her big-Z earrings swayed. "Maybe that’s how Natalie feels. She was ten when her mother got murdered. Tell me about Boston.”

  He didn’t mind talking about the murder case, but he hadn’t decided what else to tell her. He recapped his meeting with Hank and Clint Hammer.

  “Why did Morgan throw the guy out of his office?” Kelly said.

  “Hammer made a comment about jungle bunnies and Morgan went ballistic. Man, I’ve never seen him so angry.”

  “I don’t blame him. He and Juliana brought me a home-cooked dinner. It was fun. Morgan told me a bunch of New York cop stories, and then Juliana told me how they met. What a story. Morgan rescues her from a mugger and then they fall in love. I didn’t know she was a ballet dancer. Then she started talking about music and art and ballet. She’s amazing.”

  “Yeah. She calms Morgan down when he gets riled up."

  Kelly gave him a speculative look. "What else happened in Boston?"

  He didn't like the look in her eyes. Speculation and something else that he couldn't identify.

  "I think Natalie killed the guy in Boston, using another fake ID. Robin Adair. They got prints from her car and apartment, but no hit on IAFIS.”

  “So you’re back to square one.”

  “Nope. I got the name of the prime suspect in the Brixton murder.”

  Kelly’s eyes widened. “Wow! Did you get it from Jane?”

  He wagged a finger at her. “My lips are sealed. And so are yours.”

  “Yeah, yeah. So? Who is it?”

  “BoBo, the Go-Go Bar guy. That's the good news. The bad news is he’s dead. But I’m going to talk to his ex-wife, see if I can squeeze something out of her. She's the one that gave him the alibi.”

  “How’s your reporter friend?”

  Blind-sided by the question, he drank some wine, brushed crumbs off the placemat. But he could only stall for so long. The moment of truth.

  “She’s not just a friend. She’s the woman I told you about, the one who got tangled up in my divorce. Gina and I had an affair for nine years.”

  Kelly gazed at him, expressionless. “Is that why she called you?”

  “No,” he said, irritated. “She called me about the murder case.”

  “Does she call you about all the murders that happen in Boston?”

  Damn. He should have kept his mouth shut. But he didn't like lying to people he cared about, and he cared about Kelly a lot. “I haven’t talked to Gina in two years. She saw an AP wire story about the Peterson case and thought the Boston case might be related. A rich guy murdered in a posh hotel, same MO, shot in the head. And she was right.”

  Kelly looked at him. That something he'd seen in her eyes was anger.

  “We had dinner.”

  “That’s it? Dinner?”

  “She’s had some health problems. We talked about it after we hashed over the Oliver James murder. Which she put me wise to, and for which I am grateful.”

  “What kind of health problems?”

  This was starting to feel like an interrogation. He felt his face get hot, felt a rising tide of anger in his gut. He uncrossed his legs, about to leave the table. Forced himself to stay put. Told himself to cool it. “Breast cancer.”

  Kelly’s eyes widened. “How awful. I’m sorry to hear it.”

  She went to the counter and poured herself a glass of wine. She wasn’t supposed to drink alcohol while she was on pain meds, but he wasn’t going to tell her what to do. She was a grownup. But she was pissed off about something. That was clear enough.

  She came back and set the wineglass on the table, but didn’t drink any. “You and Gina had an affair for nine years. That’s how long Terry and I were married.” She took a deep breath. “One time I had an affair.”

  Shocked, he stared at her. She’d never mentioned that before. As far as he knew, she and her husband had been happy. What else wasn’t she telling him?

  She twirled the wineglass, rolling the stem between her fingers. “One day I ran into a guy I met in college and we got talking. Terry and I were going through a rough patch at the time. Anyway, one thing led to another. It didn’t last long. A couple of months. Long enough for me to get good at lying.”

  She gazed at him steadily, her sea-green eyes cool and distant.

  “I’m not lying,” he said.

  "No? Look at it from my perspective. Last Friday we’re sitting in my kitchen and you get a phone call and go into your double-speak routine. You’re good at that, Frank. I’ve seen you do it. Then Kenyon arrives and you go off to talk to your reporter friend." She gulped some wine. "Then you go to Boston for three days and I don’t get one fucking phone call from you. You weren't working around the clock, so I figure you must have had company.”

  A giant cat clawed his gut. But damned if he was going to account for his every moment while he was in Boston. Never complain, never explain.

  “Meanwhile, I’m down here taking my fucking meds and entertaining my father and brother who are, for the most part, fun to be around, but they treated me like an invalid. So they fly back to Chicago, and Sunday night Morgan and Juliana come over and bring me dinner. Okay, fine, but I was figuring you’d call me and you didn’t."

