No Good Deed

by Matthews, Susanne

  “He can’t be that gullible,” she said. A scam of that proportion could have incredible repercussions. “Do you honestly believe it’s that bad?”

  “I do. Go take your shower. If you can put that old movie on hold for an hour or so, we’ll talk after you’re done. If you need help, just yell.”

  Nodding, she propelled the wheelchair into the room where her suitcase sat on the stand and opened it. She lifted Benji off the top and set him on the dresser.

  Rifling through the bag, she found a sheer nightie. Surely Colette didn’t expect her to wear that flimsy thing? No way, especially not if she and Mike were sharing a room. She kept rooting until she found the flannelette nightgown she’d worn last night. Grabbing her cosmetic bag, she headed into the bathroom.

  Half an hour later, hair washed and gleaming, a mass of loose curls, she donned the long nightdress and slippers and resumed her seat in the wheelchair once more. She still couldn’t make sense of what Mike had told her. She sensed he wasn’t 100 percent sure she was who she claimed to be. What if Andy couldn’t prove she was the real Alexa O’Brien? How would Mike react to that? Would he leave her here to fend for herself?

  Wheeling into the main room, she found him bent over the desk examining the map.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked, hiding her distrust deep inside.

  “Yes and no,” he answered, running his hand through his close-cropped hair. “There aren’t any timelines here. I’ve sent Colette a message asking for clarification. I was just about to check the e-mail. Do you want the last of your chardonnay?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He went over to the counter, removed the white wine from the ice bucket, and refilled her glass, grabbing a beer from the mini fridge for himself.

  The tablet chimed. Handing her the glass, he moved to the desk where the map sat open under the tablet.

  “It’s from Colette,” he said. “There’s an attachment.”

  Alexa set the wineglass down on the coffee table and propelled her chair to the desk.

  “Maybe it’s the picture of the dead man.”

  She’d seen crime photos on television, but unless it was a gruesome news report, those were pictures of actors in makeup. This would be the real thing.

  “You’re right,” Mike hesitated. “Are you sure you’re ready for this? He isn’t pretty.”

  She swallowed awkwardly, took a deep breath, and nodded.

  “I considered Callaghan a friend, not a jailor. I need to know which one of us is right.”

  Mike pursed his lips and clicked on the attachment.

  Alexa moved closer to the tablet, unable to pull her gaze away from the gruesome image. The man in the photo, his gray-blue skin mottled and discolored, made her flesh crawl. The left side of his face was smashed in, possibly from hitting the rocks. She released the breath she’d been holding.

  “Whoever this is, it isn’t the man I knew as Callaghan. He resembles one of the men I drew—not the Mediterranean man, but the other guy. His hair’s darker—that could be the light or the water—but from what I can see, the bone structure is the same. It could be him, a brother, or close relative. If it is him, then he’s not the magician.”

  Mike frowned. “You’re certain?”

  “I am.”

  He nodded. “If this is one of the killers, it could be a falling out among thieves.”

  “Maybe. Don’t they have DNA from this guy?”

  “I’ll send Colette a message now, and she can relay it to Andy.”

  Alexa rolled over to the coffee table and picked up her glass while he keyed the quick message and pressed send. Less than a minute later, the new message icon flashed in the corner of the screen. “That was fast.”

  She moved back to his side.

  Opening the e-mail, he frowned. “Not an answer to what I just sent, but to my previous e-mail about our travel plans. As long as we check in each day, where we stay is up to us. Once we’re in Tadoussac on the twenty-second, Al will have the details on where we’ll disappear for an extended period.”

  She sipped the chardonnay. If Andy didn’t prove she was Alexa O’Brien, what would happen?

  “Drink up, and then it’s time for that nap. You don’t want to overdo things.”

  Finishing the wine in one gulp, she handed him the glass. “You’re right. It’s survival of the fittest, and I need to get fit.” But she wanted to do more than survive. She wanted to live, really live, and if this man could be part of that life . . . But he had to trust her first. Without trust, there could be no relationship of any kind.

