by Susan Fleet
That's what he called her. Kid. She ate a bite of cheese and stared at the table. He came over and grabbed her jaw and tipped up her face to make her look at him. Terrified, she stared at his eyes. Big and dark, almost black. Hateful eyes.
“You don't eat your food, you might not get anymore.”
“Don't say that,” Catwoman said. “You'll scare her.”
“Shut up, Catarina, or I'll scare you, too.”
He let go of her jaw and took out his gun. Was he going to shoot her?
Her stomach heaved and her throat closed up. She spit the cheese onto the plate.
“Stop scaring her!” Catwoman said. “We need her to get on the plane.”
“No we don't. Me and Tommy can go to New York without you.”
“Tommy won't go without me. When I tell him—”
“Shut up.” He aimed the gun at Catwoman's head. “You might be able to pussy-whip Tommy, but he doesn't run this family. I do.”
Then he stomped out of the room with his gun. But she still felt sick. If Owl killed Catwoman, who would protect her?
Catwoman stroked her cheek. “Don't pay any attention to him, Bianca. He just likes to scare people. We're going to New York soon.”
She didn't want to go to New York. She wanted to go home. “Where's New York?”
“Across the ocean in America. We'll fly there in an airplane.” Catwoman made her blue eyes go wide to show how excited she was. “You'll love New York City. There are lots of stores where you can buy beautiful clothes. And for the holidays they decorate a big Christmas tree with colored lights in the middle of a skating rink.”
Bianca thought about the Christmas tree at home, waiting for Papà to put her favorite ornament on the top.
What would happen to the white angel now?
“Will Papà be there?”
Catwoman frowned. “Want some ice cream? Chocolate? Vanilla?”
Her eyes filled with tears. She didn't want ice cream.
She wanted to go home and be with Papà.
_____
10:25 AM – New Orleans
The moment Frank entered the office, Vobitch fixed his steel-gray eyes on him like twin laser beams. “You get anything in Bay St. Louis?”
“No. It was a wild goose chase. Looks like King Rock is using his cousin to deal drugs. Tariq Barrett, street name Ace, lives near the casinos, supplies the high-rollers.”
“These fucking maggots make more money than I do,” Vobitch growled.
“We searched the place. No weapons, no evidence that King Rock had been there. We could have busted Ace for the baggie of pot we found, but I figured it wasn't worth it. What happened at Headquarters? Did they give you grief?”
“They want results.” Vobitch raked his fingers through his silvery-gray hair. “Like I can wave a magic wand and find the fucker that killed the woman. When I asked for more troops to hunt for the prick, not to mention the murder weapons which are probably in some fucking sewer, they politely told me to go to hell. So. You got any good news for me?”
“No. Nothing on the tipline. No vehicle registered to King Rock.”
Stone-faced, Vobitch tapped his pen on a yellow legal pad. “Kelly called me yesterday. She wants to get back into Homicide. Figured I'd tell you as a courtesy since you two are such good friends.” Doing the quote thing with his fingers. Vobitch knew he and Kelly were lovers, but he was okay with it, as long as Kelly was working in Domestic Violence.
“What did you tell her?” he said cautiously.
“Told her I'd think about it.”
“So? What do you think?”
Vobitch gave him a sly look. “You go first.”
“Well, she's a great detective. I don't need to tell you that.”
“And?”
“She wants to work the Angelique Vaughn murder, right?”
Vobitch smiled tightly. “She made that crystal clear. Angelique was one of her clients.”
“She's too emotionally involved to work the case.” True enough, but his main concern was personal. If Kelly transferred back into Homicide it would cause problems. NOPD frowned on relationships between officers working in the same unit, and Vobitch knew it.
“She feels guilty,” he said, “Angelica gave her a tip and got murdered because of it.”
“Bullshit! Her asshole boyfriend murdered her and shot Kenyon.” Vobitch leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the desk. “But I could use another detective. With Kenyon out of commission, we're shorthanded.”
“Maybe we can let her keep an eye on the B-n-L crash pad. See if King Rock shows up.”