  She gulped more wine and looked at him, frosty-eyed. "You know how that made me feel, Frank? It made me feel like a jerk."

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I should have called you"

  "Not to ment
ion out of the loop. Here I am stuck at home, who the hell knows when I’ll get back to work, and then I start thinking about Ben, what a great guy he was and . . .”

  He reached over and squeezed her hand.

  Startled, she looked at him.

  "I don't blame you for being pissed."

  “Jesus. I sound like Nancy Kerrigan when the guy whacked her knee at the Olympics.” She made a face and said in a whiny high-pitched voice, “Why me? Why me?” She shook her head. “Sorry, Frank.”

  “It’s okay. You got a right to complain, what you went through.”

  Her sea-green eyes warmed up for the first time. “I believe you, Frank. I know you’re not lying.”

  The giant cat stopped clawing his gut. He ran a finger down her forearm.

  “I think we need to go in your bedroom so I can take off your clothes and see how your stitches are doing.”

  She grinned. “Frank, you are so baaad.”

  NATALIE

  2002

  To celebrate my 24th birthday in April, I sent an email to Gabe. Then, as I did every morning, I went to NOLA.com to check up on BoBo. He was still married to Helena, still throwing parties at his house. For my birthday treat I went to the Orsay Museum. The Manet paintings were my favorites. Now, thanks to my art instructor at The Service, I could fully appreciate them. I gazed at the Olympia, admiring Manet’s exquisite use of light and shadow and flattened perspective. I loved the way he painted his beautiful naked courtesan, confronting the viewer with her imperious gaze.

  “I love Manet, don’t you?” said a deep melodious voice.

  Turning, I said, “Oui, j’aime beaucoup.”

  “You speak French beautifully,” he said in thickly accented English. “Do you live in Paris?”

  Mesmerized, I didn’t answer immediately. He was very distinguished-looking: reddish-gold hair, a craggy face with a neatly-trimmed Van Dyke beard. I loved his eyes. They were deep blue, almost violet.

  “Yes,” I said. “Do you?” Hoping he did.

  “No, I live in Amsterdam. I am here for a film festival. I am a producer. One of my films will be shown tonight at the festival.”

  “What is it about?"

  He smiled faintly. “About a man who finds his true love in a museum.”

  I laughed. “And do they live happily ever after?”

  “If boy meets girl, boy marries girl and they live happily ever after, there is no drama. A good film must have drama.” He waggled his eyebrows and made his violet-blue eyes go wide. “Sturm und drang.”

  “Like L.A. Confidential?”

  “Yes. That was a fine film. My name is Willem DeVries, and yours?”

  “Laura Lin.” He wasn’t a client, but I never told anyone my last name.

  “It is my great pleasure to meet you, Laura Lin,” he said, and kissed my hand. “Shall we go see some other paintings? The Rembrandts are excellent.”

  He was over six-feet tall and appeared quite fit, but as we walked through the museum I noticed he had a limp, and the sole on his right shoe was thicker than the left one. After a while, he said, “I am enjoying this very much, but I must go to the festival now. Would you like to come?”

  Conscious of my outfit, the plain black dress I wore when I wasn't working, I said, “I would love to, but I’m not dressed properly.”

  “You are dressed perfectly. After the film, I would like to take you out for dinner. Would that be all right?”

  I said it would, and that’s how our love affair began. At the festival Willem introduced me to several people and then we watched his film. Despite the sad ending, I enjoyed it very much. Afterwards he took me to an elegant French bistro. Partway through dinner he told me he was married. This was a disappointment, but I was glad he was honest about it. When he asked what I did for a living, I said I worked for a business in the 16th Arrondissment. I didn’t want to tell him what I really did.

  After we finished eating, Willem said, “Would you care to have an after-dinner drink at my hotel?”

  My heart was beating hard and fast. I knew what this meant. Should I say it was too soon for us to be intimate? By then I loved everything about him, his looks, his intelligent discussions of art and films, even his honesty in telling me he was married. And his self-deprecating explanation of his limp—he’d been born with one leg shorter than the other—had charmed me.

  Desire won. “I would be happy to join you for a drink.”

  At his hotel room one thing led to another as I expected. Except for one part. Willem refused to take his own pleasure until I had mine. I tried faking an orgasm, but Willem said, “Please, Laura Lin. My greatest pleasure comes from your pleasure.” And so he taught me how to have an orgasm.

  This indescribable feeling seemed to go on forever. Afterwards I felt both exhausted and exhilarated. Now I understood the satisfaction and contentment sex could bring. Willem asked me to stay the night. The next morning we made love again and it was even better than the first time. When I told Willem I had to work that night, he said he would wait until I finished. So I had to tell him what I did for a living. To make it sound less sordid, I said I was a high-class escort. I expected him to react with disgust but he didn’t.

