by Susan Fleet
“Are you going to show me the station where you worked?”
“Nah. I'm on vacation.”
“Allegedly,” she said, and lapsed into silence as they walked along a gravel path lined with flowers, a riot of colors, pink and purple and orange. They stopped at a wide lagoon. Weeping willows drooped over the banks and white swans floated over the sun-dappled water.
“You're not on vacation,” Kelly said, as if resuming a conversation she'd been having in her mind. “You're here to catch Natalie.”
“True. So?”
“You think she's working for an art heist gang. A ruthless gang, according to DCI Stanford. Now you tell me Gregor Kraus is using a fake ID. How do you think he got it, Frank? You think he just walked up to Stefan Haas and asked him to give it up?”
Frank said nothing. She didn't expect an answer; she was working up to something.
“Gregor probably killed him, just like he killed Sonja's husband. And those other guards.”
He stroked her cheek. “Kelly. Talk to me. What's bothering you?”
“One night my husband didn't come home. I haven't forgotten that. Have you?”
Her husband, Terry O'Neil, had been an NOPD cop, too. On his night off, he had stopped to help a motorist with a flat tire on the I-10 and a sixteen-wheeler hit him. The motorist survived. Terry died instantly. It wasn't work-related, but that made it no less traumatic.
Frank pulled her close and hugged her. “I haven't forgotten.”
She pulled back and gazed into his eyes. “I don't want it to happen again. It's not just Natalie I'm worried about. Gregor's not some carjacker with a knife, Frank. He's a vicious killer.”
He kissed her, long and hard and deep. “I've gone up against killers before. I'll be careful.”
“I know you're careful, Frank. And I know you're a good cop. I just worry, that's all. You like to flirt with danger.”
“Yup. You're gonna love my next hobby. Hang-gliding.”
Kelly laughed and punched his arm. “Smartass.”
That seemed to satisfy her. The rest of the day went by in a blur: window-shopping on Newbury Street, a burger and an ice-cream cone to fortify themselves for the concert and fireworks. By now the sidewalks were mobbed with people in red-white-and-blue outfits and kids waving tiny American flags.
At seven-fifteen they arrived at the Esplanade near the Charles River. The Pops concert would start at eight with fireworks to follow at ten. They got in line at the security checkpoint. No booze allowed, so police were checking bags before they allowed people onto the Esplanade.
Kelly put her arm around him, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “This is so fun.”
“Yes, it is. I've done it a few times, but it's more fun seeing it with you.”
“Years ago I used to watch the Pops on TV,” she said. “I never thought I'd hear them live. You think Natalie will come here to watch the Boston Pops and the fireworks?”
Startled, he looked at her. Was she reading his mind? Or were they both pretending he was here on vacation? “If she does, we won't spot her. Almost a million people come here on the Fourth. With weather like this there might be more.”
They passed through the checkpoint and threaded their way past hundreds of spectators toward the Hatch Shell, the huge half-domed structure where the Pops would perform.
_____
Natalie paced her claustrophobic apartment. She felt like a caged animal. She didn't want to stay here, not on the Fourth of July. Each time she left the apartment increased the possibility that some Boston cop would recognize her, but to hell with caution. In her bedroom she put on her black silk slacks and a dressy white top, then added her blond wig and a floppy wide-brimmed hat.
She took a taxi to the Ritz, a posh hotel on Arlington Street. When she entered the lobby, she heard a piano in the lounge playing “Take Five.” Most people had gone to the Esplanade to hear the Pops concert and watch the fireworks so the lounge wasn't crowded.
Three couples sat on high-backed stools at the bar. Natalie took the end seat. The bartender, a distinguished-looking older man wearing a tuxedo, set a cocktail napkin in front of her. “Hello, Miss. What may I get for you?”
She smiled at him. “Something patriotic and delicious.”
He laughed. “That's a tall order. A glass of wine? A cocktail?”
“A glass of your best red, please. Something dry and not too fruity.”