“Are you crazy? She sees him, she'll shoot first, ask questions later!”
That sounded about right to Frank.
“I think she should stay where she is,” Vobitch said, “but maybe we can figure a way to keep her in the loop. Make her feel like she's helping us with the case. Unofficially.”
Relieved, he said, “Good idea. Maybe tie it in with Jacques.”
“Right. I almost forgot about the boy. How's he doing?”
“Not good. Kelly talks to the social worker every day. He's in foster care, so traumatized he literally won't speak. Not a word.”
“Because he saw his scumbag father shoot his mother. We need to find this motherfucker.”
“And we will. As soon as possible. Make everyone happy for Christmas.”
“Make the NOPD bigwigs happy, for damn sure. Speaking of which, Juliana and I are having an open house the Sunday after Christmas, provided some nutcase doesn't massacre ten people that day. An end-of-the-year thank-you to all my diligent detectives.”
The parties Vobitch and his wife threw were legendary. Music by a Tulane University brass quintet, an open bar and a mouth-watering smorgasbord prepared by Juliana. Vobitch could be a hard-nosed SOB at work, but he liked to kick back and relax at home.
And when Juliana was around, he was a pussycat. No F-bombs.
“Make sure you bring Kelly.” Vobitch said. “If you two split up before then, I'll invite her myself.”
“Last time I checked, we're not planning on splitting up.”
“When was that?” Vobitch said, deadpan. “Last night in bed?”
Jiving him. Frank let it go. Now that Vobitch was in a better mood, he could tell him about Natalie. “I got a call from Italy this morning. A Europol agent arrested Natalie Brixton yesterday.”
“Jesus! Are you serious?”
“Yes, but here's the deal. He's working a major case and he wants Natalie to infiltrate a Mafia gang and act as his undercover agent. Conti says they're planning to fly to New York City.”
“Undercover agent, my ass. Fuck that. I want to put her in jail.”
“Hold on, it's complicated.” He summarized the robbery, the murders and the kidnapping. “One brother is married. His wife wants to hire a nanny to take care of the girl. Conti thinks he can get them to hire Natalie, but he's not sure she'll cooperate, so he offered her a deal. If she infiltrates the gang and reports back to him, he said we'd forget the homicide warrants.”
“Like hell we will!”
“That's what I thought at first, but look at it this way. When Natalie lands in New York, she's in our jurisdiction, not his. Cheaper than sending me to Venice.”
“I'm not sending you anywhere. We've got a high-profile murder to solve.”
“Morgan, we've been hunting for Natalie since September. Four months. Conti calls me with the details of the flight, I fly to New York, arrest her, bring her back here.”
“No fucking way! Get your priorities straight, Frank. Find the scumbag that shot Kenyon. Newsflash. He ain't in New York.”
In the tense silence, his cellphone chimed. When he answered, a voice said, “Frank, this is Sergeant Mitchell at the lockup. Got some bad news for you. One of the guards found Jawon Taylor dead in his cell this morning.”
His heart slammed his chest. “Jesus! What happened?”
“Someone strangled him with a shoelace. We're not
sure when, last night after bed check or early this morning, but we don't know who. We're investigating.”
“Thanks for letting me know,” Frank said.
When he ended the call, Vobitch was looking at him, eyebrows raised. “What?”
“Rocket Man's dead. Somebody offed him in his cell last night or early this morning.”
“Christ! There goes our witness.”
“Man, I feel guilty. When he wouldn't give us anything, I threatened to put out the word that he talked, but I never intended to do it.”
“People think jail is a safe place to be. Wrong. Getting one inmate to off another one is easy. Hell, a carton of cigarettes would do it.”
“True, but I still feel guilty.”
“Don't,” Vobitch snapped. “These maggots have no respect for human life. The moke fell in with evil companions. His choice. King Rock had him killed so he wouldn't talk. You can take that to the bank.”
Frank rose from his chair. “I better go tell David.”
When he entered the Homicide office, David swiveled his chair to face him, his short black hair neatly combed, still wearing his sports jacket, but his tie was draped on an open desk drawer.
