Mark did not hesitate. He dropped to the pavement, grasped the Glock, and fired two shots from his prone position. The two kidnappers fell, dead. There were more screams from bystanders, and their increased panic moved them further away from the scene of death. The girl had almost collapsed with her assailant; she struggled upright and regained her footing. She rushed to the body beside Mark.
“It’s Fergo. He’s my bodyguard,” she explained. She brushed away tears as she held the fallen man’s hand. She tried, without success, to find a pulse.
“Emergency vehicles and police will be on the way,” said Mark. He was now standing. He wiped the Glock carefully with his handkerchief. When he completed that task, he placed the weapon beside the bodyguard, almost exactly where it had originally fallen. “You’re not hurt?”
“No, I’m OK,” the girl said, standing to look at Mark. “Thank—thank you.” She now was crying, tears in full flow.
“I have a meeting I must go to,” said Mark. He reached out to comfort her. He thought there were bruises already forming on her arms. “Your attackers won’t bother you anymore.” He held the young woman, trying to calm her fears. He awkwardly patted her head. “You have someone you can call?”
The girl protested. “Oh, yes. But—don’t leave me, please.” She clung on to Mark, pressing her head into his shoulder. He experienced a wave of lavender.
“Tell the police it was a man in his fifties, bald.” He was not sure the words penetrated, that the girl understood his intention. He could hear police sirens dopplering their approach. “You’ll be all right, now. I have to go. Remember, it was an older man, bald.” He pushed the girl back and looked into her eyes. “I really need to go.” He smiled his reassurance as he released her.
Mark turned and walked away, the move so sudden that no one interfered. Most of the bystanders, in their panic to scatter away from the armed and struggling kidnappers, had not even realized what had happened. There would be numerous conflicting eyewitness reports, thought Mark, and the lack of fingerprints on the bodyguard’s weapon would worry the investigators. He was fortunate the man had carried a Glock; it was a weapon he had used before. He hoped there had been no street cameras, and that none of the bystanders had videoed the struggle.
An hour later he was in his small apartment, watching CBS Boston on his television set. He had decided to defer his exploration of Harvard—he would do that another day. For now, he needed a sanctuary, somewhere familiar, where he could feel safe. The television station was running a live news report from downtown Boston. The news anchor was exchanging possible interpretations of the afternoon’s events with one of the stations reporters, who was standing in front of the bank where Mark had his account.
“Yes, Alice, I confirmed the identity of the young woman. Her father is well-known, of course. He is the major shareholder in one of Boston’s largest software companies. His daughter was taken by ambulance to hospital. I understand she’s now home, under the care of her personal doctor. We’ve been advised that no interviews will be permitted.”
“Do you have a clearer idea of what actually happened?”
“There are conflicting stories, Alice. The young woman’s bodyguard is dead, and so are two would-be kidnappers. Boston’s finest have promised an update at 7 pm. I interviewed an eyewitness earlier, and perhaps you can cut to that tape—?”
“Yes, Sherilee. Here’s your earlier interview.”
The studio team inserted a short clip of Sherilee interviewing a bystander.
“This is Manuel Long. Manuel was waiting for a bus just along from the bank when this all happened. Tell me, Manuel, what you saw.”
“Yes, ma’am. The bad guys grabbed the girl and tried to get her into their auto. She was strugglin’ and screamin’, makin’ a lot of noise. They shot the other guy and he shot back. They all dead, now.”
“No one else was involved?”
“No, ma’am. I didn’t see no one else.”
“Thank you, Manuel. Now back to the studio.”
“Thank you, Sherilee. There are other reports, of a mystery man, of someone apparently comforting the young woman. Watch our 6 pm news for an update.”
Mark switched off the television. He was perturbed. His spontaneous reaction this afternoon had possibly created a situation which he had taken pains to avoid. He had generally managed to stay below the radar these last few months, undetected, he hoped, either by law enforcement or by anyone else who might be searching for him. As long as no one had managed to take a video of today’s event, as long as the young woman acted on his suggestion to say her helper had been an older man, he was probably safe. He planned to stay in his apartment for a few days, to keep a low profile, at least until the media found another newsworthy item to focus on.
~~~
Schmidt was helping Special Agent MayAnn Freewell, one of the FBI’s rising stars, to complete her final report on her investigation of a paramilitary raid on LifeLong, a genetic engineering laboratory. Her office desk was cluttered with folders and papers. She was more than ready to hand over all her reports and indeed, everything the investigation team had gathered, to the prosecuting attorneys. Most of the major offenders involved in the crimes had been killed, either in commission of their various offenses, or at the hands of other gang members, except for a number of rogue CIA agents. Her remaining responsibility was to ensure the files clearly described all those events as well as support the remaining prosecutions. After Schmidt’s arrival had interrupted MayAnn’s work, they watched an internal video news report relayed from the Boston FBI office.
“Interesting,” said MayAnn. “Both kidnappers shot, in the forehead, right in the center. Two shots, two hits. With a Glock. The technique reminds me of someone.”
