by Susan Fleet
Nostrils flared, she inhaled deep through her nose and slowly released the breath, seeking the center of calm deep within her. For many years she had worked hard to achieve this, practicing her Taekwondo skills. Now the calm she so desperately needed eluded her.
A chill rippled through her. Were the ancestor spirits of the men she had killed punishing her?
Now she might have to kill again.
Did the spirits of his victims haunt Frank Renzi? Probably not. Four months ago he had captured her, handcuffed her and put her in a cruiser to question her. When she spoke of the obligation she'd felt to avenge her mother's murder, she had seen the unforgiving look in his dark penetrating eyes. He didn't understand.
He was on the right side of the law, a virtuous cop doing his best to protect honest citizens. She was a criminal.
She had tried to escape her life of crime. Now it had come back to haunt her.
A shot whizzed past her shoulder. A split second later she heard the spit of the silenced Beretta. For an instant, the muzzle flash lit up her assassin, a lightning strike in the pitch black room.
Instinctively, she fell to the floor and rolled. When her forearm touched the wall, she rose to her knees. Instinct and quick reflexes had saved her, but they wouldn't get her out of the storeroom. She was trapped.
She didn’t want to think about what would happen if she died here.
Didn’t want to think about what Orazio might do to Bianca.
Didn't want to think. Period.
_____
After he fired, he quick-stepped left, an evasive tactic in case she had a weapon. He knew he'd missed. In the darkness, he heard a scuffling sound and fired again. The bullet ricocheted, glanced off the metal shelves, slammed into the concrete floor beside him, then off a shelf inches from his head.
The Beretta was useless in here. He could as easily kill himself as the Brixton bitch, the slug rattling around the claustrophobic space like a marble in a shoe box.
He jammed the Beretta into the shoulder holster inside his jacket and inched toward the door with his hands in front of him like a blind man. When his fingers touched the wall, he groped for the doorknob. He would run out the door, crouch on the other side and shoot the bitch when she came through the door, her only escape route.
It would be over in seconds.
The faint scent of deodorant warned of her presence. He lashed out blindly with his fists. He hit nothing, but he knew she was there. Every nerve in his body vibrated, signaling her presence. But the inky darkness paralyzed him. Rendered him impotent. He pictured the bitch, just beyond his reach, poised and ready to pounce.
In the silence, he heard his raspy breathing. It was only a matter of time before she zeroed in on him. His bladder betrayed him. A trickle of urine dribbled into his jockey shorts. Another humiliation.
The bitch grabbed his legs and yanked. With a muffled cry, he fell to the floor, his head bouncing off the concrete. Pinpoints of light danced across his vision from the shock of hitting the floor.
He rolled onto his stomach. Where was she?
Battling dizziness, fearing another blow, he struggled to his knees.
Nothing happened. He listened hard.
Heard only his own terrified breathing.
He felt like a mouse in a trap. Each attack diminished his strength and left him in pain. He had to do something. Fighting the pain, he grabbed onto a metal shelf and hauled himself to his feet.
She kicked his right knee, a painful blow that made him groan. Blindly, he lunged for the door. His knee gave out and he collapsed on the floor.
Jesus! Could the bitch see in the dark? No, she was listening to his movements.
His only option was to stay quiet where he'd fallen. His knee ached and the Beretta dug into his gut. Even if it jeopardized his own safety, he would have to use it. But first he would lie absolutely still. Play dead.
Let her come to him. Whip out his Beretta and shoot her.
“Why did you kill Bruce?” snarled a venomous voice.
Her words enraged him. Why did you kill Oliver? he wanted to scream. But fear sealed his lips. Jesus Christ, he'd strangle the bitch with his own hands, wring her neck like a chicken.
A sound nearby. He struggled to his feet and extended his hands. His fingers touched her shirt. He grabbed it and pulled her to him.
Her knee slammed into his groin. Agonizing pain, crushing his nuts. He screamed.
Words of self-preservation in his mind said, Shoot the bitch!
