Forger of Light

by Nupur Tustin

  “Fussy Phil killed Tony, Sofia. Your friend’s doing the right thing.”

  She forced herself to utter the words, even though her brain kept on screaming: It’s not safe.

  “Fussy Phil?” Sofia sounded surprised.

  “Your friend’s husband.”

  “I know.” Sofia emitted a sound somewhere between choking and laughter. “That was Tony’s nickname for him. He was the only one who called him that.”

  There was a pause.

  Then, “You really are psychic, aren’t you?”

  Some psychic!

  It wasn’t a remark she could acknowledge.

  “We’ll see you tomorrow, Sofia. Be careful, okay? And keep the details of our meeting to yourself.”

  Chapter Seventy

  The meeting was set. The decision had been taken out of his hands; Sofia’s friend was coming forward. But Blake wasn’t invited.

  “It would only spook her,” Celine had said. “And we promised her there’d be no law enforcement presence.”

  “What about security?” he wanted to know.

  Celine had sighed. “Probably not a good idea.” And Julia had agreed. “It’s a public place. No one knows about the meeting. It’s just us. Let’s keep it that way.”

  “Fine,” he’d reluctantly agreed.

  There’d be no police presence—no plainclothesmen staking out the scene. No armed FBI agents keeping cautious watch upon the place.

  “That’s going to attract attention, Blake,” Julia had said. “Exactly what we don’t want.”

  And Blake understood. He understood, too, that the matter was entirely out of his control. Whether Sofia’s friend survived the meeting or not would have nothing to do with him.

  But he didn’t know whether he was relieved or not.

  “It’s just an informal meeting,” he told himself as he pushed his chair back. Walsh would want to know the latest. He’d already called Soldi.

  “And this meeting, where is it taking place exactly?” Soldi had inquired.

  “No idea, Vince.”

  “A public place?”

  The man was sharp, Blake had to give him that.

  “It would be the safest option, wouldn’t it?” had been Blake’s noncommittal response. From a civilian’s point of view. From the perspective of someone afraid of law enforcement.

  A criminal wouldn’t hesitate to fire into a crowd. Collateral damage meant nothing to a mobster.

  He entered Walsh’s office. The SAC’s eyes lit up when he came in.

  “Come on in, son.”

  It was about as expansive a greeting as Blake had ever gotten out of the old man.

  But Walsh’s expression soon soured.

  “You have no idea where this meeting is taking place.”

  “Nope.”

  “And you agreed to this?” Walsh looked at him in growing disbelief, as though Blake had just offered to take a bullet to the head. “You actually agreed to this plan?”

  Blake nodded.

  “No security?”

  “It doesn’t seem to be required.”

  Seeing Walsh about to argue, he continued: “Besides, we’ll lose our quarry if we deviate in any way from what Celine’s agreed to.”

  “I’m not happy about this,” Walsh informed him emphatically.

  “No, sir.”

  Blake sat, hands resting on his thighs, and stared impassively at the older man.

  Walsh drummed his fingers on his desk—a nervous, irritable rapping.

  “So what now?”

  “We sit tight and wait for the operation to go through.”

  “Damn!” Walsh cursed, then wagged his fingers at the door. A gesture of dismissal.

  The Brahmin’s ring glowed in the amber light, the facets of the orange sapphire flashing fiery flames into his eyes. Let the investigation play out, his informant had advised him.

  Well, he wasn’t about to do that.

  “She needs to go,” he growled into the phone. “She’s becoming a liability.”

  “Dead women talk, my friend,” the man on the other end reminded him. “Dead men don’t.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” the Brahmin snapped.

  “The trail doesn’t end with her, as you well know.”

  “Damn right, it doesn’t. It leads straight back to you and me.”

  He heard a throaty chuckle.

  “I hear some people are already interested in you, my friend.”

  “Listen to me, this affects you as much as it does me. Don’t think I’m going down alone. You make that bitch stop. Fix it, you hear. Fix it!”