“The weapon belonged to the bodyguard,” reminded Schmidt. “The trajectory of each of the two bullets was from ground level, from precisely the fallen bodyguard’s position. However, the medical report states the bodyguard was dead when he hit the pavement. There’s no way he could’ve fired off his weapon, under that circumstance, with that accuracy. Always assuming the ME is correct.”
“You know a lot about this attempted kidnapping?”
“I know the girl’s father. We’re both investors in a small electronics manufacturer.”
MayAnn shook her head. “You continue to surprise me. Eavesdropping devices, I assume?”
“How did you guess?”
MayAnn ignored the question. She would explore this new facet of Schmidt, later. “Seriously, do you think it might’ve been our young friend?”
“Intuition, only. No proof. There were no cameras focused on that part of the street, which might be why the kidnap attempt was staged there. The circumstances—rapid fire, remarkable accuracy, both kidnappers killed, use of a Glock—I know, it belonged to the bodyguard—and then disappearance. It is a match.”
“Of course, if he killed two kidnappers in order to save the victim, while their crime was in progress, we can only thank him,” said MayAnn.
“You sound cynical?”
“Tired, perhaps. I need a holiday—I’ve been on this LifeLong case for six solid months. Not like some, who’ve managed to take time away.”
“I have other demands to cope with,” defended Schmidt. “Once you had this under control—.”
“I know. I know. As I said, I’m tired. I need time off, I suspect. And while the perps are almost all accounted for, there’s still a deep hole in our investigation.”
“Two, actually,” corrected Schmidt.
“Three, if I can still count. One—who killed the rogue CIA agents at Cherry Hill? Two—who deleted records of one of our key witnesses from FBI computer systems? And finally, item number three, who raided the safe house, drugged two marshals and removed our witness?” said MayAnn.
“I suspect the answer is common—solve one, and you’ll have the answers for all three.”
“I think you’re right. Of course that does not take me any further towar
ds a solution,” MayAnn sighed. She definitely was tired, this case had exhausted her. “Do you have any idea how the Agency’s progressing with their internal investigations? They must still have major concerns about those deaths at Cherry Hill. Do they know anything we don’t?”
“According to sources—the CIA’s more lost than you are.”
“I feel for them—OK, I know, I’m being cynical again. It’s eight p.m., time to call it a day. What plans do you have for dinner?”
“I thought I would take you to my favorite restaurant—Chez Schmidt. I have a suggestion to discuss.”
“You know how to spoil a girl. Let’s go.” She secured her files, locking them in a security cabinet, collected her jacket, laptop, and handbag, and exited her office.
~~~
After dinner, Schmidt and MayAnn relaxed in the comfortable chairs in Schmidt’s living room. A Miles Davis CD, Quiet Nights, was playing softly in the background. Her companion had poured two glasses of wine and MayAnn turned her glass, watching the subdued light reflections against the red swirls. Schmidt watched her, his gaze intent. MayAnn looked up.
“What? Did I use the wrong knife for my steak?”
“No, not at all. I’m just concerned—you need a rest.”
“You have a suggestion?”
“Now you come to mention it, yes.” There was silence for a while.
“Well—?”
“What? Oh—my suggestion?”
MayAnn threw a cushion at Schmidt.
He caught it and placed it on the corner of his chair. “All right, all right. Why don’t we both take a week off? The Caribbean calls—a friend has offered to lend me his sailing boat. We could sail and explore some of the British Virgin Islands.”
MayAnn’s expression contained an overload of suspicion. “I didn’t know you could sail?”
“Now what’s so difficult about sailing—you just need to know when to drop anchor, and how to make a gin and tonic.”
“Hah—I knew you had an ulterior motive—you want me to be your crew, and your drink steward.” She sipped from her glass. “When do we go?”
“When can you persuade your boss to give you time off?”
“Who, Oliver? He’ll let me go. I’ll tell him we’re working on a case.”
“No, don’t do that.”
MayAnn looked at Schmidt, her eyes regaining their suspicion. “Don’t tell me we’ll be working—?”
“I was going to tell you.” Schmidt sounded defensive. “I was, truly. I just thought I’d get you used to the idea of sailing, first.”
***
Chapter Two
“Hurry up, Mark,” urged the young lady known to all her friends as Sam. She was in Mark’s apartment, waiting for him to finish dressing. He was in his bedroom and Sam was waiting in his small sitting room, which he had organized as a study. There were computer components all over the room. Finally dressed, he presented himself to Sam; he was wearing slacks and a polo shirt, very different to his normal, very casual attire. She nodded approvingly. “Good. Evan and Katrina are waiting for us. We’re all walking. Come on.”
Her brother Evan was Mark’s landlord, and Sam had decided some time shortly after Mark had rented the small apartment that he was her rehabilitation target. She was in her mid-twenties, a year or two older than Mark, and a student at Harvard. He had the impression she was studying for a graduate degree in engineering; however, he was unsure which aspect of engineering she was interested in. Sam was dark-complexioned, reflecting her northern Mediterranean heritage—Mark thought her grandparents were from Spain, and she had a vivacity and zest for life that seemed boundless.
