The Warning Sign

by Mia Marlowe

  “Now you can get up,” he told her.

  She didn’t move.

  He nudged her with his foot, but she didn’t stir. Now that there was no danger of being seen, he lifted Sara Kelley in a fireman’s carry and threw her over his shoulder. Neville might not be tall, but he was wiry and much stronger than he looked. He stooped to lift his duffle and the lantern in one hand, while his other steadied Sara’s inert form.

  Her limp arms thumped against his back and her fingertips brushed his butt as he walked. He stopped. Was the punk right? Was horny little Sara Kelley coming on to him?

  Her thigh muscle was flaccid under his hand and he ran his palm up to cup her ass. He squeezed.

  No response.

  He squeezed hard enough to bruise her tender flesh on the off chance that she was playing possum.

  Sara Kelley was completely out.

  Neville swallowed back his disappointment. If the drug made her horny, he’d definitely oblige her. He could do her while he was coming. A quick stiletto slipped between her ribs would do the trick. There wouldn’t even be much blood. He imagined watching the light go out of her green eyes at the precise moment his life spurted into her.

  Now that would be a transcendent piece of performance art, a medium Neville had not yet tried.

  But her limp form showed no sign of wanting him.

  At least she isn’t laughing at me anymore, Neville thought as he moved through the tunnel.

  ~

  “How could you let this happen?” Matthew demanded. He’d broken every posted limit driving from the station house to Sara’s apartment.

  Ryan Knight’s face was unreadable as a poker champ’s, but Matthew sensed the anger surging in him. Knight said nothing in his own defense. Instead he offered a crumpled piece of paper to Matthew. “Here’s the note she left.”

  Matthew snatched it from his hands. It was definitely Sara’s precise handwriting. “Is this your family’s doing, Knight?”

  “No, detective. The Garibaldi’s are not involved. You were the first call I made, but the second was to my uncle. He was…displeased to hear that Sara had been abducted.” Knight rubbed a hand over his face. “I told you about the limo service over the phone. What have you found out?”

  “I contacted Bay State Limo on the way over here and they are missing a car,” Matthew said. “We have the plate numbers. There’s an APB out on it.”

  “Don’t they have OnStar?” Ryan paced the small space like a caged beast. “Some way to track their cars?”

  “Bay State’s an old service and this is their oldest vehicle we’re looking for. They don’t have any sat links,” Matthew said. “The guy knew exactly what he was doing when he boosted this particular car.”

  “Security camera at the lot?”

  “Disabled.”

  “Damn. We’ve got nothing.” Ryan sank onto one of the threadbare armchairs.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Matthew said. “Does your uncle know the doer?”

  “Uncle Nick doesn’t confide in me about family business,” Ryan said. “At my request.”

  “Well, maybe it’s time you made a request because I can’t imagine this guy’s been operating in New England without your uncle’s knowledge. More likely by his order.”

  “Look, detective—”

  “No, you look, you spoiled bastard. If Sara hadn’t gotten mixed up with you, she—”

  “She’d still be eating her heart out for her cheating husband,” Ryan finished for him. “Listen, can we admit we’ve both blown it with Sara? As much as I’d enjoy taking a swing at you, it won’t help her. I called you because, like it or not, the two of us working together is the best chance she’s got.”

  Matthew let Ryan Knight’s truth sink in for a moment. It grated his soul, but he had to admit the man was right. “Ok. Will you—”

  The TTY in the corner clattered to life and began spitting out a message.

  STAY WHERE YOU ARE, GENTLEMEN. INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW.

  ~

  “Predictable,” Neville said as he closed the connection to the TTY and took his headphones off. Sara’s apartment was still wired and he’d listened with pleasure as the two men in Sara Kelley’s life made the exact move he’d counted on. This was rather like a chess game and fortunately, Neville was thinking several moves ahead of his opponent. He needed Matt Kelley and Ryan Knight together for the endgame.

  He’d tell them where to find Sara. But only once it was too late for them to do anything about it except come and die with her. He’d have to tell them.

