by Susan Fleet
Gregor wouldn't dare pull the heist this weekend. Boston was swarming with cops. That meant she had three days to escape. But she needed a new passport and new identity papers. She took out her iPhone and dialed a number.
When Pak Lam answered, she said, “Hello, Mountain Man.”
_____
Larry stood behind the takeout counter, chewing a Tums. His gut told him the customer in booth number four was trouble. He knew the guy wasn’t a fed. The feds had an aura about them. He wasn’t a plain-clothed cop, either. The cops had no reason to hassle Larry Ho. He treated them right, slipped an extra appetizer into their takeout orders, and his food stamp clients were careful to use the code.
The customer in booth four had ordered Kung Pow Chicken and a Budweiser. Nothing unusual there, but when Larry’s gut told him something was wrong, he paid attention. He leaned over the counter and eyeballed the man. He wasn’t from the neighborhood, and his well-tailored suit wasn’t something a hospital worker would wear.
The man snubbed out a cigarette, took out his wallet and put cash on the tab. Larry busied himself with an order slip as the mystery man entered the foyer and headed for the door. Then, as though he’d forgotten something, the man shoved his hands in his pants pockets and strolled to the counter. “A fine meal,” he said, gazing at Larry, expressionless.
His face was foreign-looking, Larry decided. Angular features, hard eyes, light brown hair curling over his square forehead. He looked like a bouncer, more than six feet tall, weighed maybe two-fifty, and muscular. Not someone you'd want to tangle with in a dark alley.
Larry beamed him a customer-friendly smile. “Glad you enjoyed it. Come back soon.”
“Has Jamilla been in lately?”
Larry ran a hand over his shaven head, damp with sweat now, alarm bells ringing in his mind. “Jamilla? Why? Are you a friend of hers?”
The man nodded, his face impassive. “I worked with her when she was a cop.”
Larry didn’t believe it. This guy was no cop. Acid flooded his stomach, bringing a sharp pain.
“I’ll tell her you stopped by. What’d you say your name was?”
The man gazed at him. His eyes were black ice, dark and cold. “Tell her Joe Jones was asking for her,”
After he left, Larry popped another Tums. First Nicholas wanted to know where Jamilla lived. Now this mystery man was asking for her. He didn’t know what this meant, but he was certain of one thing.
This mystery man was trouble.
_____
I wouldn’t want anything to happen to your boy.
The words exploded in her mind like a bomb. Jamilla sank onto the lumpy cot in her bedroom.
Out in the living room Jaylen squealed, “Wheeee!” He loved the set of Hot Wheels she’d bought him, yellow plastic track with a steep hill and four tiny racecars, bright colored and edged with chrome. Every time a car zoomed down the hill he let out a squeal of delight.
You still have your cop uniform?
She eyed the closet but couldn’t make herself leave the bed. Her thoughts drifted to Larry Ho. Larry had always been good to her. He knew Nicholas. Did he know about the rotten scheme the bastard had roped her into? Probably not. Larry ran his food-stamp scam, but he’d never get mixed up with a creep like Nicholas. Or the crime he was planning, whatever it was.
The springs under the mattress creaked as she rose from the bed.
Out in the living room Jaylen let out another “Wheee!”
She opened the closet door and studied her clothes. Two pullovers, three T-shirts and a raggedy sweatshirt. And her uniform, encased in clear plastic. When she stepped into the closet, her feet crunched on something.
Rat droppings, she could smell them.
She took out the uniform, cleaned and pressed at the dry-cleaners three years ago, before they fired her. She hooked the hanger over the door, ripped off the plastic and ran her hand over the blue fabric. She’d loved being a cop. The uniform made her feel important, but that wasn’t the best part. She was helping people. Comforting them after a car accident. Keeping an eye on their building after they called about a prowler.
But she wasn’t a cop anymore. She was a junkie. Damn Jaylen’s father! She loved Jaylen, but she hated his father, getting her on the junk, turning her into a zombie.
“Wheeee!” from the living room.
