Chill Factor

by Chris Rogers

  “Look, I don’t know anything. The police should do their job and leave us alone.”

  “You must have some idea why your mother—”

  “Why she held up a bank? She did it because she was insane. You got that? Nuts. Cuckoo. My mother had to be insane, didn’t she? To pull such a ridiculous stunt and get herself killed? First the divorce, now this. She wanted attention, that’s all. Well, she got it. Now my children will grow up knowing their grandmother was a thief.”

  Tom Severn appeared beside her.

  “Come on, Carrie.” He urged her toward the limousine.

  “Leave it alone,” Carrie called back. “You got that? Just leave us alone!”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The weather is all wrong for a funeral, the Shepherd of The Light penned in his notebook. Warm. Sunny. Fragrant with spring.

  Anyone who went to the movies knew the best funeral weather was rainy and bleak. Go see Harold and Maude, all the graveside scenes filmed against dreary skies dotted with black umbrellas. Nutty old Maude getting her kicks attending funerals for people she’d never heard of. Young Harold trying to hang himself. The two of them as unlikely a pair as peaches and vinegar, but it made a good flick.

  Humming a dirge from Harold and Maude, he watched the crowd break up and head for their cars. Only a handful, he estimated, had ever heard of Lucy Aaron Ames until her debut performance at the Webster branch made her famous. Like nutty old Maude, they’d all come for a good show.

  Lucy would be pleased he’d remembered the gardenias. His anonymous donation ensured she’d have a fine send-off, but he also felt the importance of paying his personal respects. After all, Lucy had been his most loyal disciple, the first to follow his guidance to the ultimate reward.

  “You have an ancient soul, Lucy,” he’d told her at their first meeting. “Long-suffering. Evolved. Strong as steel.”

  “You can see that?” Her face radiated joy. “I’ve always known … well … I’m not sure how to say—”

  “You don’t have to say anything. The wisdom in those incredible hazel eyes tells all.”

  Later, in his carefully appointed studio, under soft light filtered through green branches, he had touched Lucy for the first time. Not sexually; merely the gentlest brush of his fingertips across her hand. A woman too often accepted sex when what she wanted—needed—was to be stroked, comforted, cherished. To be appreciated. Since Penny Hatcher, he’d learned to recognize a certain longing around the eyes and mouth.

  At that first touch, Lucy’s hand had fluttered beneath his own.

  “I know it sounds self-important,” she whispered, “but I’ve always sensed that God—”

  “Had something special in mind for you? I’m sure He does, Lucy. You’ve suffered sorrows and suppressed passions that would drive lesser souls mad.”

  “You do understand. I’ve dreamed that someday … someone—” Her eyes flooded, adoration glimmering through the waterworks, and he knew she was his instrument to finely tune.

  “Drink your tea.” He’d patted the hand that showed a trace of liver spotting. “It’s a special blend. You’ll like it.”

  His special blend came from a trio of aromatic herbs discovered in Shanghai and Zaire. One of the herbs enhanced a subject’s suggestibility. Taken together, they brought about a deep openness and trust but also an incredible loneliness, a need for human contact, a desire to be understood. Smoldering in an incense bowl, a spicy aromatic root he’d discovered in Hong Kong sweetened the air with a mild sedative. After prolonged or repeated doses—the aromatic root along with his specially blended tea—a subject eagerly accepted ideas she once would have rejected, and even moderate periods of isolation became intolerable.

  These herbal drugs were not secret. The Shepherd had merely discovered specific uses for what pharmacologists and physicians considered side effects. For optimum results, however, the project required an ideal subject, a subject like Lucy Ames, already experiencing the melancholy of isolation, the hunger for a kindred soul. The Shepherd filled that hunger instantly, with appreciation, compassionate touches, whispered reassurance. He’d learned, since that first experiment with little Penny Hatcher, that the right word at a vulnerable moment could seduce the stoutest heart.