  They’d never find her otherwise.

  Neville’s brilliant plan came to him when he first heard about the scheduled implosion of the Chandler Building. Any truly artistic hit required the right venue and an imploded building begged to be used for his magnum opus.

  But security into and out of the doomed edifice was nearly air-tight.

  On the surface level.

  Boston is, by American standards, a very old city. Beneath her uneven cobbled streets, a rabbit warren of tunnels squirm in the dark. Home to the homeless, tomb to many of them, miles of underground caverns were untracked, sealed and forgotten. Countless old projects, spur lines and such, had been dug between subbasements and later abandoned as the needs of the inhabitants changed.

  First, Neville studied the old blueprints in the public library. Then he donned a spelunking helmet and explored the bowels of the Chandler Building via a long forgotten link between an old T line and the subbasement.

  He even did a good deed, chasing out a homeless addict who’d set up housekeeping along the subterranean route and wasn’t aware of the scheduled demolition. The bum had set small fires to fend off the eternal chill and ended up coating the tunnel with thick soot. If the walls ever caught, they’d smolder for days.

  Neville had to break through a crumbling brick wall that had closed off the access about a hundred years ago, but he finally found the dank, cavernous space beneath the planned implosion. It was perfect for his needs.

  There was even a cross beam that had come down and formed the ideal spot for him to pose his latest subject. It had occurred to Neville that he’d never done a crucifixion painting and all the great ones—from Rembrandt to Dali—had rendered their version. It was high time Rede took his place among them.

  Sara Kelley’s still unconscious figure was duct-taped to the beam. Her arms outstretched, head drooped forward, knees bent, her body twisted into a slumped S shape. He’d removed her shoes and socks because feet, like hands, were always such a challenge and he didn’t want to leave them to chance. The light of the lantern threw wonderful shadows and gave her sagging tank top the same effect as a loincloth draping the Christ figure in the old master’s works.

  Of course, if Neville wanted to be truly original, he should draw her naked.

  After all, Christ was naked.

  But even the old masters were too timid to draw God’s penis. Neville wasn’t afraid. This was his chance to surge ahead of those who came before him, on whose shoulders he stood. He laid down his pencil and sketch pad and started toward her.

  Sara Kelley didn’t have a penis. What if taking her down and undressing her woke her up?

  What if she started laughing at him again?

  He might lose his temper and do something to upset the plan. No, he had to stay in control. Maybe he could imagine Sara Kelley naked. He’d done it before.

  Often.

  In fact, now that he considered it afresh, her best asset was his imagination. He could give her perfect alabaster flesh and exquisitely proportioned curves. Reality was often such a disappointment.

  Neville settled down to his work and put his headphones back on so he could listen to Ryan Knight and Matt Kelley, fretting and stewing. As long as he was imagining, he could imagine that Sara had a penis. Maybe two of them.

  And the dean of the art institute had claimed he wasn’t original.

  ~

  Ryan picked up the remote control and turned the
TV on, punching the volume up.

  “What are you doing?” Matthew demanded.

  “We have to wait here. We may as well watch TV,” he said loudly. Then Ryan put a finger to his lips and whispered. “The place is obviously bugged. We need for him to think we’re still here.”

  “Where are you going?” Matthew mouthed back.

  “To ask for a favor. I’ll be back.” Ryan eased the door open, taking Lulu with him. She still needed to go out and had been dancing by the door for the last fifteen minutes. Once he reached the street, he let her lead him toward the river.

  When he was sure there was no one near enough to overhear his conversation, Ryan flipped open his cell phone and dialed his Uncle Nick.

  “Hello again, Ryan.” I had a feeling you’d be calling back today.

  “I need a favor.” As if you didn’t know, you sick bastard.

  “What is this? You have no manners. No how are you? No how’s Aunt Marie?” I’ve been waiting for you to need something this much and I’d like to savor the moment while you squirm.

  “I don’t have time.” This is not a social call.

  There was silence on the other end for a couple heartbeats. “What can I do you for?” And what’s in it for me?