  A soft click told him the phone had been disconnected.

  He’d been dismissed.

  Goddammit! He slammed the receiver down. His throat was fiery hoarse from screaming. He picked up the glass of whiskey on his desk and downed the liquid.

  Dead men don’t talk, his friend had said. He’d been too irritated to understand the significance of the remark, but now he did.

  He’d have to fend for himself.

  But at least his partner had supplied him with a solution.

  Dead men don’t talk. Neither do dead women, no matter what his friend thought.

  Damn bitch should’ve been reined in a long time ago.

  He lifted the receiver again and dialed a number.

  “Exactly how much does she know?” he demanded.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  The knock on the door of their hotel suite startled Celine and roused Julia out of her nap.

  “Is that room service?” Julia straightened up. She glanced at the door, and then back at Celine. “Or are you expecting someone?”

  “Neither.” Celine shook her head. She walked quickly to the door and yanked it open.

  “Jonah?”

  She stepped back to allow the lanky reporter in.

  “What are you doing here?”

  She followed him into the living room.

  “Well, now that my mom’s fine”—Jonah sank into the couch—“I thought I’d see how things were going with you guys.”

  His gaze shifted from her face to Julia’s.

  “What’s the plan for tomorrow? Are you guys attending Reynolds’ memorial?”

  Celine stiffened. Logically, that would’ve been the best place to be. But—

  “There’s something else we need to do tomorrow,” Julia said easily. “But it might be a good idea for you to go. See what you can find out.”

  “But what are you two going to be doing?” Jonah’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. A lock of dark hair fell over his eyes as his head swung up to face Celine and then back down toward Julia.

  “Sofia’s friend might be willing to come forward,” Celine said. Best to give him some sort of explanation, she thought, rather than let his curiosity fester.

  “Might?” Jonah’s eyebrows lifted.

  “Nothing’s certain,” Julia informed him. “And if she sees anyone else but Celine and me, it’ll only unnerve her into leaving.”

  “Will Blake be with you?”

  “No,” Celine assured him. “Just the two of us. That’s what we’ve agreed to.”

  “Where? Sofia’s store?”

  He was still fishing for information. For some reason that annoyed Celine.

  “If you’re thinking of going anywhere near her store tomorrow, Jonah, don’t.” The words came out harsher than she intended, but she couldn’t help herself. He had to be deterred from being anywhere in the vicinity of Newbury Street. “We won’t be there.”

  “Be patient, Jonah.” Julia leaned forward and fixed her blue eyes on him. “If you ruin this for us, you ruin an entire investigation. And your chances of getting that story you were counting on.”

  “But you’ll let me know when you have more, right?” Jonah looked anxiously up at them.

  “Absolutely.” Celine inhaled deeply.

  She’d decided to throw him a crumb.

  “Listen, we are getting closer to finding that etchi
ng. And that’s why it might be a good idea for you to go to the Gardner tomorrow. Talk to some of Reynolds’ colleagues, anyone who might be there.”

  “Oh?” Jonah’s eyebrows lifted again. A show of interest, although it didn’t seem he was buying what she had to sell.

  “Sofia thinks Reynolds would’ve hidden the etching either in a sculpture that was significant to him. Or in a piece that he’d be okay with destroying. And”—she glanced back at Julia—“we both think it might be in one of the pieces he created for his Gardner exhibit.”

  She seemed to have piqued the reporter’s interest at last. He considered what she’d said, chewing his lip thoughtfully.

  “I guess that makes sense,” he admitted at last. “No one would think to look there.”

  “We certainly didn’t until Sofia mentioned it,” Celine said. “But it makes sense. I mean what else was he working on at the time?”

  “And, trust me,” Julia added, “some of those abstract pieces look exactly like the kind of thing no one would miss if they were shattered into a thousand pieces.”

