For The Love Of Laurel

by Patricia Harreld

  “My God,” Gerald muttered as he turned and walked away. Alejandro Madeira! What is he doing in this forsaken little town? Had he gotten word I’m here? Madeira was the last of Gerald’s marks, but he was always hidden behind layers of ruthless men. Madeira had an extensive spy network. Had one of them come to Tiquería, perhaps to see a relative, and noticed him?

  That Madeira searched for him, he had no doubt. Gerald had taken out three drug lords and word would get around, even among rival cartels. They had to know Madeira was next on the hit list, and Madeira would most likely know his pursuer was in the country—maybe even where. Maybe Madeira’s visit to the clinic was on purpose just to let Gerald know he was nearby. He needed to talk to the doctor to find out if the man was really wounded or if it was all an elaborate ruse to flush Gerald out.

  He went back to his room and checked his semi-automatic pistol. He couldn’t use his rifle in town. He put the pistol on the table. If Madeira was looking for a confrontation, better here than in the street.

  He waited a tense hour but Madeira didn’t show. Maybe he was hurt after all, but Gerald didn’t trust that. Why would he come to an out-of-the-way place for treatment? Surely, he had his own doctors.

  While he waited, he typed an encrypted email to his boss:

  Madeira is here. Waiting to see what develops. I have the upper hand because he doesn’t know I know he’s here. He soon will. It will be the last thing he ever knows.

  He sent it then sat at the table, his hand on the gun.

  And waited.

  While Dylan waited in the reception area to be debriefed, he thought about Gerald nearly two-thousand miles away—him near the District of Columbia and Gerald in Colombia. Dylan could imagine Gerald’s panic when he learned what had happened at home. He was a bit panicked himself, but he hoped people were at work to get some protection for Laurel.

  He wished he hadn’t kissed her. It made leaving much harder and his need to go back more keen. She said she would miss him. What did she mean by that? Would she miss him or was it just something to say? Maybe he could read her better when he went back to clear out the apartment.

  Assuming they let him go back. They could easily send him somewhere else and have others do that job, or place someone there who would take over his stuff. Not his father’s books, though. He’d be sure those were properly packed and stored.

  He got up and went to the receptionist. “How much longer?”

  “I don’t know, sir, I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay. I’ve got no place I have to be.”

  He sat back down and closed his eyes. He was tired and needed sleep. He nodded off for a few moments, but a noise roused him. The receptionist was coming toward him with a steaming cup of coffee.

  She belied her all-business demeanor as she spoke. “You look like you can use this. It’s from my own gourmet stash. Wake you right up. Sugar or cream?”

  He sat up straight. “Black is fine. You’re a godsend,” he said as he reached for the coffee.

  She went back to her desk. The coffee was delicious. He wondered if it was Colombian. It was strong but had no taste of hazelnut or vanilla or any of the other crap they could think of to mess up a by-god decent cup of coffee. As he drank it, he checked his watch.

  He’d been waiting far too long. What were they planning? If they sent him back to the estate, it would be a mistake. He knew Laurel had had enough and he couldn’t blame her. Sometimes she must feel like a prisoner in her own home.

  If they’d been in touch with Gerald, what would his take be on the situation? No doubt he would insist on some kind of protection for his daughter. Would he want me or would anyone do?

  He got out of the chair and went to the receptionist. She looked up from her computer. “More coffee?”

  He held out his empty cup. “If it isn’t too much trouble.”

  “Not at all. Help yourself.” She pointed to a coffeepot on her credenza.

  He filled his cup and wandered into the hallway to stretch his legs. He didn’t waste much time before coming back and sitting down. He sipped his coffee.

  And waited.

  Chapter 16

  Laurel had never gotten around to finishing her father’s office. Dylan had been gone a week and though she didn’t exactly miss him, there had been something comforting about knowing he was around. True to his word, no replacement had shown up. Instead of being happy, she was uneasy. Maybe I’ve been too hasty.

  There wasn’t much left to do but go through Gerald’s books and see if any were worth keeping. She read the spines. As she thought, they were mostly about finances.

  What about his wall safe? More of the same? She didn’t have the combination so she couldn’t open it. She’d have to hire someone with a blowtorch. Then she remembered the piece of paper with the date. It might be the safe combination. She took it out of the drawer and tried it on the safe. No luck.

  Why had he written it down? As she looked at it, something about it seemed familiar. What was it? A bunch of numbers. A date. 02/10/87. The only thing odd was the zero in front of the two. Most people would write 2/10/87 as Mel Chaber had done in his note enclosed with the expensive pen. So maybe it was the combination to something. Maybe he had a hidden safe. Carefully, she looked around the room. She walked every inch of the floor to see if one part made a different sound. She pushed on the walls, looking for hidden openings and feeling like a Nancy Drew clone.

  Nothing.

  She went into his bedroom and did the same, even looking under the bed. She and Mari couldn’t move his immense dresser by themselves. Of course, the one time she actually needed Dylan, she’d kicked him out.

  She sighed. May as well pack up the books in Gerald’s office. They would just gather dust if she left them in the bookcases. She retrieved some boxes from the garage and got started. When she found one that looked interesting she’d leaf through it, finding notes in the margins Gerald had written to himself. It was all financial—nothing that would give away his “other” profession.