  “I need a name.” You know which one.

  His uncle didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “What you are asking touches on family business, you know.” This is serious shit.

  “I know,” Ryan said. Do you really think I’d call if I had a choice?

  “Favors run both ways, nephew.” There’s only one thing I want from you.

  Ryan took a deep breath. Once done, this was not something that could be undone.

  “I understand, Uncle Nick.” He swallowed hard. “I’m in.”

  Chapter 33

  Ryan carried Lulu back up the stairs to Sara’s apartment. Matthew met him at the door, shoved the little dog inside and closed the door softly behind him. Ryan could still hear the TV blaring. Matthew had switched the channel to Extreme Fighters, a good noisy show.

  “What are you doing?” Ryan said. “One of us needs to stay here to get the instructions.”

  Matthew waved Sara’s cell phone under his nose. “I may not have the resources of a mafia don, but when I bought Sara the TTY, I made sure she got the best, rich man. I tripped the feature that will automatically send incoming calls from the TTY to her cell as a text message.”

  “That’ll do.” Ryan turned and headed back down the stairs. “I got his name and address.”

  “I’m not going to ask how,” Matthew said.

  “Good, because if I told you I’d have to kill you,” Ryan said.

  Matthew laughed.

  Ryan didn’t.

  “We’re looking for Neville Rede,” Ryan said as he climbed into Matthew’s car and told him the address.

  Matthew peeled out of the parking lot with a squeal of rubber on asphalt.

  “Shouldn’t you be calling for back up or something?” Ryan asked as Matthew wove in and out of traffic, missing other vehicles by mere inches. Boston drivers weren’t the type to bear such insults in silence. A chorus of indignant honks and rude hand gestures rose up in their wake. “Take it easy. We can’t help Sara if you get us killed first.”

  “I doubt Rede has Sara at his place. If his past hits are anything to go by, that’s not his style,” Matthew explained as he whipped through a yellow light that turned red before he left in intersection. “I can only call for back up once, so I can’t ask for it until we know for sure where she is.”

  “How about a siren then?” Ryan gripped the armrests hard enough to leave an indentation. He was totally willing to parachute out of a perfectly good airplane and diving under the most extreme conditions didn’t give him a second’s pause. But that roll-over when he was a teenager left him with a healthy respect for vehicle traffic that bordered on a phobia. “At least a siren would clear a path for us.”

  “I’ll clear my own path.” Matthew zigged into the fast lane, hugging the back bumper of a speeding Peapod truck. “If by some freak chance Rede is at his apartment, a siren will just let him know we’re on the way, won’t it?”

  Ryan gritted his teeth while Matthew maneuvered them through the heavy traffic, narrowly avoiding disaster with each jerky lane change.

  What did it matter? His call to Uncle Nick had just cut his life expectancy by half anyway.

  ~

  Sara couldn’t feel her fingers. Ants were trailing up and down her arms, their little feet and antennae tickling her nerves. No, it wasn’t ants. Little pin pricks danced along her limbs, not quite pain, but not very pleasant either.

  The real pain was in her jaw, streaking from her chin and curling around her ear. It shot up to her cheekbone, through a tooth root and into her brain. And when she tried to open her eyes, only one of them obeyed her.

  A soft hum buzzed, the pitch inching up and down like a bee tuning up.

  Where were her hearing aids?

  Her tank top sagged forward. She had a clear view of her breasts jostling for position in her push-up bra because her chin was glued to her chest. No, it surely wasn’t. But her head was so heavy, she couldn’t lift it. She watched her ribs expand and contract and felt the jarring thud of her heart each time it pulsed.

  She was alive.

  But where?

  It was dark. Nighttime? No, there was a light shining on her. She couldn’t seem to move her head so she rolled her good eye toward the light. It stabbed her pupil and she squeezed her lid shut.

  The last thing she remembered clearly was getting into that limo to go pick up the Taurus at the dealer.

  Had she been in an accident?

  Why couldn’t she move? Was she in traction?