  Tony Reynolds was in the room—a dark silhouette against the window—when Celine opened her eyes the next morning. The sliver of gray light that entered the hotel bedroom through a crack in the drawn curtains told her it was too early to wake up.

  “You won’t be able to see her,” he informed Celine regretfully.

  See whom? Celine pressed her palms down on the soft mattress, trying to push herself up. But her arms felt leaden and listless, unable to support her weight.

  She stared helplessly up at Tony. What was he talking about? She wished he’d reach out a hand, help her sit up.

  But Tony seemed unaware of her struggles. He stood by the bed, looking down at her, his features cast in shadow.

  “You’re meeting her today. Remember?” His voice had taken on a quality of urgency.

  The meeting? Celine frowned. What meeting? With Penny?

  Oh, the meeting. That meeting. Her eyes widened as she remembered. She tried again to sit up, but her arms were like jelly, slipping into the mattress when she tried to brace herself against it.

  “You won’t be able to see her.”

  “Why not?” she asked him. Her heart muscles contracted painfully, the spasm sending wave after wave of agony through her chest.

  Behind the sculptor, she made out a hazy figure. The familiar dark dress with its plunging neckline, cinched in at the waist. The Lady. A sign of death.

  But whose? Hers?

  Tony smiled. “No, not you. Your time hasn’t come yet.”

  Another spasm shot through her chest.

  “Tell Sofia I’ll take care of her. I’ll be there.”

  “Take care of whom, Tony?” This time she managed to sit up.

  “I’ll be waiting for her. Tell her. Tell Sofia I’ll be there.”

  “Tony, wait.” Celine reached out toward him, but a thick fog separated her from him.

  She was still moaning, crying out his name when consciousness returned.

  Her senses moved up her body. They detected the bedsheets tangled around her contorted form; felt her chest heaving with each ragged breath that entered her lungs; and collided finally with her eyelids, pressed shut, long eyelashes feathering her cheeks.

  As her breathing slowed, the details of the dream returned.

  Tell Sofia, I’ll be waiting. Tell her I’ll be there.

  Dear God! Understanding filtered through at last.

  She was out of her bed in an instant, in front of Julia’s room, pounding upon the door.

  The words were pouring out of her mouth before Julia had wrenched the door fully open.

  “It’s Sofia, Julia. Sofia’s in danger. She’s not going to make it out of there. He’s going to kill her. Not his wife. Sofia!”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  Julia reached out as Celine collapsed into her arms.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Changing the venue was not an option. Celine had considered Julia’s idea and dismissed it.

  It was one of two suggestions the former fed had made. Axe the meeting or change the venue.

  Neither one seemed appropriate at this juncture. Calling off the meeting wouldn’t avert the danger. If someone had Sofia in their sights, she’d be dead. Sooner or later, they’d take her out.

  And as for making a last-minute change to the meeting place . . .

  Heat from the cup of Oolong room service had brought up seeped into her fingers, burning her skin. “Remember when I sensed Grayson was in danger?”

  “He was,” Julia bolstered her spirits. “You were right.” The former fed reached out and gently squeezed her hand.

  Celine knew what Julia was trying to do. She needed to trust herself, trust her instincts. And Celine appreciated the impulse. But . . .

  Her fingers tightened around her cup, oblivious to the searing heat. Things had gone horribly wrong when she’d intervened in Grayson’s situation. She gazed blankly at the blue wall ahead of her, remembering.

  “Bringing Grayson out of that church was a mistake. We led him straight to his killers.”

  She shook her head, turning to face her friend. “No, let’s not change anything. We’ll only make matters worse.”

  Besides the mall was as public a place as you could get. They’d be in full view of people. There’d be security cameras all around. Hard to kill someone and get away with it under those circumstances.

  “Can’t argue with that,” Julia agreed when she pointed this out.

  There was a slight pause, then Julia continued, “So we go ahead as planned?”