“How'd it go with Vobitch? Any F-bombs?”
Eight months ago David had joined the District-8 homicide squad and helped him solve a brutal murder-kidnapping. His girlfriend was a grad student at MIT in Cambridge. David claimed she was smarter than he was, but Frank doubted it. It hadn't taken David eight months to get a handle on Vobitch and his volatile temper.
“A few. The top brass roasted him over the coals about Angelique's murder, so he was already in a bad mood. When I said we've got no clue where King Rock is, it didn't improve his disposition. And it gets worse. Rocket Man is dead.”
David stared at him. “Dead? What happened?”
Frank told him about the call from the lockup. “Vobitch figures King Rock had him killed. I feel guilty. I should have told them to put him in isolation.”
“Hindsight is twenty-twenty. Not your fault, Frank. But damn! He was our only witness.”
“Except for Jacques. You get anything at Iberville?”
“No. Nobody's talking, and when they hear about Rocket Man it will get worse. I found out one thing though. The nurse, Ella Hughes? Her neighbor said she went to visit her daughter in Jackson, Mississippi. Maybe she saw more than she let on.”
“Maybe.” But talking to Ella Hughes was no longer his main priority. The murder warrants for Natalie were at Headquarters. “I've got to run an errand. Be back in an hour.”
Vobitch was fixated on King Rock. He was focused on Natalie. When she landed in New York City, he was going to arrest her.
All he had to do was convince Vobitch to let him go there.
CHAPTER 9
TUESDAY December 14 – 1:05 PM – Venice
She pushed the carriage along the sidewalk, slowly and carefully so as not to wake the baby. Her hands were sweaty, her mind focused on all the things that could go wrong. The baby would wake up and start crying. She would stroll past the Antonetti house and no one would see her. The carriage would tip over and the baby's mother would shoot her.
Conti was waiting around the corner with the baby's mother, a polizia officer. If anything happens to my daughter, you will come to an unpleasant end. A typical Italian mother, sharp claws and teeth. But this mother had a gun.
She and the baby were bait, a ploy to induce the 'Netti brothers to hire her. Conti figured Catarina would see her, come running out and ask her to be Bianca's nanny. Tell her you work with children, demonstrate your Italian and your fluent English. Easy for him to say. She was the one who had to convince Catarina. And the brothers. Vicious killers.
If no one came out when she passed their house, she had to push the carriage around the corner and report to Conti. Then she'd have to do it again. What if the baby woke up when she was talking to Catarina? She had no idea what to do with an infant. If she picked her up, the baby would know she wasn't her mother and cry harder.
Sweat dampened the armpits of her black silk pantsuit, gold buttons on the jacket, red-and-gold dragons embroidered on the pant legs. Conti didn't want her to buy it, but she had convinced him, saying Catarina was a fashion maven and the chic outfit would impress her.
In a minute she would pass the Antonetti house, a one-story cottage with a two-car garage. The garage doors were shut, and Venetian blinds covered the windows on either side of the front door. As instructed, she didn't look at the house across the street. Valenti and his carabiniere officers were inside, monitoring the Antonetti house.
She kept walking, just an innocent nanny taking baby for a stroll. As she passed the front door she walked slower, mentally imploring Catarina to see her. But nothing happened.
When she reached the far corner of the house, she stopped, bent over the carriage and pretended to adjust the baby's blanket. Still nothing.
At least the baby was asleep, her tiny fist pressed against her lips. Filled with despair, she straightened and kept walking. Now she would have to tell the insufferable John Conti that his plan had failed and reassure Tiger-Mom that her baby was fine.
Behind her a voice called in Italian, “Excuse me, Senora!”
Scarcely daring to hope, she turned. A woman with long blond hair in an elegant blue dress was hurrying across the lawn.
She want to shout for joy. Catarina! She had a pretty face, smooth creamy skin the color of a vanilla shake and large blue eyes, accented by mascara and eye-shadow.