A week earlier Sam had said to Mark. “You have such a boring life. You jog every morning, very early—I’ve seen you coming home. Each week day, you’re at one of your computer classes. In the evenings, you workout at the gym, and the rest of the time you’re stuck in your apartment, playing with your computers—I hate to think what you’re up to. The only difference on weekends is that you’re in your apartment instead of attending a computer class.”
“No, I have Tai Chi on weekends,” defended Mark.
“Pah. I know for a fact there are at least five girls who would immediately say yes, if you asked them for a date—I’ve seen them watching you, drooling—it’s almost embarrassing—while you are working out. So I’m going to make them all jealous, and that’s why you’re coming with me next Saturday evening, to this artist’s exhibition at the Apex Gallery.”
Mark had surrendered, to Evan’s amusement and Sam’s delight. The Apex Gallery was located on Newbury Street in the Back Bay district, where it stood shoulder to shoulder with a dozen or more other galleries. While Mark was not gallery-aware—Sam had described him as a philistine—he had allowed himself to be persuaded to attend. Indeed, with Sam, it was a case of following the path of least resistance.
The gallery was exhibiting the work of a Polish painter and this evening was the formal opening of the exhibition. Mark had been unable to pronounce the man’s name, and was not even confident the artist was male—the first name could be for a woman, for all he knew. He also knew the prices were well outside anything he was willing to pay.
His apartment was on Beacon Street—Evan and Sam had a larger apartment in the same building—and the walk to the gallery in the early evening was relaxing. Evan and his girlfriend walked ahead, while Sam and Mark followed. Sam was like an anxious mother hawk, worried that Mark would turn tail and return to his apartment. At one stage Mark stopped in the middle of the sidewalk; he had a very serious expression on his face.
“What?” asked Sam.
“I’ve just remembered. I forgot to set my alarm, so I’d better go back.”
“No way. You’re coming with me.” Sam grabbed his arm and tugged him along the street. Mark relented, but was unable to stifle his laughter. Sam kept a firm grip on his arm, marching him along.
The gallery owner, a Frenchman, knew both Evan, his partner, and Sam, and welcomed them like long lost friends. He also gushed his welcome to Mark, and assured them all that the artist was absolutely marvelous and paintings the best available from any gallery in either New York or Boston. The gallery was crowded—there were perhaps fifty or more people in attendance. Some of the guests were in more formal dress, while most were dressed as casually as Mark.
Sam twirled around, her skirt flaring. “See, aren’t you glad I made you dress up?”
Mark smiled. He readily admitted to himself his day to day clothes style was at the least mundane, if not downright boring. It also was simple, and easy to maintain. He knew that rationalization would not appeal to Sam, so kept his silence.
“So show me these paintings, young lady. You’ll need to explain them to me, if they are too modernistic. Remember, I’m an art bum.”
“Very well. Let’s follow Evan, he is the real expert.” They each accepted a glass of champagne from one of the gallery staff and then followed behind Evan and Katrina. Mark sipped from the flute as he moved closer to the first painting and examined the descriptive tag. He almost choked.
“What? Ten thousand dollars?” He did not realize he had spoken so loudly and looked around, almost embarrassed.
“Shhh,” admonished Sam. “That’s not expensive for good, collectible work.”
Mark managed to swallow and took another large mouthful of champagne. He stood back and examined the painting—it was an oil paint and wax abstract, a matrix with black and deep red brush strokes and a wax overlay.
“No way,” he said. “That would pay for a month of my computer courses.”
“Philistine,” muttered Sam. Ahead, Mark detected Evan hiding a burst of laughter at their exchange.
The prices increased as they progressed further into the gallery. Small groups of people gathered around the more expensive pieces and Mark was surprised that some paintings already were red-tagged, indicated they had been sold. Evan examined a painting up close and then stood back. He leaned towards Mark and
asked. “What do you think? Would you have something like that in your apartment?”
The painting portrayed an old apartment building in a stage of advanced decay, and the top two floors were on fire, with smoke and flames rising up. Windows on the remaining floors were dark, vacant, except for one, which glowed red. Mark looked at the price and back at Evan. “Are you serious?”
“Oh, yes,” said Evan. “It would provide a counterpoint to the paintings I already have. While I haven’t seen this artist’s work before, I think she has talent. It would be a good investment. And we have some wall space in our living room. Sam, what do you think?”
Mark hide his surprise—the painting was priced at well over fifty-thousand dollars. Evan was an attorney with a well-established law firm, at partner level—so presumably could afford the investment. Mark stood back while Evan and his sister engaged in a discussion; he thought Katrina was somewhat taken aback as well. He drifted along to the next painting and stood, absorbed, trying to comprehend how these works of art could command such high prices. He was oblivious to the other gallery guests until suddenly a voice penetrated his study.
“Daddy, that’s him. That’s the man I told you about.”
Some element in the timbre of the excited voice jarred him, catching his attention. He had heard that voice before, recently. He felt an urgency to remember when and where. Recollection hit him like a blow to his solar plexus. He started to turn towards the speaker and then realized he needed to leave, to get out of the gallery as quickly as he could. He moved towards Sam, keeping his face turned away from the speaker. He purposefully blanked out any further comprehension of what she was saying.
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