“I've got a nice Chateau Beychevelle from 2009. A blend of Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon and a touch of Cabernet Franc. I'll let you sample it.” He moved down the bar, opened a bottle, returned with a wine glass and poured her a taste.
She inhaled the aroma, as she had been taught, and took a sip. Delicious, smooth, slightly tart and full-bodied. “Excellent,” she said.
He poured more into her glass. “Would you like to run a tab?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He went to the register, returned with a slip of paper and went off to serve another customer. Now she could sit in peace and avoid the fireworks.
But she couldn't erase the memory. Watching fireworks in New Orleans with her mother, four months before she was murdered. Orange fireworks bursting high in the sky, drooping like orange tears before they fizzled out. Everyone else, including her mother, cheered, but she was crying. Was this a premonition? A hint of the terrible events to come? No. She was crying because her mother had a new job, a night job, which meant Natalie had to stay home alone in their apartment. She hated it.
And then her mother was dead.
She shook her head and drank some wine. Forget the past. What's done is done. Think positive and look to the future. But her future was not guaranteed. Was Renzi still here, or was he back in New Orleans? And avoiding Renzi wasn't her only problem. Today was Sunday. She wouldn't get her new passport from Pak Lam until Thursday. Four days to wait.
Her cellphone beeped. Not her iPhone, the other one. Her heart sank. Gregor. Or Pym. She didn't want to talk to either of them.
She took out the phone, checked to make sure no one could hear her, and said, “Yes.”
“Where were you yesterday? Why did you not answer when I called you?”
Gregor. The same quiet voice, but with an angry edge.
“Maybe I was in the shower. Or out jogging.”
“I have told you. Always keep the phone with you.”
Her hand trembled as she raised the glass to her mouth and took a sip of wine. Expensive wine. “I need more money. Living here is expensive.”
“Nonsense. You have only been here eleven days. The old man gave you money before you left London. Travelers Checks, he told me.”
True, but she'd given half of it—five hundred dollars—to Pak Lam to pay for the Beretta. “It wasn't enough. I need more.”
Silence. She pictured his dark venous eyes. Her stomach clenched and her palms grew sweaty. Now he was angry.
“Meet me Tuesday morning at ten outside the library. I will give you one hundred dollars, but no more. We need to meet on Thursday as well.”
“Why?”
Another silence. She heard him breathing. Then, “Have you forgotten? We have a job to do. See you Tuesday at ten,” he said, and ended the call.
We have a job to do. But when? Why wouldn't he tell her? Why keep her in the dark about it? Maybe he would tell her on Tuesday. Or Thursday. Would Madame Li have her new passport and documents ready by Thursday?
Her hands were cold, and clammy with sweat. She had a bad feeling about this job. Worse than bad. Unspeakably bad.
She had a terrible feeling that she might not get out of it alive.
CHAPTER 19
Tuesday July 6, 2010
A burst of laughter came from the dining room, eight Boston Med-Center workers celebrating something. Behind the takeout counter, Larry thumbed through order slips and heaved a sigh. The place was bedlam today, one waitress out sick—after a weekend of partying probably—the lunch crowd busier than usual. Anyone else came in he’
d have to take the order himself, give his skinny-assed waitress a break.
Right on cue, the door opened. Larry frowned, then breathed a sigh of relief. Dressed in cut-off jeans and a gray T-shirt, Jamilla Wells approached the counter.
“Great to see you, Jamilla. How about a plate of Spicy Chicken?”
“No thanks, Larry. Only got a minute.”
“How’s it going? How’s your little boy?”
“Jaylen? He’s okay.” Her expression was solemn, almost grim, and frown lines creased her forehead. He hoped she wasn’t into drugs again. No pinprick pupils, no droopy lids, but her eyes had an odd look about them, sad or worried, he couldn’t tell which. Maybe both.
“Everything’s okay then?” he said cautiously.
“I guess. Least they gonna be, soon.”
Recalling the foreign-looking man with the hard eyes, Larry said, “Last week a guy was asking for you, said you were friends when you used to walk the beat. Joe Jones.” It sounded stupid to him, even as he said it. Joe Jones. John Doe.