  • • •

  Mike awoke with a start, well aware of the wood between his legs and the warm backside settled against it. At some point during the night, that granny sack she wore must’ve crept up because what was tucked up against him was soft, warm flesh.

  Moving gingerly, he slipped out of the bed, grabbed his discarded clothes off the floor and one of the terrycloth robes from the back of the bathroom door, and padded out of the bedroom into the kitchenette, closing the sliding door behind him. It had been three years since he’d spent the entire night in a woman’s bed, and he’d forgotten they liked to cuddle in their sleep, even when they had no idea they were doing it.

  Usually, he did what he came for and left. Sometimes, he even said good-bye. But this was different, and damned if he knew how it was going to end.

  Despite his body’s reaction, there hadn’t been any sex last night, nor would there be. Alexa—Laura—was an assignment, one he had to do well if he planned to stay on this side of the grass and keep her there, too. The problem was, while his head knew it, his heart and his body were a touch confused.

  As he’d told Andy, Alexa reminded him of Thea. What was it about her that drew him to her, other than the scent of her perfume? If he was looking for a physical resemblance, it didn’t exist. Alexa had hazel eyes, silky, curly copper hair, and a peaches and cream complexion, albeit pale without Colette’s cosmetics. Thea had been olive skinned, with chocolate brown eyes and straight, chin-length, dark brown hair. His wife had been short and curvy, typical of many French-Italian women, while Alexa was taller with legs that went on forever—not that he’d noticed.

  He brewed himself a cup of coffee. Once he had the cup in hand, he checked the e-mail for a message from Andy. He wasn’t disappointed. Opening the message, he read the contents twice before realizing parts of it were encoded. This wasn’t what he’d hoped for. Using the decryption key he’d known most of his life, he translated:

  The bad news is that facial recognition software may have identified one of the men in the sketch. We believe he’s Bashir Al Nori, a prominent member of a small band of terrorists. The problem is, the man hasn’t left Iraq in more than a year. CSIS has agents watching him—men I trust. Since Al Nori doesn’t have a twin, the only thing that makes sense is that he has a double. Interpol’s been investigating a rumor that there’s a nip and tuck artist out there who specializes in faces for those who can afford his exorbitant price—a million bucks a pop. He operates in Europe, and all arrangements are made on the dark web.

  No one seems to be able to catch him or even prove he exists—he’s managed to stay one step ahead of Interpol—but I think we’ve stumbled onto just that. Richard Fields fits the bill nicely, and he does an awful lot of traveling according to what I’ve been able to uncover. Plus, after having my financial wizard look at his books, his investments are returning a hell of a lot more than they should be. Fixing faces while he’s on vacation would add to his finances nicely. My guy found another account, one in the Cayman Islands in the name of C. Fields. For a dead woman, she’s been banking steadily for the past twenty years. My concern is that Al Nori is the man in the sketch, and we’ve been monitoring a carefully crafted substitute. Either way, we’ve knocked over a hornets’ nest.

  As far as the body goes, it’s disappeared, no doubt cremated and disposed of, so my contacts can’t do the DNA testing you suggested. We h
aven’t identified the man she knew as Callaghan, but we’ll keep trying.

  In case you didn’t see the late news, you’ll be shocked to discover that you died in what’s believed to be a suicide at a chalet near Saint Sauveur. You’re being erased, my friend, just like Alexa. By now, all your clearances will have been revoked. Whoever is behind this wheels a hell of a lot of clout. Men posing as RCMP officers have been questioning my neighbors about me and my whereabouts. Nosy neighbors like La Vieille Racine have their uses. Colette got a call last night at my sister-in-law’s. Whoever’s behind this is definitely at the top of the food chain, and I’m almost certain we’re talking management level at the SQ.

