by Susan Fleet
He picked up the top one, opened it and read the first line. Written in small neat handwriting, it said: One night Mom didn't come home. The date on the entry made the hairs on his neck curl. October 20, 1988.
The date of Jeanette Brixton's murder.
This was Natalie's diary. An adrenaline rush jazzed his heartbeat.
Kelly opened the other journal. "Neat handwriting. Looks like a diary."
"Bada-bing." Vobitch looked at him. "I didn't have time to read much, but now that you're on the disabled roster, you can. Might get us some answers."
"Why don't you guys hit the road so I can get started." He wanted to read every word of Natalie's diary right away. But the diary wasn't going to tell him where she was now. Or where she was going.
A cell phone rang and everyone checked their handsets. It was Vobitch's cell, but when he answered, his face sagged in disgust. After a moment he said, "When I hear something, you'll be the first to know." Then he theatrically clapped a hand to his forehead. "Check the airports?"
For Natalie, Frank assumed. New Orleans had been spared a direct hit from Hurricane Josephine. The storm had veered east but was still dumping torrential rains on the city. So far there'd been no major flooding, the pumps working like crazy, the levees holding. The mayor had announced that no one would be allowed back into the city until noon on Saturday.
"Nothing's flying out of Birmingham or Nashville," Vobitch said to whoever was on the phone. "Houston's open. So is St. Louis and Chicago." Abruptly, he ended the call and snarled, "Our favorite District Attorney, Roger Kiss-My-Ass Demaris."
Earlier Miller had taken him aside and told him Demaris had canceled his threat to take them off the case. After Chip Beaubien's body was found, Miller said, Vobitch had gotten into a screaming match with Demaris, had threatened to call a news conference and tell the reporters Demaris was disrespecting the NOPD, taking Detective Frank Renzi off the Peterson case as he lay in a hospital after heroically chasing the killer.
"Christ," Vobitch said, slamming his palms on the table. "Demaris thinks we're miracle workers like the cops on TV. Wave a magic wand and find out if she flew out of any nearby airports. Like the TSA is gonna help us. Anybody got any brilliant ideas about where she's headed?"
"How do we know she got out of town?" Kelly said.
Miller turned to her, clearly shocked. "You think she's still here?"
"If she is," Vobitch snapped, "we'll get her. Every law enforcement agency in Louisiana is looking for her."
No we won't, Frank thought. She's gone. He pictured the dress he'd seen in her Nashua apartment, the one with the Yves St. Laurent-Paris label, recalling what Gina had said: They don't sell clothes over here with labels that say Paris.
"How about Paris?" he said.
"Why Paris?" Kelly said.
Irritated, he snapped, "You got a better idea about where she's going?"
One look at the sea-green eyes he found so alluring told him she was pissed. He should have kept his mouth shut. But his calf was throbbing and he didn't want to take his pain meds and he didn't want to sit in a fucking wheelchair for a week, graduate to crutches and do his fucking PT and maybe start running again in six weeks. Not to mention the real kicker. Before he left the hospital, the doctor had given him a stern warning: "No strenuous activity for two weeks. That includes sexual activity."
Screw that. He'd let Kelly hop on top. He loved watching her face when they made love in that position. Or any position, for that matter. But the look on her face now foretold storm clouds ahead. If he didn't eat some crow, they might not be getting it on for a while.
Ending the uncomfortable silence, Vobitch said, "Even if we find her, I'm not convinced Demaris will charge her. We don't have shit for evidence."
"We got the security video on the Peterson hit," Miller said. "We got the ballistics report that says she killed Peterson and Conroy with the same gun."
"But we don't have the gun," Vobitch said. He took a pencil out of his shirt pocket. "Boston PD ballistics report says the slug that killed Oliver James" He swung his leonine head, eyeballing each of them in turn. "Presuming our friend Natalie killed him. Report says the slug didn't come from the gun she used down here."
"So she got another gun," Frank said. "She was living in New Hampshire. Gun laws there are pretty loose. We could check the gun shops."
"Christ, that'll take forever." Gripping the pencil in both fists, Vobitch snapped it in half. When they all burst out laughing, Vobitch glowered at them.