  “Yup.” Celine put the cup down. The Oolong had calmed her down, but the caffeine had also sent her adrenaline pumping. “I need to warn Sofia, though. I don’t want her going into this unprepared.”

  Her phone was on the coffee table. She pulled it toward herself. Her fingers stiff and tense, she rapped out Sofia’s number. The phone rang, seemingly endlessly.

  Pick up, pick up, pick up, she urged.

  “Celine?” Sofia sounded calm, at peace—almost happy. The way Martin Luther King, Jr. had felt on the day he’d been assassinated, Celine thought, recalling Sister Mary Catherine’s history lesson on the civil rights leader’s life.

  “He must have known,” the nun had said, “that death was nigh. That his work here on earth was done, his time had come.”

  Had Sofia come by the same knowledge?

  Celine’s fingers gripped the edge of the table as an intense pain shot through her body.

  “Sofia,” she managed to pronounce the name. “Is your store open on Saturdays? Were you planning on going in this morning?”

  “Actually, yes, I was. Need anything?”

  Celine cleared her throat. How was she going to break the news to her? How in the world did you tell someone they were going to die? Was there time enough to beat around the bush?

  “Think you can take the day off—just for today? Don’t go in, head to where we’re meeting instead?”

  “Why?” Sofia’s voice had lost some of its brightness. “It’s Bev, isn’t it? She’s in danger?”

  “No, Sofia, it’s you.” It was a relief to bring the words out. “You need to be careful. Go to the mall, please. And when you’re there, make sure you’re in view of a security camera at all times. Okay?”

  She got off the phone and turned to Julia. Her face felt haggard and drawn.

  “There’s just one other thing we need to do,” she said.

  “What now?” Ted Ridgeway, the agent driving the unmarked car they were in, turned to Blake.

  They’d completed their third circle around the Prudential Center mall and cruised to a halt a few yards past the Boylston Street entrance.

  “We wait.” Blake squinted out the window.

  The streets were narrow, crowded with retail stores. The hot summer sun reflected off the tall stone-and-glass buildings on either side, too strong for the shades that tried vainly to shield his eyes.

&n
bsp; “Then we go around again.”

  He’d been on high alert since Celine had called. But her premonition had been too vague to accurately determine where the threat was coming from.

  “From outside,” she’d said. “I see an infiltration from outside.”

  That meant he could rule out the security guards, the cleaning crew, and the store clerks. But it also meant surveilling the streets outside for any sign of suspicious activity and keeping their eyes peeled on the many entrances to the mall.

  He didn’t think the streets themselves posed any danger. They were way too crowded and this wasn’t a residential area. Getting access to the roof to put a sniper up there would be tough. But he wasn’t sure how anyone could pull anything off inside the Prudential Center either.

  Mall security was as tight as one could expect. Blake had been reassured on that point by the head of Tevah Security. There were cameras at strategic locations, two shifts of four guards each provided security during mall hours with an additional overnight shift of two guards.

  Blake and Ridgeway had seen the morning shift guys enter the Dalton Street parking garage at eight.

  They’d witnessed a cleaning crew—three stocky, middle-aged women accompanied by a slimmer brunette of medium build—enter the Huntington Avenue parking lot near Five Napkin Burger.

  Each time, Blake had gotten out of the car, walked into the parking lot to get a closer look at the individuals entering the building. And he’d called security both times to confirm both the number and the description of the people entering.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  A few minutes after eight a priest sprinted up to the main entrance of the Sheraton Hotel on Dalton Street.

  Blake had tensed at the sight until Ridgeway reminded him that the St. Francis Chapel was located inside the mall.

  “Chapel opens at eight on Saturdays,” Ridgeway informed him. “Mass is at 8:45.”

  Then there’d been a van with Quincy plates. An assorted group of men and women had tumbled out of it.

  “Nothing to worry about,” the head guard from Tevah Security had assured Blake when he’d called. “They’re headed for the chapel.”