  You’ll be pleased to know that your gut is working just fine, and Alexa checks out. I hung around the school yesterday afternoon and spoke with a mother picking up her child. She remembers Ms. O’Brien and described her. When I asked why she’d left, I was told she’d been killed in a multicar pileup on the QEW last April—the same information Jean-Louis found. There was a big funeral. Timing sounds just about perfect. We ran the fake Alexa through facial recognition but didn’t get any hits.

  You need to contact Henri on the burner phone I gave you and then dispose of it. Trash the tablet, pick up a new one, and use Plan B. Uncle Paul is always happy to hear from his nephew

  Mike read the decrypted message once more. How the hell was he supposed to respond to this? Dead? He hadn’t seen that coming. If Andy was right, they were screwed.

  Mike had just made himself a second cup of coffee when the bedroom door slid open and Alexa rolled into the room.

  “Is that coffee?” she asked, her nose scrunching up in distaste.

  Either she was choosing not to mention last night’s cuddling or she didn’t remember it. Whichever was fine with him. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about it, especially when he couldn’t really explain why he’d slept in the damn bed in the first place, and if she’d noticed the hard-on . . . He must’ve fallen asleep watching that old movie, but if he’d gotten up to turn off the television and undress, why the hell hadn’t he settled on the couch like he’d planned to do? And, if he’d done all that unconsciously, then he was one lousy bodyguard. Now he sipped the brew in his cup and smiled as she stared at him strangely.

  “Yup. It’s definitely coffee. Would you like some?”

  “Only if I can’t get any tea,” she said and yawned.

  “Coming right up.” He stood to make it for her. “I’ve ordered room service breakfast for ten. Why don’t you drink your tea while I clean up? By the way, I may have figured out how to get you your bath. The hotel has a large hot tub next to the pool. We can check it out after breakfast.”

  “That’s a great idea. I don’t understand why I’m still so damn tired, but I would love to soak in a hot tub for a while. Have you heard from Andy?”

  “Emotional exhaustion is often harder on the body than physical tiredness.” He pointed to the laptop. “The decoded message is there.”

  She wheeled herself over to the desk to read the e-mail for herself. Scowling, she turned toward him as he approached with the tea.

  “Well, it’s a relief to know he believes I’m who I say I am, even if I am still dead. He implies you believed me. Thank you for that.” She bit her lower lip. “I wasn’t sure what would happen if he couldn’t prove the truth.”

  “Lex, I might’ve doubted you at first, but not afterward. And whether or not you were Alexa O’Brien didn’t matter in the end. You were in trouble. I would’ve taken care of you. I hope you’ll believe that.”

  She nodded. “But does he seriously think Richard could be this nip and tuck artist, as he calls him?” Her voice quivered. She was pale once more, her eyes narrowed and her brows deeply creased.

  “It makes sense. You did say he travels a lot with Doctors Without Borders, and that could be a cover. We can talk about it later. Right now, I want to shave and clean up and then check out the pool area before I decide whether it’s safe to give it a go. There aren’t any lifeguards on duty, so we should be able to get in and get out without attracting attention.”

  She nodded. “As much as I would love a soak, this time, I’ll let you decide what’s best.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “What, no argument? No demand to have a say in decisions concerning you and your safety?”

  “Not at the moment. I’ll give you a pass this time, only because I had no idea what I was up against. If Andy’s right, had you not come along, I would be dead by now or in Richard’s hands, which would be a hundred times worse. As you’ve said, sometimes you have to accept help even if you want to go it alone. This is one of those times. But according to this, I’m not the only ghost here. You’re dead, too.”

  “Yup, and that’s why, after your soak, we’ll get dressed and get in the car to go make that call to Henri. We can have a late lunch and then drive back. If these people are as powerful as Andy suspects, we need to be extra careful.”

  “Then why bother calling Henri at all?” she asked, her brow furrowed.

  “Because Andy says to, and he’s calling the shots for both of us. Don’t worry. I’ll keep it short and sweet and dump the phone as soon as I finish. Now have your tea while I shower.”

  Mike smiled down at her. She had to be as rattled as he was. A plastic surgeon at the beck and call of whoever could pay his price? That was bad news on too many levels to even consider.