  He was a man of the world, sophisticated and cosmopolitan. And he was married. I did not allow myself forget that.

  He promised to return to Paris soon. True to his word, five weeks later he did. I took two nights off and we had a fabulous time. When Willem asked about my Asian heritage, I said my father was part Vietnamese but I didn’t know where he was. Willem didn’t press me. Another thing I loved about him. He was so tolerant of people. His favorite saying was Judge not lest ye be judged.

  He couldn't visit me during the holidays, of course. He stayed with his family in Amsterdam. On New Years Eve I went to a club to hear some jazz and figure out how much money I would need to finance the Main Event. My new code word for avenging Mom. I figured it might take three years. This seemed like an eternity. The next day I asked Lin to book me as many clients as possible. He was happy to oblige.

  Only once did I have trouble. One new client, an Albanian, was six feet tall and his muscular hands looked powerful enough to pulverize rocks. He said he wanted to tie me up and pretend to beat me. I wasn’t sure about the pretend part. Then I remembered what Mr. Takagi said: What will you do if a man asks you to do something you don’t want to do? So I did my spinning TKD move and kicked the Albanian in the head. He fell to the floor, groaning. I put on my clothes and fled. The next day I told Lin about it, and Lin said he would deal with him.

  Willem could only come to Paris three or four times a year. I tried not to think about him making love to his wife. He seldom spoke of her but he always told me when his sons won athletic awards or passed an important test in school.

  Before I knew it two years passed. In April 2004 I celebrated my 26th birthday by sending Gabe my annual email. This time I wrote: So happy in P. Met W who is wonderful. Miss you. XOXO, IRS

  My love for Willem continued to grow, and I began to fantasize about a life with him. After the Main Event, of course. But one day I went to NOLA.com and got a terrible shock. BoBo had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and the prognosis was poor. I was heartsick. Here I was working overtime to save enough money to avenge Mom and the man who'd murdered her was going to die.

  A vision of the gargoyles above Notre Dame flashed in my mind. Were the angry ancestor spirits tired of waiting for me to avenge Mom's murder? Did they decide to punish BoBo by giving him cancer? If so, this brought me no comfort.

  BoBo was a monster and I hated him.

  I wanted to kill him myself. But my plan was not yet in place.

  _____

  By April 2005 Willem and I had been together three years. Well, not together exactly, but when he came to Paris, we went to movies and museums and ate superb dinners and made passionate love afterwards. For my 27th birthday, our anniversary date, Willem gave me something special. He adored Edgar Allen Poe. His favorite
poem was The Raven. As we lay in bed after making love, he would say in his deep musical voice, “Once upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered weak and weary.” And recite the whole poem word for word. Or sometimes he would smile at me and say: “Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore.’” Like it was our private joke.

  For my birthday he took me to a tattoo parlor to get us matching tattoos. As a symbol of our love, he said. I was thrilled. This was a far better present than jewelry or a fancy dress. A tattoo was permanent. When Willem wasn’t with me in Paris I could look at my tattoo and imagine that he was in Amsterdam looking at his, thinking about me.

  Willem gave the tattoo artist a copy of a lithograph Manet had done in 1975 to illustrate a French translation of The Raven, and we each got tiny black ravens tattooed on our ankles. On the inside where people wouldn’t notice it, Willem said. Then we ate dinner at a fine restaurant, went back to Willem's hotel and made mad passionate love.

  The day after he left I poured myself a glass of wine and took stock of my situation. By Christmas I would have enough money in my Laura Lin Hawthorn bank account to avenge Mom. Then I would be free to live life as I wished. My greatest wish was to have a life with Willem.

  I was certain he loved me. Didn't we have a permanent symbol of our love tattooed on our ankles? I began to fantasize about living with him. I wanted to feel him beside me in bed when I woke up each morning.

  In November Willem called to say he was coming for a visit. “Our last tryst this year,” he said. “But I’ll be back in January.”

  Far from filling me with joy, his promise depressed me.

  I knew he liked spending the holidays with his boys. I don’t know about his wife. I wondered if she suspected that he had a lover. I really didn't care. All I knew was that I spent the Christmas and New Year holidays alone. I had no clients. Like Willem, they were home celebrating with their families.

  I made a decision. This time I would talk to Willem about our future.

  The second night we went to a four-star restaurant. Over dinner we had our usual lively discussion of world events. Willem looked especially handsome in his chocolate-brown Armani suit. “What do you think of the way President Bush handled the disaster in New Orleans after Katrina?” he asked.