He took out the Beretta and fired blindly. In the muzzle flash he saw no one.
The last thing he felt was her breath on the back of his neck.
_____
Breathing hard, she chopped his wrist with her hand. The Beretta clattered to the floor. Now was the time to go for the kill, while he was weak, injured by her previous blows. But she didn't want to kill him. Better to incapacitate him with a Taekwondo move. Extending her fingers, she stiffened her right hand into a blade. One blow with the bony edge would disable him long enough for her to run out the door.
His foot lashed out, a glancing blow that struck her leg. Instinctively, she swung her arm as hard as she could, aiming for his jaw. But her stiffened right hand connected with the flesh of his neck. She heard his head strike something and he fell to the floor with a thump.
She inched toward the door, reached for the knob and jerked back her hand. No! Leave no fingerprints!
Using the front of her shirt, she turned the knob, opened the door and lunged through it. The bright light above the display case made her blink. She turned and looked into the storage room.
Clint Hammer, the CIA agent intent on killing her, lay on the floor, motionless, his head tilted at an odd angle. His pale gray eyes were open, sightless and staring. Jesus! He was dead! When he fell, his head must have hit the metal shelf hard enough to break his neck.
Panic sent her into survival mode. She had to get out of here.
She paused beside Bruce's body, overwhelmed with grief and a deep sense of shame. At Pak Lam's request Bruce had come here to help her. Now he was dead. This would sully Pak Lam's reputation. And hers.
Sooner or later she would have to tell him what had happened. But she couldn't think about that now. When workers came here tomorrow morning, they would find two dead men and call the police. She had to eliminate any trace of her presence. She ran to the styling area and grabbed a towel and a pair of latex gloves from a shelf above the sink. She put on the gloves and ran back to the storeroom.
Disgusted by the stench, she grasped the CIA agent's arms, dragged him out of the storeroom and left him on the floor beside Bruce's body.
In the shadowy storage room she found the jug of bleach she'd thrown at the ceiling bulb. She poured bleach on the towel, wiped the doorknob, then the bleach container to erase her fingerprints. Partials might remain on the metal shelves or the concrete walls, but she had no time to deal with that. Now it was 11:05. She had to get back to the house before relief guard arrived at midnight.
Should she take the Beretta? Armed with a weapon, she could protect herself from Orazio. No. Better to leave it here. She took a ballpoint pen off the display counter, returned to the storeroom and located the Beretta. Emulating the detectives on TV shows, she stuck the pen into the trigger guard, picked up the gun and dropped it on the floor beside the CIA agent.
Sooner or later, the cops would identify the owner of the weapon that had killed Bruce.
But Clint Hammer was dead, too. The cops would know someone else had killed him.
She knelt beside his body and searched his pockets. She found a cellphone and a set of car keys in one, a wallet with a driver's license and a wad of cash in another. She rose to her feet.
Only Bruce and Pak Lam knew she was here. She had a new passport and driver's license. Why go back to the house? Why not go to the train station, board the next available train and get out of New Orleans.
But what about Bianca? Catarina would care for her,
but she couldn't prevent Orazio from killing her.
For precious seconds she stood there, paralyzed, torn by her dilemma. Self-preservation jolted her into action. Now it was 11:15. Any minute now a security patrol might drive by the salon and wonder why a light was on in the back. She had to get out now.
She jammed Hammer's wallet and car keys in her pocket and opened his cellphone. He had shut it off to keep it from ringing while he crept inside to kill her. The latex gloves made it awkward, but she managed to remove the SIM card from the phone.
Standing beside Bruce's body, she murmured a sorrowful goodbye. She would deal with her sorrow and shame later. She shut out the light and crept to the front door. Street lights illuminated Veterans Boulevard. Not much traffic at this hour. She waited for two cars to pass, opened the door and slipped out into the night. Hugging the side of the building, she went around back.
A black Toyota Camry was parked beside Bruce's Mustang. She had the keys. How easy it would be to hop in the Camry and drive to Atlanta.