  Near the end of the bottom shelf was a set of encyclopedias. She got down on her knees, took one out, and opened it, remembering they were a tenth birthday gift from her father. She’d used them many times to write papers in high school. She moved her fingers over their gold leafing and smelled the old pages. Now they were obsolete.

  She pulled them out two at a time. They were heavy so she divided the set among three boxes so she’d be able to carry them. As she pulled the last two out, her fingernails scraped something other than the wood of the book shelf. She lay prone and looked at the back of the shelf. Something small and rectangular was screwed into the wood. She got up and went to the kitchen for a flashlight.

  Back on the floor, she shined the light on the rectangle. It consisted of six cylinders, side by side. She tried to turn one, but it was so small, she turned three. Using the tip of a fingernail, she managed to turn just one. It had ten sides. Each side contained a number from zero to nine. She scrunched her mouth, deep in thought. It was an odd place for a combination lock, if that’s what it was. What did it open? What was the combination? Six cylinders.

  “Ah.” Carefully, she turned the first one to zero, the second to two, the third to one, the fourth to zero, the fifth to eight, and the sixth to seven. She heard a soft click. The bookcase moved back, slowly, silently.

  She scrambled to her feet. No longer flush with the wall, the bookcase had left a space three feet wide. Her heart beat faster and she turned the flashlight so it would shine into the space. It was a room! She felt for a light switch and found it. Flipping it up, the space filled with light. She entered the room and stood amazed as she took it all in.

  She estimated it was about eight by ten. There was a small desk in the middle with a straight-backed chair. Boxes lay haphazardly on the floor. Some were labeled. Most were not.

  “What the hell is this, Dad?” She’d be willing to bet not another soul besides Gerald—and now her—knew about this room. What had
he used it for? She had to look in the boxes, but where to start?

  She counted. There were twelve boxes in all, four of them labeled. The labels were hastily scribbled and appeared to be dates. She opened the earliest one: 1955-65. The paper on top was a newspaper birth announcement of one Gerald Orville Avidon, weight five pounds four ounces, born January 25, 1955. Underneath that was a handwritten letter.

  Dear Orville and Carol,

  Thanks for the picture of the boy. He’s a small one, but he’ll grow. I made these booties for him. You take good care of him and tell him some day when he’s older his grams is thinking of him, even if she can’t come visit.

  Love to you all,

  Mother

  Wow, my great-grandmother. I wonder why she couldn’t visit. Did Daddy ever see her?

  Next came a few black-and-white photos, probably of her grandparents and her father at different ages in his early life. She looked at them closely. She sure didn’t look like the Avidon side of the family. The thought occurred to her that maybe it was here she would find pictures of her mother.

  The next item she picked up was an obituary of her grandmother. Her father was six at the time. “Oh, Daddy, how awful.” Something was written on the back and had bled through the paper. Sympathy turned to shock when she turned the piece over. Written in the unmistakable tentative scrawl of a child were the words GOOD RIDDENS.

  What could have turned a child of six into someone who would feel like that about his own mother? Had she abused him? No wonder he kept these boxes hidden away. She felt compelled to continue going through them, even though now she was no longer sure she wanted to.

  The other boxes with dates were a miniature and somewhat disjointed picture of her father’s childhood. Report cards—he was consistently an A student—handwritten essays from high school she promised herself to read one day soon, photos much like the ones of her in the salon. And like hers, probably taken at school once a year. It seemed as though the Avidon family wasn’t much on everyday snapshots, unless there were more in the remaining boxes.

  One box contained two cat eye marbles, one red and one green. They sat like paperweights atop a notebook. She opened it. Her father’s childish scrawl had morphed as he got older into the strong, deliberate handwriting she knew so well. A page halfway through the notebook had a title that read, The Fine Art of Murder by Gerald Avidon. She thought it was a school assignment because he had dated it. He would have been sixteen at the time. She skimmed the first few pages, growing more and more horrified as she read. This was no school assignment. It was a “how to” book. When he was sixteen? Was he already killing people or just daydreaming? He had certainly given the subject an inordinate amount of thought.

  “My God, Daddy. Did I ever know you at all?”

  The last dated box was 1973. She found a card wishing him a happy eighteenth birthday from Aunt Velma and his high school diploma. That was all. She looked at the envelope the card came in. The address was in Maryland. He’d never mentioned an aunt, but she must have meant something to him if he kept the card.

  She wrote down Aunt Velma’s name and address, returned the card to the box, put the lids back on the four boxes, and stacked them in one corner.

  She chose another box at random. Sure enough, it was full of photos. All of them were in black and white, but she didn’t need color to imagine the red. Animals large and small, shot dead, blood pooled around their supine bodies. What was she looking at? Apparently, her father liked to hunt, but why take pictures of his kills? Trophies? A way to reminisce when he was bored? She half expected to find a photo of a human body and was relieved when she didn’t. However, there were still seven boxes to go.

  She was tempted to burn everything and not even look in the rest of the boxes but knew she wouldn’t.