Jamilla frowned. “Don’t know any Joe Jones.”
“Big guy? Dark eyes, light brown hair.” He paused. “A white guy.”
“Don’t sound like no friend of mine.”
He hesitated, then said, “How about that other guy? Nicholas.”
Her eyes came into sudden focus. “Don’t know any Nicholas,” she muttered. “I’m leaving town soon and I wanted to thank you before I go. You been good to me.”
“Hey, what goes around comes around. You helped me out a few times.” She wouldn’t look at him, eyes downcast, edging away
“When are you leaving?”
“Soon. You’re a good guy, Larry. Thanks for everything.”
She turned and hurried to the door.
“Take care of yourself, Jamilla,” he called, but she didn’t look back.
Something was wrong. He could feel it in his gut, sitting there like a puddle of sour milk.
_____
Seabrook, New Hampshire – 1:35 PM
“Would you like a sandwich? I could have the maid fix one.”
“No thanks, I've had lunch,” Frank said as Sofia Haas invited him to sit down in her living room.
He’d found her phone number using the address his FBI pal, Ross Dunn, had given him. When he called and said he was a friend of Stefan's, Sophia had readily agreed to see him. Maybe she was lonely, living in a big house with only a live-in maid for company. She was in good shape for sixty-four, slim and trim in a plum-colored dress, a handsome woman with strong features, fair skin and light brown hair.
Sofia took the chaise lounge opposite him, crossed her legs, smoothed the skirt over her knees and smiled. “I looked you up in Stefan’s yearbook, Mr. Capone. You weren’t in his class, were you?”
He smiled back. “No, two years behind him. My parents moved during my sophomore year.” He didn’t want her checking other yearbooks for his picture.
“That must have been difficult, leaving your friends.”
“Not really. Most of them were boring. I heard Stefan went to Rhode Island School of Design. You must be very proud of him.”
She glanced at a large painting on the wall, a mish-mash of color depicting no recognizable object Frank could discern. Her eyes lingered on the painting. Then she turned to him, her eyes bright with tears.
“Did Stefan do the painting?”
Her eyes brimmed over, spilling tears down her cheeks. She plucked a tissue from a box on the table beside her and wiped away the tears. “Stefan’s talent wasn’t obvious to everyone, but he was very creative.”
Frank decided he belonged to the “everyone” group. Only reason to hang a painting like that on your wall was if your son had painted it.
She blew her nose and put her hands in her lap, clutching the wadded-up tissue. “Stefan got in a few scrapes in high school, but my husband and I had great hopes when he was accepted at RISD.” She arched an eyebrow. “It’s one of the top art schools in the country.”
And one of the most expensive, Frank knew. He wondered if the admissions office bent the rules for students with wealthy parents. Sofia's house, an oversized two story Colonial, had an ocean view and ADT security signs posted on the well-tended lawn.
“In high school Stefan didn’t have many friends,” she said. “He could be … difficult.”
“Some kids have problems in high school, but then they go to college—”
“Exactly!” she said, beaming at him. “Stefan was happy at first. He got an A in art history his sophomore year!” Her smile faded. “But his RISD friends were a bad influence. They got him into drugs.” Her eyes teared up again. “When the police told us Stefan was dead, I couldn’t believe it.”
Police? That was a stunner. Ross Dunn had told him Stefan was dead, but not how he died.
“Three years ago Stefan moved to London. To take art lessons, he said. Johann and I were thrilled. But we never saw him again.” Sofia dabbed her eyes. “That's where he died. Alone in London.”
Frank sat there, dumbstruck. Stefan Haas died in London? Where Gregor Kraus lived and worked?
“I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”
“It was awful. Two police officers came to the house after the police in London police called them. They said Stefan had been mugged. Someone found him late at night in an alley near a jazz club. It took them a while to identify him. His passport and his wallet were missing. Johann and I flew to London right away and brought him back to Seabrook.”
“The police didn’t hold his body for an autopsy?”