No. She had to protect Bianca.
But she'd better dump the Toyota somewhere so the cops wouldn't find it for a while. She unlocked the door, got behind the wheel and drove out of the parking lot without turning on the lights. Four blocks away, she parked the Toyota on a side street outside a darkened house, got out and walked away. One task accomplished, but now it was 11:25.
She turned the corner and began to run. One block later she stopped at a storm drain and dropped the car keys and the SIM card down the drain. Two blocks later she put Hammer's license down another. On the next side street she dropped his cellphone into another drain.
Now she was only three blocks from the mob house, but it was 11:45. In fifteen minutes the relief guard would arrive.
She set off at a dead run.
_____
Festus yawned and checked his watch. 11:45. Usually when Clint went on his ten o'clock patrol he came back thirty minutes later, gave him a call and said, “All quiet on the western front.” Some smart ass shit like that. Not tonight.
No black Toyota Camry parked at the other end of the block.
He'd called Clint three times since eleven o'clock, got no answer.
Clint was paranoid about leaving his cellphone on. “Call me no matter what if that bitch leaves the house,” he'd said.
Dammit to hell! Where was he?
His stomach rumbled with hunger, an acid fizz that aggravated his ulcer. Man, he had to eat something. Usually Clint brought him a steak-and-cheese from Subway after his patrol. Seemed like his anal-retentive boss had forgotten about him, might have gone to the motel to catch some extra winks.
He cranked his Chevy Cavalier. Almost midnight, all the Christmas lights were off on the homes along the street, folks tucked into their comfy beds. The only people who left the target house at this time of night were hard-eyed men with bulges under their jackets, one coming, one going. He figured they were mobsters guarding the house.
Fuck it. The asshole wasn't paying him enough to put up with this bullshit. He'd grab something to eat, drive to the motel and see if Clint's Toyota was there.
CHAPTER 31
TUESDAY December 21 8:30 AM
“If you hadn't called me last night, you'd have been out of luck,” said Mary Hogan.
“Glad I caught you,” Frank said. Glad? Thrilled was more like it.
Sixty-six years old and still attractive, slim and trim in a royal-blue pantsuit, Mary Hogan had Irish-blue eyes and wavy auburn hair. They were in her guest room on the second-floor. Beyond a double bed facing a small TV on a chest of drawers, a window yielded a clear view of the mob house in the next block. Use binoculars, he could see even better.
“I really appreciate your letting us use the house. We've gotten reports about suspicious activity in one of the houses down the street.”
Mary Hogan frowned. “There won't be any shooting, will there?”
He sure as hell hoped not. “No, nothing like that. We just want to monitor the house.”
She gave him a sharp look. “Drugs? Prostitution?”
“I can't get into the details, but don't worry, we'll take good care of your house. Is your luggage up here? I can take it downstairs for you.”
“Thanks, that would be great. It's down the hall in my room.”
The master bedroom was larger than the guest room and had its own bathroom. A single suitcase stood by the double bed.
“Only the one?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said wistfully. “Only one this year. Howard passed away in February. This will be my first Christmas without him.”
“I'm sorry to hear that. Holidays are difficult when you lose someone you love. My mother died ten years ago and I still miss her.” He loved his father and admired him greatly, but emotionally he'd been closer to his mother. Mary Hogan was flying to Phoenix to spend Christmas with her daughter, but he still hadn't bought a plane ticket to Boston. Not with Natalie still free, no doubt plotting her escape this very minute.
“I'm grateful for all the years we had together,” Mary said. “We had some wonderful times, but you can't live in the past. Go ahead downstairs while I freshen up.”
He carried the suitcase downstairs and rolled it into the kitchen, neat and tidy, no dirty dishes, just a coffee mug in the sink. He had offered to drive Mary to the airport. It was the least he could do. Setting up surveillance in her house would allow him to accomplish his goal.
Arrest Natalie Brixton and put her in jail.
