Forger of Light

by Nupur Tustin

  There’d been little to no foot traffic on the glass bridge over Huntington Avenue leading from the Marriot Copley Hotel into the mall. But Blake had kept an eye on that as well.

  He’d seen Sofia walk in through the Boylston Street entrance followed about ten to fifteen minutes later by Celine and Julia.

  Julia had caught sight of their car and discreetly acknowledged their presence. Sofia hadn’t noticed a thing. And no one else seemed to have paid them any mind either.

  Catching sight of Blake on their way into the Prudential Center went a long way toward calming Celine’s wire-taut nerves. If anyone suspicious tried to enter the mall, he’d notice.

  Although the fact that he had a lone car circling the block made her uneasy.

  “It’s better this way,” Julia explained, seeing her gaze lingering upon the car. “It’s easier to surveil undetected when it’s just the one car. We don’t want to risk unnerving Sofia and her friend, remember.”

  Celine looked at her. “Or whoever has his sights on them, right?”

  She wasn’t naïve. She knew both Julia and Blake viewed the meeting as an opportunity to draw out the killer. If they could catch him red-handed, it would be the chance of a lifetime to crack open a case that had eluded them for thirty years.

  “We’re not using her as bait,” Julia reminded her sharply, thick white ponytail whipping around as she turned to face Celine. “You know that. Blake’s here to prevent the danger you’ve sensed.

  “If Fussy Phil or his agent are here, frightening them away will only postpone the inevitable. If they can’t execute their plan here, they’ll do it someplace else.”

  “I know. I know.” Celine bunched her hands into fists. It’ll be all right, she reassured herself. Everything’s gonna be fine.

  “What we want to do,” Julia said as they approached the Boylston Street entrance to the mall, “is squash the plan completely and at the same time nail Fussy or his guy.”

  “I know,” Celine said again.

  She craned her neck up, her gaze drawn to the rooftops of the buildings that hemmed in the narrow street. Grayson’s killer had located himself at a window in a third-story apartment.

  But it was unlikely that either rooftops or upper-level windows would be accessible for a last-minute assassination attempt in this area.

  “Plenty of security cameras,” Julia pointed out as they entered the glass portico and headed for the elevators.

  Logic told Celine nothing could possibly go wrong. Yet alarm bells were screeching in her mind as soon as they got off the elevator. A man brushed past her to go into the Microsoft store, startling her. Her senses blared out at her, screaming danger.

  Every detail of her surroundings—the people at a nearby coffee shop, the yellow sign outside the restroom, the cleaning cart being wheeled inside its door—assailed her vision, a fresh cause for panic.

  By the time she and Julia strode into Dunkin Donuts, her heart muscles were clenching, sending spasm after painful spasm through her body. She gripped Julia’s elbow, an attempt to steady herself.

  A lone woman—her slender back turned to them—stood by the display case of donuts. Where were they—Sofia and her friend?

  She bent her head toward Julia, her panic rising.

  “Where’s S—?”

  “She’ll be back in a minute.”

  A wave of relief washed over Celine as Sofia turned to greet them. The spasms ceased.

  “Where is she?” she asked, calmer now. “Your friend? Has she arrived?”

  “Yup. She just went to powder her nose.”

  The restroom—she was in the restroom?

  “She should be back any minute now.” Sofia glanced at her phone.

  No, Celine, Sister Mary Catherine whispered. She’s gone.

  The woman had bailed? She must’ve done, if she was gone. But why?

  “Stay here,” Celine told the women. She held Julia’s gaze. “Stay here, don’t leave. I’ll be back.”

  Outside, an empty cab passed by.

  “Let’s do one more round,” Blake said.

  They followed the cab, cruising slowly from Boylston to Dalton to Belvidere and then to Huntington. The cab turned into the parking lot, and Ridgeway picked up speed.

  “One more time,” Blake said when they were back on Boylston.