She put on the uniform shirt, then the trousers, and studied herself in the grimy mirror on the back of the door. She’d lost weight, but the uniform fit well enough. Well enough for what she had to do anyway. When they busted her off the force they had taken her weapon. She wished she still had it. That scared her.
Feeling sick to her stomach, she stared into the mirror. Okay, she’d do what the bastard wanted. Then she’d take the money—fifteen hundred, including the four hundred he’d already given her—and split this dirtbag town. Get on a bus with Jaylen, head south and start a new life. She'd get a job, rent an apartment, and things would be fine.
If she could muster the courage to do what the bastard wanted.
On Monday he would give her the stun gun and the drugs to knock out the cops. A shiver of fear rippled through her.
She heaved a sigh. Fuck it. She’d do what she had to do.
Then everything would be fine.
_____
“I need a new passport right away,” she said, sinking lower in her chair. Pak Lam regarded her silently, expressionless. She tried not to look at the long vertical scar that ran down his cheek. It made him look grim and harsh. And unforgiving.
Inside his office the silence stretched out like an endless road headed toward the horizon.
“My name is not Valerie,” she blurted, her cheeks hot with embarrassment. “It is Natalie Brixton. A policeman is after me.”
“Why is this policeman after you? Who is he?”
She massaged her icy fingers. How could she explain the circumstances that had culminated in violence and sent her running for her life? “It's a long story. When I was ten, someone murdered my mother. It took me twenty years to take my revenge.”
His eyes widened slightly. He glanced at the photograph on the wall, his wife and two children, she assumed. Then he went to his desk, picked up the telephone and spoke rapidly in Chinese.
After returning to the chair opposite hers, he said, “I have ordered a large pot of jasmine tea. When it arrives, you must tell me this story, about how you took your revenge.”
Forty-five minutes and many cups of tea later, she sank back in her chair, exhausted. Under the Mountain Man's gentle prodding, she had told him about her twenty-year journey. Now he regarded her silently. At last he said, “You are a brave woman, Natalie.”
A great wave of relief swept over her. Contrary to her expectation, he did not look at her with revulsion. In fact, he seemed … what? Pleased? No, more than that. His eyes brimmed with admiration.
But she could not allow this to divert her from her goal.
She swallowed the last of her tea and set the porcelain cup on the table. “Now you know why I need a new passport as soon as possible. I need to leave Boston before this policeman finds me.”
“I understand. Unfortunately, the person who prepares my passports and identity papers is in California. She is at Disneyland with her children and grandchildren. Their gift for her eightieth birthday.”
An eighty-year-old grandmother was going to create her fake documents? Her face must have registered her dismay. Pak Lam went to the telephone again, spoke rapidly and returned to his chair.
“Her return flight to Boston arrives late Wednesday afternoon.”
Her heart sank. It was worse than she thought. Six days from now.
“I could ask someone else to create a false passport. But you want the best papers, correct? So that your escape will be successful?”
She nodded. But she needed them now, not six days from now.
The Mountain Man gave her a reassuring smile. “Then Madame Li must create your documents. She is an expert
. She learned how to do this from her husband. When he died ten years ago, she took over his business. Madame Li will be tired after her long flight home on Wednesday. I will contact her on Thursday and have her make your documents.”
“Thank you,” she said. But that might be too late. By then, Gregor might have ordered her to steal two Vermeers from the Gardner.
CHAPTER 18
Saturday July 3, 2010
At 2:15 Frank picked Kelly up at Logan Airport. After a hug and a quick smooch, he put her luggage in his rental car and drove her to his motel. While Kelly organized her clothes, he said, “Want to go see the sights? Or would you rather take a nap?”
Kelly gave him one of her mischievous smiles. “I've got a surprise for you.”
“I like surprises. What is it?”
“You'll see.” She went in the bathroom and shut the door.
Ten seconds later the door opened and Kelly posed in the doorway, one hand on her hip. The little red bikini didn't leave much to the imagination. A visceral jolt hit his scrotum.