"I'll call Hank," Frank said. "Maybe we can get Boston PD to check the New Hampshire gun shops."
"Fine," Vobitch said, unappeased, "but we need to build a case that'll fly with a jury. Everything we got is circumstantial. No witnesses. No weapon. No prints in Peterson's hotel room."
"Got even less with the Conroy hit," Miller said. "We assume she used his car to leave City Park after she shot him, but she wiped it clean, no prints, no way to tie her to Conroy. We never found his wallet, probably dumped that too. Bet you a case of Bud we won't find her prints in the room where she killed Beaubien either. And we still haven't found his car."
Vobitch's cell rang again. He answered. After a moment, he said, "What's up?"
Frank watched anger and disgust ripple over his boss's face.
"We got nothing on this end either," Vobitch said, and after a pause, "Thanks for calling. Let us know if you find her." He slammed his cell down on the table. “Fucking prick.”
“Hammer, right?” Frank said.
“Right. Calling to say he didn’t find her with his ICU software or whatever the fuck it’s called. Face recognition, my ass. Peek-a-boo, I see you.”
“You think he’d tell us if he did?” Frank asked.
“I'm not holding my breath.” Vobitch drained his bottle of Bud.
“Where did he use this super-duper software program?”
“New Orleans bus and train stations. Not the airport. No planes flew out of Louis Armstrong Airport yesterday or today, maybe not tomorrow even.”
"What if she's got another fake ID?" Kelly said.
"That's almost guaranteed." Frank touched her hand and smiled at her. "Good thinking, though."
Ignoring him, she picked up her beer bottle and drank some. She was still pissed. After Vobitch and Miller left, there'd be a big showdown at the OK Corral.
Vobitch slammed his fist on the table. “Dammit, she killed three people in our jurisdiction. Peterson, Conroy, now Beaubien. If Hammer finds her first, we'll never get her. You know how the fucking CIA works. Ooops, she put up a fight and my gun went off, blah, blah, blah. We gotta find her!”
"Shitload of people left town yesterday," Miller said. "Maybe she hitched a ride with somebody.”
"She tried to kill Frank," Kelly said. "Maybe she's still here. Maybe she's got another target."
Frank remained silent. He didn't believe she tried to kill him. For the past 24 hours, he'd replayed the scene in his mind more times than he could count. When he was lying in the alley without a weapon, bleeding and defenseless, she could have shot him again and killed him. But she didn't.
"If she had a passport with a new ID," Vobitch said, jotted notes with the stub of his broken pencil, "she could fly anywhere and we'd never know. I'm gonna ask the NOPD Superintendent to call his FBI connection, get the guy to station some FBI agents in the airports."
"She'd probably avoid the ones in Atlanta or Tampa," Miller said. "To get there, she'd have to drive through areas with heavy storm damage, take a chance on the airports being open. But St. Louis is a straight shot north from here. Kansas City's close too."
"She might try to fly out tonight," Frank said. "We need to grab her before she leaves the country. Hammer's probably way ahead of us. If he finds her first, he'll make her disappear and it won't be pretty."
"If she's traveling by car," Vobitch said, "she'd go for the nearest one. I'll tell the Super to ask his FBI crony to station agents at the airports in St. Louis and Kansas City
pronto." He rose from his chair and said to Miller, "Let's get back to the station. Thanks for hosting the meeting, Kelly. Let me know if our friend gets too ornery. If he does, I'll come over and give him a knuckle sandwich." Vobitch gave him a look, but Frank saw a glint of amusement in his eyes.
Miller put on his rain poncho. "Thanks for the beer, Kelly. Behave yourself, Frank. No heavy lifting." And winked at him.
Kelly went to the door with them, came back and looked at him, expressionless. "You didn't have to bite my head off, Frank."
"Sorry. I shouldn't have opened my big mouth, especially in front of Miller and Vobitch." Judging by the angry glint in her eye, that didn't come close to appeasing her. "Come here. I've got something for you."
"What?" Flashing him a warning look, she came closer.