  “Sure.” Ridgeway had pulled into a parking spot, but he merged into traffic again, slowly circling around.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  The retail stores at the Pru were all located on a single level. The main restroom near a group of businesses at the Huntington Avenue entrance was closed off for cleaning.

  So which restroom was Bev—Celine had no idea how she knew the woman’s name—using?

  “The Hynes Convention Center has restrooms on every level, miss,” a young guard told her when Celine frantically hailed him. She couldn’t find her friend, she’d confided. “There’s one in the South Lobby. Another right across from Lost & Found, past the main lobby. And several more upstairs.”

  She’s gone, Celine. She’s gone.

  She headed into the convention center, ignoring the voice chanting in her head.

  The plaza-level restrooms were empty. She’s gone, Celine. She headed upstairs. There were five restrooms on the second level. Celine scoured them all.

  She was walking past the exhibit halls to return to the stairway when she heard a muffled moan from the supply closet door on her right.

  She pressed her ear against the door. The moans and thumps seemed to get louder. Was that a woman? Sofia’s friend?

  Her heart lifted. Bev was still here.

  “Hello? Anyone in there?”

  Had they heard her? Celine couldn’t tell. She tried the door handle.

  Locked.

  She stepped back to stare at the gray metal door, taking stock of the situation. A couple of phrases blitzed through her mind.

  Supply closet. Cleaning staff.

  She didn’t need to hear Sister Mary Catherine’s urgently whispered, “Go back down, Celine,” to race down the stairs back into the mall. With any luck the cleaning woman would still be in the main restroom when Celine arrived.

  Blake and Ridgeway were about to approach the Huntington Avenue parking lot when a cab pulled out. Same vehicle as the one they’d followed on their last go-around, Blake idly noted. Although this time, the cab had a passenger.

  “Kinda dumb to have a cab pick you up inside a mall parking lot, no?” Ridgeway commented as they waited for the cab to pull out of the lot. “It’s a frickin’ fifteen-dollar fee whether you’re in there five minutes or five hours. And you can bet the cabbie isn’t taking the hit.”

  “Nope, that he’s not,” Blake agreed. They were bumper-to-bumper now, the cab’s license plate filling his vision. Traffic opened up just past the intersection.

  He watched the taxi pick up speed along Huntington, while Ridgeway maneuvered them onto Exeter Street and then back on Boylston.

  “So far so good,” he said to no one in particular.

  “Wait here, then?” Ridgeway turned to him.

  “Let’s do one more round.”

  Celine’s lungs were bursting by the time she came in sight of the restroom. The yellow cleaning sign was still outside the door. She barreled through the door—and slid to a halt on the slippery floor.

  Oh my God! Oh God!Oh good God!Blood. Blood everywhere.

  She bent over, clutching her stomach; the spreading red pool and the pretty white face in the midst of it filled her vision, making her sick.

  Gone meant dead. How had she failed to understand that? Gone meant dead. Oh God!

  Get a grip on yourself, Celine, Sister Mary Catherine’s voice cut through the keening that filled her ears. She’s gone. There’s nothing you can do about it. Call Julia. Call her before it’s too late.

  Too late for what, Celine wondered. She’s already dead.

  But she obediently straightened up, pulled open the restroom door, and headed back
to Dunkin Donuts.

  Traffic was moving a little faster this time. Blake was beginning to relax, about to ask Ridgeway to go around a fourth time when his phone rang.

  “You’d better come up here.”

  Tension laced Julia’s voice, giving it an uncharacteristic warble; the disturbance over the phone wasn’t loud enough to obliterate the high-pitched screams and commotion in the background.

  Something had gone down. Something bad.

  Jesus F—in’ Christ!

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  An audacious killing.

  That was Blake’s first conscious thought as he stared at the auburn-haired woman sprawled at his feet. One leg was extended, the other bent at the knee. A small hole with ragged edges disfigured her smooth, perfectly tanned brow.

  How the f— had this happened?

  A glistening pool of blood extended around her head on the travertine floor. Streaky rivulets of it ran under the low granite countertop with its rows of white sinks and gleaming chrome faucets.