  She slitted her eyelid and studied the cracked, dirt encrusted concrete beneath her bare feet. They were so cold her toenails had a bluish tinge. Where were her shoes?

  She sniffed the air. Mold. Dirt. A definite mousy smell. This was no hospital.

  She shifted slightly, raising herself on her toes. The movement sent blood screaming back into her outspread arms carrying pain with it. A moan escaped her lips and lowered herself back down. Numbness beat pain any day.

  Someone grasped her hair and forced her head up.

  “Hello, Sara Kelley,” she read on the lips that had haunted her nightmares.

  The edges of her vision wavered and tunneled. When the darkness reached up to grab her, she went without a fight.

  ~

  Neville Rede’s apartment was in a vintage building whose brickwork was in serious need of repointing. The door to the postage-stamp lobby was ajar. Ryan and Matthew located his unit from the ‘N. Rede’ inked next to a buzzer that set crookedly in its socket. 4B.

  Top floor.

  There was no answer when Matthew and Ryan knocked on the first floor unit grandly marked “Building Superintendent,” so they took the stairs without asking permission. Head-banging heavy metal made the walls shake on the second floor. Northeastern University was close by. Most of the residents were probably students. Judging from the beer cans lining the halls, Ryan would have put money on it.

  When they reached the top floor, Matthew pulled his Glock from its holster beneath his jacket. Ryan nodded in grim approval. They stopped in front of 4B.

  “I think I hear something,” Matthew said softly.

  Ryan strained to listen, then shook his head.

  “Yes, you did, too,” Matthew corrected. “It’s called ‘probable cause’ and we don’t have time to wait for a warrant.” He lifted his foot and gave the door a vicious kick that nearly knocked it off its hinges.

  There was only silence in the apartment.

  Ryan started through the opening, but Matthew shouldered him out of the way.

  “The one who’s packing goes first,” Matthew growled. He made a quick sweep of the studio apartment and then holstered his piece. “Clear.”

  As apartments went, the lay-out of this one was unremarkable, just o
ne room. A Murphy bed was propped against one wall, a row of cabinets and pint-sized appliances on the other indicated a kitchen of sorts. A door led into a tiny bathroom with old school-house green fixtures.

  But the studio boasted a row of southern facing windows and a view of the clean white building that was home to the New England Museum of Fine Art. It was plain that Neville Rede did more working than living in this space.

  Several easels stood with canvases in different stages of completion. The old hardwood was littered with drop cloths and palettes. A jar of brushes sat in turpentine on one of the window sills. The wall space was covered with paintings of various sizes and styles.

  “What do you make of all this?” Matthew asked.

  Ryan strode up to a painting that was a parody of Van Eyck’s Portrait of a Man in a Turban. The delicate brushstrokes, the pose of the staring figure was a deliberate copy of the masterwork. Except the face was different and as was the title scrawled across the bottom: Portrait of Ali Shere in a Turban.

  “It means Rede is talented. Twisted, but talented,” Ryan said. “Who’s Ali Shere?”

  “Oil sheik,” Matthew said. “Collapsed and died running the Boston marathon a few years ago. It was a surprise at the time because the guy was in top physical shape.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Don’t know. Muslims don’t allow autopsies. We just figured he was another Jim Fix. You know, the running guru who dropped dead years ago.” Matthew frowned at the painting. “When you’re number’s up, no amount of running helps you run from death.”

  “In this case, it looks like death had some help catching him,” Ryan said. “Check the other paintings and see if you recognize the names.”

  “Rawlings, Stephens, Pitmartin, Valenti, Keep.” Matthew read off more names as he passed the artworks. “Most of them were ruled accidental but they’re all dead.”

  One of the easels was draped with a sheet to protect a drying canvas from dust mites. The effect was almost shroud-like. Ryan pulled off the sheet.

  “Oh, God. It’s Sara.”

  Matthew joined him in staring at the Mona Lisa-style portrait, her sweet mouth curved in that signature enigmatic smile. But her eyes were full of terror.