  Over the years, he’d studied every technique on record and invented a few of his own. And over the past months, he’d conditioned Lucy to crave his carefully metered attention as a junkie craves a daily fix. The time hadn’t been wasted. Lucy’s knowledge of the bank’s practices paved the way for lucrative ventures. More important, the Lucy Experiment had proved that kindness, discipline, and isolation could shape a weapon more powerful than a bomb, more guided than a missile.

  “Align with me, Lucy.” He had tucked a scented handkerchief into her hand. “With your wisdom and grace we shall lead the pure at heart to glory.”

  Lucy was unaware, the Shepherd penned, that she’d be the first soul to arrive.

  He closed the book, and instead of driving away, as he should, he watched groups of mourners walking together from the grave site. Only a very few walked alone. His gaze settled on a solitary woman in a black suit.

  In recent weeks, although he still drew his greatest strength from solitude, he had felt a pressing desire to share his discoveries with a companion of similar intellect, similar passions. His current partner could be counted on in the smaller picture, but since his college days—and a colleague’s betrayal—he’d confided in no one. Not a single person appreciated the full scope of his power. Somewhere, there had to be a suitable mate, a partner who would appreciate his discoveries and embrace his vision.

  The Shepherd of The Light opened his notebook to a fresh page and wrote: Seek out a subject who understands the beauty of patience, the value of power, and the strength of kindness.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Usually, Dixie skipped past the front desk at HPD’s Homicide Division with a wave, having picked up her ID sticker downstairs, but today an officer stopped her.

  “Identification?”

  Dixie showed her sticker.

  “You have an appointment?”

  “Sergeant Rashly’s expecting me. Didn’t someone call from downstairs?”

  Ignoring her question, the officer picked up the desk phone and punched a button.

  “Sergeant, a woman’s out here. Flannigan.” He replaced the receiver, his hard gaze inching over her face as if memorizing it. “Sergeant Rashly will be right out.”

  “Thanks.” Dixie smiled at him and stepped a few paces away. A cop had been killed that morning, not in the line of duty but in his own driveway. Other cops would naturally be looking over their shoulders—and scrutinizing civilian visitors with a keener eye.

  Spying an abandoned newspaper on a chair against the wall, Dixie reached over to pick it up and caught a glimpse of Police Chief Edward Wanamaker entering a room down the hall. A thick, stumpy man, mid-fifties, without a single gray hair in his black mane, Wanamaker always looked as if he could single-handedly conquer an army. If his voice had matched his looks, it’d be as rough as burnt cork. Every time Dixie thought of him issuing commands in his Irish tenor, she couldn’t help smiling.

  The Chief stopped to speak with a younger man who had the sort of nondescript appearance Dixie associated with FBI or Internal Affairs. She watched their lips but couldn’t make out what they said. Edging closer, she found an angle that allowed her to see partially inside the room. She unfolded the newspaper and pretended to read.

  Councilman Jason “Gib” Gibson, a shrewd, hardheaded businessman, stood military-stiff at the end of a conference table, talking to another FBI type. Known for his loud and dogged criticism of the HPD—before and after Wanamaker came aboard—Gib Gibson reminded Dixie of a pit bull. Once he got his teeth into a juicy, headline-making issue, only a bigger, tastier issue would entice him to let go.

  “Ms. Flannigan!” The desk officer scowled at her. “Would you wait over here, please?”

  She smil
ed. “Can’t shoot me for being curious.” The stupid remark was out of her mouth before she realized how deliberate it sounded.

  The officer didn’t miss it. His nostrils flared and he looked ready to come out of his chair.

  “Sorry. Scratch that,” Dixie muttered hurriedly. “Foot-in-mouth disease.”

  Fortunately, she spotted Rashly headed her way, tamping tobacco into his pipe bowl.

  “C’mon. I gotta get outta here,” he said. “D’ you eat?”

  Lunch, sort of. Dinner, no. What time zone was he in? “I could eat something.”

  She hurried alongside as he continued toward the elevators. He’d been raking his hands through his white hair. It stood on end, revealing the silver-dollar-size bald spot that rarely showed except when he was agitated. He’d shed his gray suit jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. His square face looked fierce. They reached a turn just as Mayor Avery Banning approached from the other direction. Dixie and Rashly stepped back for the Mayor to pass.