  The sixth box was full of legal-looking contracts. She picked up the first one. It was signed in 1977. Her father was twenty-two. His first contract as a hit man? She could barely register the words through teary eyes. God in heaven, he was hired to kill a mafia don by a rival mafia don. It had to be that because both names were Italian. A photo was stapled to the contract. To her it looked just like her idea of what the head of the mafia would look like, thinking of pictures she’d seen in newspapers and books of infamous Mafiosos. She thumbed through each one. They were in date order and all were contracts to murder someone. All had a picture of the victim attached to the front. As she picked up the last one, she froze. A newspaper article lay by itself at the bottom of the box—the same newspaper article given to her by that reporter, Mike Branson, only this one had the name of the paper, The Brisbane Clarion and the date: February 10, 1987.

  Her thoughts fell all over themselves trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Why was this murder so important to her father that he had written it down and used it as the combination to his secret room? Since it wasn’t attached to a contract, it didn’t appear as though the killing was his work. And yet, there was the note from Mel Chaber specifically referring to that date, and the gift of the pen. Had her father murdered this Markham family? For Mel Chaber or Chaber Pharmaceuticals? Where did Mike Branson fit into this?

  There were two things she could do to get answers. One was to contact Branson to see what he knew, and the other was to find out if her father’s Aunt Velma was still living.

  She left the room, wondering how to close it back up, but the bookcase slid into place as she exited, undoubtedly hooked up to some kind of sensor that knew when the room was empty of warm bodies. She intended to go back and open the rest of the boxes, but she’d had enough surprises for one day.

  Chapter 17

  Laurel placed a call to Mike Branson at the phone number on his business card. She got his voice mail and left a message. Next she called Information and asked for the number of Velma Patterson in Brisbane, Maryland. To her surprise, it was listed.

  She drummed her fingers on her computer table. Should I call Velma? What will I say to her? She checked her watch. It was just after six. Nine, Velma’s time. Would she still be up or go to bed early? She decided to take a chance. She couldn’t wait to speak with her only known relative.

  A woman answered the phone. Laurel thought she sounded tentative. She probably had caller ID and was puzzled by the Avidon name.

  “Velma Patterson?”

  “Yes? Is this Gerald’s wife?”

  Wife? So he had been married to my mother.

  “Ms. Patterson, this is Laurel Avidon. Gerald’s daughter.”

  There was silence on the line. Laurel wondered if Velma had hung up. Finally Laurel heard a loud cough.

  “His daughter? I didn’t know he had a daughter. Is he all right?”

  “He passed away from cancer a few weeks ago. I would have called sooner, but I didn’t know about you until I was going through his things. I found a birthday card you sent him.”

  “Poor Gerald.” She sounded tearful. “It’s been more than thirty years. I lost track of him.”

  Laurel could imagine an older woman sitting alone in a house full of doilies, overstuffed furniture, and cats. She knew that was unfair. “So you never knew he married and had a child?”

  “No. I would love to meet you. Are you nearby?”

  “I live in California, but I would love to meet you, too. I could fly back tomorrow if that’s convenient.”

  Dylan and Josh were in a bar and grill in D.C. for lunch. They had just polished off some barbecued ribs and a couple of beers each.

  “It’s nice to be back in circulation, even for a short time,” Dylan said.

  Their server brought another round. Josh waited until she left before answering.

  “So you don’t miss sunny California?”

  “Doesn’t matter whether I do or not. I’m going back anyway.”

  “Bet you were pissed when they told you your assignment hadn’t changed.”

  “I wasn’t surprised. I’m sure Gerald had a hand in it. He isn’t a trusting man and I can imagine he was
ready to fly home when he found out Laurel had kicked me out.”

  Josh looked at the dessert menu. “How’s she going to feel to see you back?”

  Dylan picked up his beer and took a swallow. Good question. I can’t pretend I’m unhappy about how things turned out. “Who knows?”

  His cell phone vibrated. He looked at it and stood. “Gotta take this. Be right back.” He went to the alley behind the bar where it was quiet.

  “Kraft.”

  “Bayleaf is heading your way.”

  “What?”

  “She lands at Dulles about 18:30.”

  “What the hell is she doing?”

  “We aren’t sure. She has a rental car waiting at the airport and a reservation at the Sunset Motel in Brisbane, Maryland.”

  “What’s there?”

  “Avidon’s aunt. Velma Patterson.”

  “I didn’t know he had an aunt.”

  “Neither did we until Bayleaf started using her credit cards. It took a little research, but we came up with a Velma Patterson, nee Avidon, in Brisbane. Would you have any idea why Bayleaf wants to see her?”

  “Not a clue, but it’s possible she’s known about the aunt all along and wanted to tell her about Gerald.”

  “That’s what phones are for. Why fly clear across the country?”

  “Why not? She can afford it.” Dylan watched two young men in the darkest part of the alley. He could tell a drug deal was going down.

  “I’ll check out Brisbane.” He shut his phone and sauntered toward the two men. They hightailed it out of the alley. You’re lucky I have something more important to take care of tonight. He thought about tipping off the cops, but knew the guys were long gone and they’d been too far away to get a good description.