He pulled her close and kissed her lips, stroking her neck with his fingers. After some token resistance, she responded with her usual passion. His groin throbbed, an achy hot bulge in his pants. His leg might not be working, but his dick was ready to go.
When they came up for air, she said, "You're just pissed about being cooped up in a wheelchair."
"Even more pissed I can't take you to bed right now and bite your ass." He caressed her face. "You're safe for tonight, but after that all bets are off."
CHAPTER 37
St. Louis 4:15 p.m.
The sun was a fiery orange ball above the Gateway Arch when Paul drove his rig into the parking lot outside a Comfort Inn near the St. Louis airport. Eager to leave, she slung her tote over her shoulder. She to get on a plane fast and she still had important errands to do.
Paul gazed at her with his sad eyes. “Glad to make your acquaintance, Carla. We had a good time, didn't we? For a couple days at least.”
She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Yes, we did, Paul.”
Before he could say anything more, she got out and strode to the hotel entrance without looking back. She hit the revolving door and did a slow circle around the lobby past the potted plants and the people sitting on sofas reading magazines. When she got back to the entrance, the eighteen wheeler was gone.
She rode an elevator to the fourth floor, stepped into a deserted corridor and walked down the hall to an alcove with an ice maker and two vending machines. A large brown rubbish bin stood in the corner. She checked the hall. Seeing no one, she took the .38 Special out of her tote, went over every inch of it with a baby-wipe and shoved the gun to the bottom of the trash bin. On the way back to the elevator she met no one. Excellent. No witnesses. She rode the elevator down to the lobby, hurried out to the cabstand, got in the first cab and told the driver she needed to get to the airport fast.
Fifteen minutes later she entered the terminal. The departures area was a madhouse, grim-faced passengers towing luggage, fighting through the crowds. At an ATM she used her Laura Lin Hawthorn bankcard to withdraw a substantial amount of cash. Then she asked the woman at an information kiosk if there was a FedEx drop inside the airport. The woman said there was and directed her to it.
Dodging a stream of harried passengers, she found the FedEx kiosk, took an envelope out of the dispenser and went to the nearest restroom. Five women stood at the sinks, washing their hands or gazing into the mirror to fix their hair or freshen their makeup.
She went in a handicapped stall, set her foot on the toilet rim and balanced the FedEx envelope on her thigh. With a felt-tipped pen, she addressed the envelope: To Frank Renzi, c/o the Eighth District police station. She didn't know the exact address, but the FedEx driver would. She paused, lost in thought, then took out a scrap of paper and printed a note: Detective Renzi. I believe this recording will solve the murder of Jeanette Brixton on October 20, 1988.
She took the tape recorder out of her tote, ejected the Peterson tape and slid the note and the tape into the FedEx envelope. She wanted to ditch the tape recorder, but not where anyone would see her, and she could hear two women outside her stall discussing their vacation plans. Using a baby wipe, she polished the recorder and put it in the metal container for sanitary napkin disposal. Someone would find it when they cleaned the restroom, but she'd be long gone by then.
She went back to the FedEx kiosk. At BoBo's funeral, people had praised him, saying he was a good man. That would soon change. With a grim sense of satisfaction, she slid the FedEx envelope into the outgoing slot. Soon the New Orleans police would know who murdered her mother. Soon everyone in New Orleans would know what a monster BoBo was.
His reputation would be forever sullied.
Hurrying now, she went to the ticket counters. Long lines of passengers zigzagged through a maze of ropes in front of four counters. She wanted to buy a ticket and fly out ASAP, but that might be difficult. Thanks to Hurricane Josephine, many flights had been cancelled or delayed, forcing passengers to rebook their flights. Only six people stood in the Delta Airlines line.
But a tall dark-haired man in a black suit stood near the Delta counter, his face set in a frown. He had an aura about him, a hunter's aura, and he was staring at her, pinning her like a butterfly on a display board. Fear sharper than a fishmonger's knife sliced her gut. Was he a cop? He wasn't in uniform, but detectives didn't wear uniforms. Feeling helpless and vulnerable, she went to a nearby drinking fountain, bent down and drank some water.