  When he came out of the bathroom a short while later, Alexa sat where he’d left her.

  “Mike—I mean, Lucien—something’s nagging at me. It has to do with Andy’s comment about doubles—what if the double is a smokescreen?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Suppose you want to disappear and money’s no object. Having someone else with your face would help, but what if you changed your own appearance—not the way Colette changed mine with a haircut and cosmetics, but really changed it like a plastic surgeon could do? I saw some of the before and after shots of Richard’s charity cases. His talent is astounding. Let’s say I’m a terrorist with a price on my head, my face plastered all over the place, and men watching my every move. I find a man or maybe a couple of men willing to be my body doubles and arrange to have this doctor change their faces to resemble mine. Then, as soon as my doppelganger is in place, I sneak away and let the same man give me a brand-new face. Now I’m as free as a bird to go about my business. I can keep running things while I come and go as I please, and my stand-ins prove I haven’t budged an inch or done a damn thing. The person who manipulated the data and changed it could probably create new identities to go with the new faces. What do you think?”

  He swallowed. How had he missed this possibility? It was brilliant. “New faces. New lives. New identities. That could explain why no one can figure out who Callaghan or the other man in the sketch are. Son of a bitch! It also explains why the bullets destroyed those faces. It’s much easier to simply assume an identity.”

  “I’ve seen Richard reconstruct faces that were badly damaged. He’d been after me for months to let him fix me—my nose, my cheeks, my bust.” She reddened. “After the incident, he wanted to get rid of the scar on my face, but I left before he could. God knows what he might have done to me if he got me on the table.” She shuddered.

  “There’s nothing wrong with your face or any other part of you.” Mike ran his hand through his hair, stiff from the gel he’d just used. “If you’re right, Canada’s security might not be the only one at stake.” Things might’ve just gone from bad to worse.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sitting on the front seat of the new model SUV, her legs covered once more by the lap quilt, Alexa sighed. She tried to pay attention to the scenery as they drove along, but even the time she’d spent in the spa hadn’t been able to erase the doom and gloom feeling she had after reading Andy’s report and the articles online—Mike’s obituary and the report of his death.

  Before they’d gone to the pool and exercise area, Mike had sea
rched Allo Police, Montreal’s infamous crime blog. The headline had read, Policier mort, un suicide? The photograph of a charred body featured prominently beneath it. Mike had translated the article, which gave few details about anything, most of it speculating on how a well-respected police officer could have become despondent enough to kill himself. His obituary noted the death of his wife as well as the highlights of his career. At least Alexa had been spared that.

  Where had that photograph come from? If the police said Mike was dead, would they even need a body? Maybe not. It could be more of that cyber manipulation she couldn’t understand.

  Alexa knew her way around computers as well as the next person, but as far as hacking, stealing, or erasing identities went, she had no idea. Richard had a top-of-the-line computer system, but she didn’t think he could do something like that either. He was always cursing the machine when it didn’t give him what he wanted right away.

  Rousing herself from her gloomy thoughts, she examined the heritage buildings lining each side of the street.

  “What a gorgeous little town,” Alexa said. “How did you know about it? In Toronto, you rarely see old brick and stone buildings like these downtown. We’ve got glass and steel skyscrapers as far as the eye can see.”

  “I spent time here as a kid. My uncle has friends in the area. If we were here for any other reason, I’d pay them a visit, but . . . Maybe someday you can come back during the summer. There’s lots to see and a lot of boutiques and stuff.” He signaled a right turn and pulled into a parking lot. “I’m going to call Henri from here. Will you be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine. Getting hungry, but make the call. As much as it’s a dangerous thing to do, you’re right. We need to know what’s going on—especially as it relates to you and that online report.”

  “I agree. Reading my obituary was a little disconcerting. This shouldn’t take long, and then you can get out and stretch before we head back.”

  “We are going to eat somewhere first though? It’s been four hours since breakfast and since I didn’t eat much . . . ” Her stomach growled loudly.