Mary entered the kitchen, went to the counter and opened her purse. “Let me check to make sure I've got everything before we leave.” She flashed a smile. “Do I sound paranoid?”
“Not at all. It's easy to forget something.”
She closed her purse, took a set of keys off the counter and gave them to him. “No one will be smoking inside the house will they? I hate the smell of cigarettes.”
“No worries. No one on my team smokes.” He waited a beat and said, “But is it okay if we put a six-pack in the refrigerator?” Jiving her to see what she'd say.
Her Irish-blue eyes widened. Then she laughed. “You're a rascal, Detective Renzi. I like your style.” Her smile faded and she heaved a sigh. “I'm not looking forward to Phoenix.”
“Why not?”
“Have you ever been there?”
“No.”
She made a face. “Hot as hell and dull as dishwater. Pam wants me to move there and live with her and the kids. But all my friends are here.” She paused. “One friend in particular.”
He got the picture. “And you'd rather spend the holiday with him?”
“I love my daughter and I'm crazy about the little darlin's, but I'm not moving to Phoenix.”
A decisive woman. He liked that. “Just kidding about the beer, but could we put our lunches in the refrigerator? We'll be working long shifts, one person in the guest room, one down here.”
“Of course,” she said and gestured at the counter. “Feel free to use the coffeemaker.”
“When you get back, we'll compensate you for the use of your house.” He took out his wallet and gave her a hundred dollars. “Treat Pam to a nice dinner. I took this out of petty cash.” Actually it was his money, but he wanted her to feel good about letting them use the house.
Her face lit up in a smile. “That's very kind. Thank you.”
He checked his watch. 8:40. “We better go. I wouldn't want you to miss your flight.”
And he wanted to complete the setup here. Conti didn't know about it. Last night he'd called Conti at five, saying he'd had no luck so far. True at the time. He'd called Mary Hogan later.
All he had to do was get Natalie and Bianca to come to Mary Hogan's house and bingo. Mission accomplished. Conti would be pissed, but so what? Once Natalie was locked up, he could fly to Boston and celebrate the holiday with his father.
_____
9:35 AM
Natalie took a bite of her blueberry muffin. Her stomach revolted. Nauseated, s
he spit the morsel into a napkin and massaged her throbbing temples. Her jaw still ached where Hammer had punched her. Seated beside Catarina on the other side of the table, Bianca wasn't eating either, picking her muffin apart and leaving crumbs on her plate. The girl seemed to have an uncanny ability to decipher her moods. Happy when she was happy, upset when she was worried. Like now.
Last night she'd managed to get back into her room undetected. Physically and emotionally exhausted, she'd run a bath and soaked in the steamy water, recalling the ugly hole in Bruce's forehead. The CIA agent's twisted neck. Their sightless vacant eyes. She crawled into bed but she hadn't slept, thanks to the hideous images in her mind.
This morning Bianca had woken at seven, cranky and uncooperative. She wanted to go downstairs for breakfast. Natalie wanted to find out if the cops had found the bodies in the hair salon. She told Bianca to make a pretty picture in the coloring book and put on the local news.
The lead story was about a shooting at a Vietnamese restaurant in Metairie. She tuned it out, ruminating about last night's disaster. A news jingle cut into her thoughts. A bulletin flashed on the screen: Two Men Found Dead in Hair Salon.
“This just in,” said the newswoman. “Detectives from the Jefferson Parish Sheriff's office are investigating a double murder in Metairie. The manager of Hip Hairstyles opened the shop at seven-thirty and found two bodies, one shot execution-style in the head. A possible murder weapon was found on the floor near the second man. Detectives have identified one man but won't release his name until his next of kin are notified. No identification was found on the other man. Detectives believe the men were murdered sometime after the salon closed at nine o'clock last night. They ask anyone with information to call Crime Stoppers.”
Natalie set her muffin aside and sipped her tea. The bulletin had reassured her up to a point. No mention of suspects. No questions raised about who killed the second man. But soon there would be.