“Autopsy?” she said, her eyes full of anguish. “Cutting into my Stefan's body? I wouldn’t allow it. What good would that do? It wouldn’t bring him back.”
“Did the London police find the person who did it?”
“No. We kept calling them, but after my husband died last year ...” She heaved a sigh. “I couldn't do it anymore. It just brought it all back.” Her eyes teared up again. “What kind of animal would do that to Stefan? Kill him and leave him lying in some alley?”
Frank considered the possibilities. Some thief with no connection to Stefan? Someone who knew Stefan and had a beef with him? Or someone looking to steal a passport from an American citizen? But he didn't want to share his theories with Sofia. He already sounded like a cop, asking too many questions. He'd call DCI Stanford and ask him to get the file on the case.
“I don't know, Mrs. Haas. These things happen sometimes in big European cities.” Especially to rich young Americans who liked to party. “Do you have any snapshots of Stefan taken in London?”
Sofia brightened. “Oh yes, he was always sending us pictures of famous places. The Tower of London, Buckingham Palace, Big Ben.”
“How about photographs of Stefan? Did he send any of those?”
Sofia smiled. “Yes, now that you mention it. The week before he died, we got some snapshots in the mail. One of them was Stefan with his latest girlfriend. Stefan always had a lot of girlfriends.”
“Could I see it?”
“Of course. Wait here while I get them.”
After she left Frank got up and went to the picture window. Great view of the ocean, whitecaps rolling toward shore. A big house in a prime location like this had to cost big bucks. How did Johann and Sofia Haas get the money to buy it, he wondered. Inherited wealth? Or was Johann a successful businessman with a good-looking wife and an aspiring-artist son with little or no talent.
Sofia returned and showed him a color photograph. “This was at Stefan's high school graduation.”
Stefan in a cap and gown with his beaming parents. Frank could see why he had no trouble acquiring girlfriends. He was a handsome guy, even features, curly blonde hair. But his lips were set in a line, and his dark eyes were somber. Not a happy camper when he was in high school.
“A fine-looking boy,” he said, which elicited a big smile from Sofia.
She took two snapshots out of an envelope. “This one was taken when Stefan was at
RISD.” In the snapshot, a slightly older Stefan, early twenties maybe, grinned into the camera. After he fell in with evil companions, and started doing drugs.
Sofia handed him another snapshot. Stefan standing beside a leggy blonde in a short party dress. It took his breath away. The woman's face was blurry, as though she'd tried to turn away from the camera to hide her face. But she wasn't totally successful.
If that wasn't Natalie Brixton in a blonde wig, he'd put mustard on his Nike’s and eat them. “Pretty girl. Did Stefan tell you her name?”
“No, but he said he liked her a lot. Why?”
“Just wondering. People tell me I’ve got a habit of asking too many questions.” The biggest question being: was Natalie working for a London escort service? Or did Gregor Kraus get her to seduce Stefan so he could jump him that night in the alley and steal his passport?
“Could I make a copy of the snapshots? I'd love to have something to remember him by.” Lying through his teeth and feeling guilty about it. “I'll send them right back to you.”
For a second, he thought she might refuse, but hospitality prevailed. Either that or she was happy someone thought enough of Stefan to want to remember him. “Well, all right. But could you give me your phone number? So I can call if you forget?”
“Absolutely.” He slipped the snapshots into his pocket, wrote his cellphone number on the envelope and gave it to her. “Thank you, Mrs. Haas. It was nice talking to you, but I need to be going.”
“I’m sorry I went on so long about Stefan,” Sofia said as she walked him to the door. “I still get emotional when I talk about it.”
Frank nodded gravely. “That’s understandable. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
He left the house and got in his car. Ten minutes later he was on the highway headed for Boston. During his hour-long drive from Boston to Seabrook, he'd thought about how much fun he and Kelly had over the weekend. Except when she got on him about Gregor. She was afraid Gregor might kill him.
Yesterday he'd driven her to Logan to catch her flight to New Orleans. Already he missed her. In New Orleans they got together at least three times a week, usually at her house. His condo was in the French Quarter, where parking was almost non-existent.