  This was a slap in the face. His face, dammit! And on his watch.

  The untold audacity of the act staggered him. To be taken out in a mall restroom. Executed swiftly, quietly while thousands milled around, unsuspecting, just beyond the door.

  They hadn’t foreseen that.

  The woman hadn’t either. He could tell from the wide-eyed look of disbelief that her glazed eyes still wore. She’d recognized her killer. That much was evident as well. Her eyebrows were arched, her facial muscles locked into the final expression of stupefaction molded upon her features.

  Jesus Christ, he hadn’t seen this coming.

  His gaze tracked a course beyond the rugged head guard of Tevah Security’s day shift who stood shell-shocked beside him and caught on the yellow plastic sign still outside the restroom.

  DO NOT ENTER. RESTROOM CLOSED FOR CLEANING.

  Blake turned to the head guard—a broad-shouldered, muscular guy in his forties.

  “The cleaning crew,” he demanded hoarsely. “The four women who came in this morning. Where are they?”

  He still remembered them. Three stubby, portly women accompanied by a fourth—a lean brunette with straggly shoulder-length hair, about five-nine.

  Same height as the dead woman.

  That was significant. Based on the entry wound, he’d judged the killer to be no taller than the woman lying dead at his feet.

  The head guard gaped. “You can’t want them to see this?”

  The guard’s eyes shifted involuntarily to the floor, then jerked away toward Julia and Celine and the two guards posted beyond the yellow restroom sign.

  “I don’t care what they see. One of them is our killer. I want to know where they are.”

  But Blake stepped out of the restroom, nevertheless. The guy was right. There was no reason for three innocent cleaning women to be traumatized by this incident.

  As for the fourth . . .

  All entrances to the mall had been closed off. They’d find her.

  He assiduously avoided Celine and his former colleague. He’d relied upon Celine’s intuition and ruled out the mall staff. It wasn’t her fault.

  He was the lawman here. It was his job to trust but verify. But after he’d doubted her about Hugh Norton and been proven wrong, he’d hesitated to question her insights. Clearly a mistake.

  It wasn’t her fault. He kept telling himself that. But it was hard not to blame her.

  The young man the head guard had sent to corral the cleaning crew was back with three portly women.

  “The woman with you, where is she?” Blake demanded.

  They shrugged.

  “This woman,” he exploded, completely frustrated. “Your colleague. You have no idea where she is? You’ve gotta be kidding me!”

  “Agent Markham, please,” the head guard protested. “There’s no need to yell at the staff. They’re trusted employees.”

  “Oh yeah?” Blake glared at the man. “We have a dead woman back there”—he jabbed his finger in the direction of the restroom door—“and you’re telling me to cool it. These trusted employees are the only folks with access to that restroom.”

  “Actually, that’s not true.” It was Celine. “Any female—anyone dressed as a woman could’ve gone in there.”

  Blake spun around, irritated. “What’re you trying to say?”

  She looked green, about to faint. He should’ve felt some sympathy for her. All he could think of doing, however, was to let his fist crash into her pale features. She’d led him astray. Again.

  She’d said Sofia was in danger. But it wasn’t Sofia who lay in there, deprived of life. It was her friend. Bev. The name tugged at his consciousness. Blake had no idea why.

  His fury was clouding his judgment.

  He clenched his fists, held his arms firmly by his side, attempting to rein in his emotions. Anger would do him no good. And, for the last time, man, it isn’t her fault.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. Go on.”

  She turned to the head guard. “I went in there to ask the cleaning woman to investigate a noise I’d heard upstairs. It looked like some type of supply closet. I figured she’d have a key. But—” She turned to the restroom and shuddered.

  The guard nodded sympathetically. “It’s okay, miss. Take it easy. Take your time. This isn’t the kind of thing anyone should have to see. Especially a woman as young as yourself.”

  “You heard a noise?” Blake asked. “Upstairs.”