  “Pardon me, Ms. Flannigan, Sergeant.” With a distracted nod, Banning stormed grimly by.

  Dixie watched him enter the meeting room down the hall.

  “Councilman Gibson and Mayor Banning together? That should be fun to watch. Robbery and two civilian fatalities—ought to be enough ammunition to make Gib a happy man. What do you suppose is going on in there?”

  Rashly didn’t reply until they’d reached an outdoor parking area and he’d struck a lighter to his pipe.

  “Goddamn media.” He puffed to coax the tobacco to burn. “They’re chapping the Chief’s butt about those two robbery shootings, and Gibson’s egging them on. Wouldn’t be so bad if our guys hadn’t stepped over into Webster territory for one of the squeals. Banning called the meeting here to throw the reporters off. He’s probably in there now trying to talk some sense into Gibson.”

  Dixie hadn’t realized that HPD officers were involved in the Webster shooting. Jurisdiction between HPD and Webster had always been a little slippery.

  “Rotten timing for Banning,” she mused. “Puts an ugly blemish on his Memorial Day commendation to Wanamaker for taking down that drug ring.” A particularly nasty gang-related drug ring. HPD Narcotics had gained points with the public and earned some favorable press afterward. But how did that balance against nine officers gunning down one elderly woman?

  Despite his remark about eating, Rashly didn’t appear to be headed anywhere in particular. Just needed a smoke break, Dixie figured. And to walk off some steam. He stopped beside Councilman Gibson’s Lexus and scowled at the familiar personalized license plate: VIGILANT.

  “Do politicians ever stop politicking and do the goddamn job they’re hired for?”

  “Not if they have an eye on a better job.” Dixie realized she’d carried the newspaper out. She tucked it under her arm.

  “Everybody in that room back there’s trying to scrape off shit and fling it on someone else. You ask me, it’s Gibson running his mouth got that officer killed today.”

  “You think the sniper was retaliating for the robbery shootings?”

  “What the hell else? Nothing unusual in Art Harris’ record or personal life. When was the last time we had a cop killer in this town? We got men ready to round up the whole Ames family, line ’em up for a firing squad.”

  “Rash, you’re not serious.”

  “I’ve never seen this department so stirred up. Me, I don’t see the Ameses in it. You were there today. They look like a family hepped up on revenge?”

  “Just the opposite. Carrie Severn blames her mother for bringing disgrace on the family.” She studied Rashly’s weathered face. “Was Arthur Harris one of the cops who shot Lucy Ames?”

  He stared back at her. “Names of officers involved in the Ames and Pine shootings were not released to the public.”

  “So his murder may have nothing to do with the robbery shootings.” When Rashly didn’t say anything, she took the hint and moved on. “Any leads on the missing money?”

  He shook his head. “Like it dropped into a pit.”

  “What about the woman who started it all, the one robber last week who got away?”

  “I’m not buying that third robber crap.”

  “Her description doesn’t it either Lucy Ames or Edna Pine.”

  “Put a dark wig and sunglasses on either of ‘em, it could fit.”

  Dixie didn’t want to hear that. “Does that mean you’re not looking for her?”

  “It means we got refocused this morning after an officer caught a bullet.” He knocked his pipe against the building and dumped the ash under Gib’s Lexus. “I didn’t call you up here, Flannigan, to answer your damn questions. I’m being up front with you because I want you to know exactly what you’re getting into messing with this case.”

  “And I’m trying to understand the reason a friend was killed. I knew Edna Pine, knew her husband, and grew up with her son. Unlike Carrie Severn, Marty doesn’t believe his mother went batty since he last saw her. The man’s hurting, Rash. And there are too many unanswered questions for you guys to drop—”

  “I never said we were dropping anything.”

  “No, but you’d sure like it to go away. Two aging widows decide to pull a Butch-Cassidy-and-Sundance-Kid, including the part where they go out in a blaze of bullets. Do you really believe that’s what happened?”