“You like it?” she said in a low husky voice.
“I love it,” he murmured, “but I like your birthday suit better.”
He traced his fingers down her throat, slid the straps off her shoulders and caressed her breasts, felt her nipples hard against his palms. Already he was at half-mast. He guided her to the dresser and they gazed at each other in the mirror.
“I love watching you,” he said. “Watching us.”
He pulled off his polo shirt, turned her to face him and kissed her mouth. Her lips were soft and pliant and her body melded to his. He couldn't wait to be inside her. He took off his clothes and they lay on the bed. Waves of sensation washed over him, banishing any thought of art heists. All that mattered was Kelly, the warmth of her skin, the feathery touch of her fingers, her tongue exploring his mouth.
She locked eyes with him and pulled him on top of her.
Eons of intoxicating minutes and passion later they lay in bed with their arms around each other. He never tired of making love to her.
“Welcome to Boston,” he said.
She gave him a lazy smile. “That was a mighty nice welcome.”
He traced a finger over her flat stomach. “The beach is only a mile from here. Want to go swimming?”
“I'm not much of a swimmer. I never learned how.”
“Get out. Everyone knows how to swim.”
“Not me. I grew up in Chicago, remember? The Windy City.”
“So? I thought it was on one of those big lakes.”
Kelly smiled faintly. “Lake Superior.”
“Right, Lake Superior.”
She burst out laughing. “Frank, have you ever looked at a map of the United States?”
“What,” he said, “you gonna make me name the state capitals now? I flunked sixth grade geography. My mother gave me hell.”
“Michigan, Frank. Chicago is on Lake Michigan. And the water is very cold.”
“Don't they have YMCA's there?”
“Yes, but Dad thought it was more important for me to learn how to shoot. And as you may recall, there have been a few occasions when that came in handy.”
He remembered all right. When he met Kelly, she had been working Homicide for NOPD, following in her father's footsteps. One of her brothers also worked for Chicago PD.
“But you gotta see the beach. It's gorgeous.”
“Are there any restaurants? I could do with some food.”
“Okay, I'll take you to Santorini's, great seafood and lots of windows facing the ocean.”
They got dressed and he drove her along Revere Beach Boulevard. When Kelly saw the sandy beach and the mob of people—tiny tots shoveling sand into plastic pails, teenagers frolicking in the surf, people lying on blankets soaking up the sun—she said, “Wow! I'm impressed.”
“It was the first public beach in America.” He looked over and grinned. “Don't ask me when. I wasn't that great at history, either.” He spotted Santorini's and pulled into a parking space. “Let's walk from here and see the sights.”
As they strolled along the sidewalk, enjoying the sea breeze and the warmth of the sun, he pointed north along the coastline. “You can't see Swampscott from here, but that's where I grew up. Last night I drove up to the old homestead and took my father out for dinner.”
“How's he doing?” Kelly asked.
“Not bad, but he's worried about the Celtics, says they better make a trade or they'll never make the playoffs next year.”
“Sounds like my dad, but he's into baseball. He's a Cubs fan.”
Kelly's mother had died when Kelly was two and she seldom spoke of her. His mother had died ten years ago. He didn't talk about her much, either, but he still missed her.
“Tell me about Global Interpreting,” Kelly said.
He pointed at Santorini's across the street. “When we sit down with a beer, I will.”
They ordered baked scallops and took their beers to a window table facing the ocean. While they waited for their food, Frank told her what happened with Marta at Global Interpreting. “She might be the blonde woman Sonja Wynkoop saw in that bar with her husband and Gregor.”
“But why would she be in Boston?”
“To do translations. If that's what Global Interpreting actually does. I think it's a front for something else. The manager's name is Stefan Haas, but when I asked to speak to him, Marta said he wasn’t there, didn't know when he'd be back. I think he's Gregor Kraus, using a fake ID. I asked my FBI buddy to get me some info on Stefan Haas. Turns out, he died two years ago.”