Smiling at her, Natalie said in Italian, “Good afternoon, Senora. Beautiful day, isn't it? Warm enough to take the little one for a walk.”
“A fine day,” Catarina said. “I like your pantsuit. Very stylish.”
“Thank you. The woman who pays me to babysit—” Switching to English, she said, “She told me not to dress like a slob. Sorry, my Italian vocabulary is not all that it should be.”
“Slob. A new word for my English vocabulary,” Catarina said in heavily accented English. “You speak Italian quite well.”
“Thank you. I'm a student at the university, but we're on break until January. I use the time to make extra money. The books are expensive.”
Studying her almond-shaped eyes, Catarina said, “You are American?”
“Chinese-American. My father is Chinese. But I have lived in Italy for several months. Such a beautiful country, and the food!” She spread her hands in a helpless gesture.
Catarina laughed and nodded. “All this pasta is tempting. We have to stay slim for our men. What do you study at the university?”
“Psychology. I volunteer at a halfway house teaching children how to speak English.”
“Wonderful! I am Catarina. And you are?”
“Laura. Happy to meet you.”
“You cannot imagine how happy I am to meet you. I need a nanny to take care of my cousin's girl. She is only five, and her mother died recently. I do my best to console her, but I have many things to do. My husband and I will fly to New York City soon. Would you consider traveling with us? We would pay you well.”
A faint cry came from the carriage. Her heart pounded. Please don't wake up now! Not when I'm about to close the deal!
“How long would we be there?”
“Not long. A week perhaps. We will be back before Christmas.”
More cries from the carriage. Louder and insistent.
“I need to take the baby home for her bottle. Her mother will be home at three. Would it be all right if I came back then to discuss this with you?” Please say yes!
More cries from the carriage. Her heart pounded her chest like a wild thing.
“That would be fine, Laura. I'll be waiting for you. Ciao.”
“Ciao.” She turned and pushed the carriage down the sidewalk.
More cries, angry and shrill. She walked faster.
_____
8:15 AM – Washington, D.C.
“I'm going to get you, bitch.”
Clint Hammer stared with undisguised hatred at the photograph on his desk. Finally, after two interminable years, his assistant had located the woman who'd murdered his friend, Oliver James, the best CIA operative he'd ever worked with. Years ago he had partnered with Oliver in Nicaragua, a top-secret project that was still classified.
Recalling their extracurricular activities, also classified, he allowed himself a tight smile. Oliver, a handsome six-footer with a gift for gab, easily snared the prettiest local girls. Clint happily settled for his castoffs. He was five-six and not nearly as handsome due to his acne-scarred cheeks. When their top-secret assignment and amorous adventures ended, Oliver had left the CIA and started his own business, a highly successful one, buying and selling art antiquities.
Until he met Natalie Brixton. A beautiful woman, half-Vietnamese and more devious than Mata Hari.
Two years ago in Boston she had seduced Oliver, who fell in love with her. How was he to know she was a serial killer? After murdering Oliver in cold blood, she'd gone to New Orleans and killed three more men. The NOPD cops were useless. Just thinking about Frank Renzi and his Jew-bastard boss, Morgan Vobitch, made him want to vomit. First they had her, then they lost her.
He sank into the high-backed chair behind the government-issue metal desk facing the door and surveyed his ten-foot-square office. Two floors below street level, the room was like a bunker. No windows, linoleum on the floor, bare walls painted institutional green.
A three-in-one laser printer-copier-fax machine stood beside his desk. No file cabinets. He never left paper trails.
His thoughts returned to the Brixton bitch. It frightened him, how badly he wanted her. He'd come to think of this as his own little covert operation, but he had to be careful. If he deviated from his usual routine, others would notice. One way to put yourself in serious jeopardy was getting caught with a file that was none of your business. So for the past two years he had performed his duties as though he had nothing else on his mind. Like hell.
A sharp rap sounded on his door.
Clint aligned the photo of the Brixton bitch in the center of the desk. Placed his pen beside the photo. Checked to make sure his desk drawers were closed. “Come in, Jason.”