  Celine nodded. “I thought it was Bev locked up. That’s why I hurried down here.” A film of tears misted over her green eyes. “I think that poor cleaning woman—the one who’s missing—”

  “Her name’s Tilda, miss.”

  “Yes, Tilda. I think she’s trussed up in that closet. I must’ve heard her.”

  So that’s what she’d meant by an infiltration.

  “Get someone to check it out,” he ordered the head guard.

  Blake turned around, mind shuffling through the images he’d scanned and collected during his surveillance of the exterior. One image as it shifted away snagged his attention.

  He pulled it back.

  The cab. There’d been a passenger. Sitting in the front seat. That was odd.

  But it was the passenger’s face that caught his attention. The dark hair, the neat features he’d seen in profile. He ran through the other images in his mind, trying to find a match. Dark hair, neat profile. Where had he seen those before?

  Holy Mother of God! His eyes widened.

  “The priest,” he mumbled. “It was the goddamned priest. Jesus—” Just in time he stopped the cuss word from erupting out of his mouth.

  He dug his phone out and jabbed Ridgeway’s number into the keypad.

  “Remember that cab we saw pulling out from the parking lot?”

  “Sure. What’s the problem?”

  “Track it down.”

  He yanked the license number from the recesses of his memory and called it out.

  “Get Boston PD to help you. I need the cabbie and his passenger in custody ASAP.”

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Celine wrapped her hands around the steaming cup of green tea. They were back in the Dunkin Donuts, seated on plastic chairs that one of the employees had brought out. She stole a glance at Sofia.

  The older woman’s tea was untouched. She sat, arms huddled around herself, shivering violently, although it wasn’t particularly cold inside the mall.

  “I’m so sorry,” Celine said softly. She’d misinterpreted Reynolds’ message. Yet again.

  Some psychic!

  He’d been talking about Bev, wanting Celine to let Sofia know Bev would be all right. But she’d assumed he was referring to Sofia.

  “How did you get it so wrong?” Sofia mumbled, her head still down.

  It wasn’t an accusation—simply a question.

  Celine bit her lip. She wanted to provide an explanation, but she knew anything she said would seem like a cop-out
.

  Sofia raised her head; her eyes were red-rimmed, desperately seeking some assurance.

  “Why didn’t you know? Because it was meant to be?”

  Or because I’m just not that good. The response came unbidden into Celine’s mind.

  “Tony told me to tell you he’d be there. Tell Sofia I’ll be waiting. I thought—” Celine broke off.

  Sofia nodded gravely. “You thought I was in danger.” She managed a smile. “That’s understandable.”

  She was in danger, Celine, Sister Mary Catherine said. Getting rid of her was tempting. But the retribution for her murder would have been swift and terrible. He knew that.

  Who? Celine asked silently.

  The man you haven’t seen, but whose presence you’ve sensed.

  Celine was about to ask whether the nun meant the General when a powerful fragrance filled her nostrils.

  Not the General? His partner?

  Hugh Norton?

  “Did you mention our meeting to anyone, Sofia? I hate to ask, but did you—”

  Sofia shook her head. “I told my father I’d decided to ask Bev to come forward. But I didn’t mention where we’d be meeting or when.”

  “Hugh Norton?”

  Sofia smiled. “I barely know him. He’s my father’s associate. When my mother was alive, he’d come by the store. But that was years ago.”

  Celine caught Julia’s eyes. “Will you help me find Blake?”

  He’d been avoiding her as though she carried some sort of pestilence. She didn’t blame him. This was the second operation she’d botched. First Grayson, now Bev.

  But there were questions she needed to ask—and she didn’t want to offend him.

  “What’s up?” Ella demanded after Blake had finished apologizing for calling on a Saturday. “What’s the matter? You don’t sound too good.”

  “She’s dead,” he told her, his voice flat and expressionless. “Murdered. Right in front of our noses. Ella, I have no idea how this happened.”

  “Sofia?” Ella’s voice was tentative, hesitant.