How could this happen now? She was so close to making her escape, certain she was safe now that she had escaped from New Orleans. And Renzi.
She forced herself to swallow several mouthfuls of water and considered the possibilities, none of them good. Maybe the New Orleans cops had asked other police departments to post plain-clothed detectives at the airports.
But the man in the suit didn't look like a cop.
Was he an FBI agent? CIA?
Was he looking for April West, a woman with long dark hair, wearing a black skirt and teal-green top?
To kill the sour taste she swished water around her mouth and tried to reassure herself. She wasn't wearing a black skirt and a teal-green top now. Last night after she and Paul ate dinner at a truck stop, she'd gone to the convenience store while he refueled his truck. She bought a pastel-blue T-shirt, navy sweatpants and a pair of white canvas shoes. She put on the sneakers and threw her spike-heeled shoes in a trashcan. This morning, she'd stuffed her teal-green top and black skirt into a plastic bag. That bag was also in a trash barrel.
Now she was wearing navy sweatpants and the pastel-blue T-shirt.
But the hunter in the dark suit was still watching her. She had to get out and she couldn't, without a plane ticket. Gathering her courage, she dug her tinted Vera Wang glasses out of her tote, put them on and recited her motto. Be who they want you to be.
With a confident stride, she joined the line for the Delta ticket counter. But the hunter was coming toward her, his predatory eyes fixed on her. A mushroom cloud of dread rose inside her. Her legs trembled.
"Hello, Miss," he said. "May I see some identification?"
Fear clawed its way into her throat. "Of course. May I ask why?"
His eyes bored into hers, menacing eyes that said: Don't fuck with me.
"We're doing extra security today. Can I see your ID?"
Her hands were sweaty, but she didn't dare wipe them on her skirt. She had to act like an innocent passenger trying to get on a plane. Thankful that she'd dumped her gun at the Comfort Inn, she took her wallet out of her tote and forced a smile. "Has there been some sort of terrorist threat?"
His eyes were lumps of coal, dark and intimidating. "Something like that."
She gave him her Laura Lin Hawthorn passport. He paged through it, noting the exit and entry stamps. At last he flipped back to the page with her photograph. He studied it, then looked at her face.
Was he looking at her eyes? The tinted glasses masked them somewhat, but not completely.
"Where are you headed, Laura?"
"Chicago."
"Can I see your drivers license?"
Her heart jolted like a runaway horse fleeing a ba
rn fire. She clenched her leg muscles to stop them from trembling. "I don't have one. Chicago's got a great public transit system. I mostly get around on buses."
He studied her passport again. "Your passport was issued in Paris."
"Yes."
"But you're an American citizen."
"Yes." She beamed him a proud smile. "Mom was too. She was born in Paris. We lived there for a while when I was little." Be who they want you to be. Make up a story and bamboozle them.
His face remained stony. "And you're flying to Chicago?"
"Yes."
He stared at her. "Not Paris?"
They knew she'd lived in Paris, and that's where they expected her to go.
"Nope. Chicago. It's a fun town. Have you been there?"
Annoyance flashed in his eyes. He thrust the passport at her. "Have a good flight."
He turned and resumed his position near the counter and kept watching her. Her heart jumped in her chest like an acrobat on a trampoline. Using her TKD focus, she maintained a neutral expression, just another passenger waiting to buy a ticket. As the line to the ticket counter shuffled forward, she thought about the diary she had kept for the past twenty years.
Thanks to the diary, the cops were hot on her trail. She had intended to send it to Gabe. He was the only one who cared about her. They were soul mates, outsiders navigating the perils of Pecos High School. She'd never told him about her plan to avenge her mother's murder, but he might have guessed. Especially after Randy. Gabe had gotten her the gun, no questions asked.
But now Renzi had the diary.
If only she'd mailed it to Gabe when she had the chance. Not to his houseshe didn't want to cause trouble with his wifeto his video game business in Odessa. But over the last 20 years she had intended to do many things and quite a few of them didn't work out.
Four long minutes later she reached the ticket counter.
The hunter was still watching her.
She smiled at the ticket agent. "Hi, I'd like to book a seat on the next flight to Chicago."