  “People change, Flannigan. Some get old and doddering, some old and crazy, some old and mean. I know people who believe growing old is a fate worse than death.” He scowled at his reflection in the Lexus window. With a harsh sigh, he turned away from it. “So, what answers have you come up with?”

  “No answers. Only more questions.” She told him briefly about the changes in Edna’s lifestyle leading up to the robbery. “Marty feels responsible. He needs to know what happened to make his mother do something so alien to everything she believed in. She was an old-fashioned woman. Never worked outside the home. Never got involved with causes. Never took an interest in politics.”

  “You’re saying you struck out at the funeral?” Rashly glared at her. “What’re you holding back?”

  Dixie hesitated. She hadn’t consciously held back anything but her hunches. Yet dealing with Rashly meant dealing the whole deck.

  “I learned one thing: Lucy Ames didn’t have much support from her family after her divorce. Her daughter’s bitter. Her son didn’t care enough to show up. Lucy must’ve been a very lonely woman.”

  “So?”

  “Edna was lonely, too. And somehow they became acquainted. Which means they started hanging out wherever lonely senior women go for company.”

  “Sounds like some blue-haired singles club.”

  “Exactly. I know Edna went to a club called Fortyniners. And I’ve a hunch that if I backtrack her movements for the past few months, I’ll run across Lucy’s name.”

  “Stay out of it, Flannigan. We’ll do all that.”

  “I’m a single woman. I’ll do it better.” Seeing Rashly’s scowl darken, Dixie rushed on. “What I’ll look for is that third name.”

  He heaved another harsh sigh. “You’re convinced there was another Granny Bandit.”

  “The press only started using that term after Edna was killed. Take another gander at the mystery woman’s description—”

  “Hell, Flannigan, give me ten eyewitnesses and I’ll show you ten totally different sworn descriptions.”

  “True, but some points were agreed upon.” Dixie was guessing here, based on what the press had reported, and hoping Rashly would confirm. “The first woman—brown hair, medium build, big sunglasses, pegged between thirty-five and fifty-five—was not the image of a grandmother.”

  But Rashly shook his head. “You’re stretching. Three women pulling off near-perfect holdups? What’s true is Edna Pine and Lucy Ames maybe didn’t know each other at all. Ames does the first heist, gets away clean, and goes for the second. Pine picks up the idea after seeing the news reports.”

  Dixie mentally adde
d the part he hadn’t said, as a way to commit the perfect suicide.

  “You’re suggesting two middle-aged women independently acquired handguns and successfully executed bank robberies. I might buy that idea, except for the missing cash. That money didn’t disappear into The Twilight Zone.”

  Rashly gave Dixie one of his penetrating mean-cop looks. “You’ll be doing your friend a favor, Flannigan, if you convince him to let this go. Bury his mother, put a FOR SALE sign on her house, and head back to his business in Dallas. Whatever you uncover isn’t going to make him any happier.”

  “You think I’ll get in the way of finding your cop killer.”

  He looked out at the city street, filled now with late-afternoon traffic.

  “So Ames and Pine hook up together somehow and cry on each other’s shoulder about the rotten deal God handed them. About how miserable it is to make a good home, raise a family, only to have them all leave—move away, die, whatever reason. And this pair of sob-sisters decide to stir up some attention for themselves. Only it backfires. Or they have that part figured in, too, convinced they’d rather be remembered as a real-life Thelma-and-Louise act than written off as a couple of old bags who’d outlived their usefulness.” Rashly turned his hard stare back at Dixie. “Figure that’ll make your friend feel better?”

  “I figure there’s another female out there smart enough to mastermind three heists, use suicidal women for the risky part, and end up with all the loot in her own pocket.” Until talking to Rashly, Dixie hadn’t realized the strength of her conviction.

  His eyes got that faraway look that meant he was considering it. “I saw you studying the women at the funeral. Think one of them is your first Granny Bandit?”

  “Or is planning to be the next one.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Rose Yenik cupped the revolver in her left hand, impatience quickening her movements. Practice had not gone as well as she had hoped. The Shepherd had asked her to stop before all the chambers were empty.