Kelly sipped her Budweiser, processing the information. “Okay. Let's assume Gregor Kraus was involved with those European art heists. But if your FBI agent friend got you information on Stefan Haas, I assume he's American. How would Gregor Kraus know him?”
“That's what I want to know. Stefan's dead and so is his father, but his mother lives in Seabrook, New Hampshire, which is where I'm going on Tuesday.” He drank some Heineken and set the bottle on the table. “I saved the big news for last.”
Kelly gave him an arch look. “Don't hold back, Frank. I'm listening.”
He told her about the State Trooper who'd seen Natalie Brixton at Logan Airport.
“You think she's here?”
Their scallop dinners arrived and Kelly dug into hers, marveling at the size of the scallops and the delicious flavor. While they ate, he told her about the Special Exhibit at the Gardner. “Bottom line, I think Natalie came to Boston to steal a painting from the Gardner.”
“Make a helluva splash if she did,” Kelly said.
“It sure would. But I intend to catch her before she does it.”
_____
Depressed by her dreary apartment, Natalie decided to go to a movie, a trip to fantasyland, her usual ploy to take her mind off her problems. There was a theater near Copley Square, but she didn't want to run into Gregor. She rode the Green Line to Boylston Street and bought a ticket at the theater opposite Boston Common.
But when she left the theater her mood was worse than before. The film brought back too many memories. The Karate Kid, starring Jackie Chan and Jaden Smith, continued a series that had begun with a remake of the 1984 film. The movie she'd seen with Gabe so long ago. The film that had inspired her to study Taekwondo.
Her eyes welled with tears and her throat thickened. If only she could talk to Gabe. Every year she sent him an email on her birthday—April 15, tax day—and signed it IRS. Their private joke. Gabe was her best friend. Her only friend. She'd met him in high school when she joined the drama club. If only she could be that innocent teenager again. Not knowing how to use a gun. To kill people.
Gabe still lived in Texas, but she couldn't call him. He had a wife now and twin sons. His pride and joy.
Pak Lam had twins, too—the boy and girl in the photo on his wall. How old were they now, she wondered. Someday she would ask him about them. But she couldn't call him either. That would be rude. On a holida
y weekend, he would be with his family.
Overwhelmed with loneliness, she descended the stairs of the MBTA station and boarded a train. Unwilling to return to her apartment, she got off at the Northeastern stop and headed for the Student Center, intending to buy a grilled chicken salad. Maybe she'd buy a book in the shop around the corner and read it while she ate.
The Spy Who Came In From the Cold. The shop wouldn't have it, of course. It was an old book. But she desperately wanted to come in from the cold. For twenty-two years, her life had been an endless series of obstacles and disasters.
An empty life. No friends and no one to love her.
Then she thought, Grow up, Natalie. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.
She pictured her escape-hatch city in Italy. There she would be warm, for part of the year at least. She might even make some friends.
Best of all, she wouldn't have to kill anyone.
_____
Sunday, July 4, 2010 – 10:15 AM
“I'm taking you out for brunch,” Frank said. “You need a healthy breakfast and a mimosa.”
Kelly grinned at him. “Oooh, decadent. Will there be a Welcome-to-Boston party afterward?”
He loved her bawdy sense of humor. “That could be arranged.”
They feasted on three-egg omelets, fresh strawberries and mimosas, fresh-squeezed orange juice fizzy with champagne. After another Welcome-to-Boston frolic, they rode the Blue Line into Boston, got off at Park Street and strolled down Beacon Street. They walked along the red-brick sidewalk, Kelly admiring the golden dome of the State House, gleaming in the sun. Frank was admiring Kelly, a luscious sight in white shorts and an aqua halter-top that set off her dark curly hair.
Traffic was heavy, people already arriving for tonight's fireworks celebration. At Charles Street they caught a Walk light. Frank hustled Kelly past six lanes of cars into the Public Gardens. “When I worked for Boston PD, I used to do power walks here on my lunch break. All the tourists would ask me for directions to Cheers, the pub on that TV show.”