by Susan Fleet
“So why'd she kill Conroy? Frank, you hit the jackpot in Pecos. Natalie Brixton knew Conroy. The bullet that killed Conroy came from the same gun that killed Peterson. Why make it complicated?"
Was he? Maybe the woman in the video was Natalie Brixton. But for some reason he didn't want to believe it. She'd had a rough life, but why kill Arnold Peterson? Or Tex Conroy, for that matter?
"What about Fenwick Holt?" he said. "He wants Peterson’s job so he can make the big bucks.”
“Forget Holt. Why kill Peterson if he was gonna get fired because of his gambling problem. Frank, we need a plan. Right now all we got is the woman in the video. Gimme something to feed the fuckin media.”
“I’ll have an artist make a sketch from the Brixton yearbook picture, adjusted for age. You can send it to the newspapers and TV stations, say we’re looking for a person of interest, have 'em call the tip line.”
“I like it." Vobitch jotted notes on a yellow legal pad. "How about you talk to some of the helpful hookers around town, shake that tree for info.”
“Okay.” And after a beat, “Twenty years ago Natalie Brixton’s mother was murdered in New Orleans. October 1988. I checked the files. The case was never solved. Ring any bells?”
“What the fuck! Why didn't you tell me that before?"
Good question. Maybe because he didn't want to believe Natalie was the killer. But he sure did want to solve the case. Then he'd have more time to spend with Kelly. Their romp in the sack last Friday seemed like eons ago.
"Saving the best for last."
"Where'd you get it?"
"Tex Conroy's mother. She heard the mother was a prostitute."
"Murdered prostitutes don't make much of a splash in New Orleans. October of '88? That's before I got here. You think Peterson killed the mother and the daughter popped him for revenge?”
“That's what I thought at first, but Peterson was working in Chicago in 1988. His wife said they got married that year. I want to talk to the lead investigator on the case. Jane Fontenot. You know her?”
“Yeah. Good detective. She retired last year. I’ll give her a call, set up a meet. While you were gone, Miller talked to Conroy’s girlfriend." Vobitch grimaced. "All upset, don't know nothin.”
“Did he find anything in Conroy’s apartment?”
“Nothing helpful, but plenty of beer. Three cases of Bud stacked in the kitchen, a six-pack in the fridge, guy probably drank ‘em while he watched football. Kenyon said there were Dallas Cowboys posters taped to the walls and a foot-high stack of Sports Illustrated magazines in the living room.”
“Conroy doesn’t strike me as the sharpest knife in the drawer.”
“Frank, he was from Texas.”
But not all Texans were dumb, Frank thought. Gabe Rojas was smart enough to run a million-dollar videogame business. Savvy enough to hide whatever he knew about Natalie, including her whereabouts.
“Tex Conroy knew Natalie Brixton,” Vobitch said. “We need to find out if she knew Peterson.”
“Right,” he snapped, irritated. “When I find her, I’ll ask her.”
"Frank, the fuckin DA just threatened me. If we don't solve the Peterson case soon, he'll put someone else on it. I'm fifty-seven. You know what that means? Early retirement. And I'm not ready to retire. Find Natalie Brixton and get her in here."
There was anger in Vobitch's eyes, but also a hint of melancholy. Vobitch lived for the job, and now his job was on the line. Hell, Demaris might be looking to get Frank Renzi fired too.
"I'll do my best," he said.
But he had no clue how to find Natalie Brixton. He still wasn't convinced she was the woman on the video. “Call me after you talk to Jane Fontenot. I’ll get an artist to do a sketch of Natalie."
“Do it quick,” Vobitch said. “They're hyping Hurricane Gail as the Next Big Blow. If the mayor decides to evacuate the city, forget about finding Peterson’s killer. We’ll all be pulling traffic duty.”
_____
Boston 2:30 p.m.
GIRL DIES IN MURDER BUST said the bold front-page headline on a Boston Globe dated November 29, 2000, one of several she had requested from the librarian in the Boston Public Library periodicals room.
Yesterday on NOLA.com she'd read an article about a man found dead in City Park, identified by police as Lawrence “Tex” Conroy. Hinting the cases might be related, it said NOPD Homicide Detective Frank Renzi was the lead investigator on the Conroy case and the Arnold Peterson murder.
She knew what that meant. The cops knew both men had been shot with the same gun. Then the article noted that Renzi had joined NOPD in 2002 after a twenty-year stint with Boston PD. Scary. She was living near Boston.
Renzi might be looking for her in New Orleans, but she had to be careful. Know your enemy. That's why she'd come to the library.
The only other researchers in the periodicals room, two college-age women, sat at a long wooden table four rows ahead of her. Antique lamps with green-glass shades and gold pull-chains stood on each table. She turned hers on and read the article.
Shortly before dawn Boston Police Detectives Franklin Sullivan Renzi and John Albert Warner had gone to a public housing project to execute a warrant for the arrest of Thaddeus “Whacko” Lewis, age 20. Lewis was wanted for the murder of a rival gang leader, Andre “Kingpin” Jackson, on July 4, 2000. Both men were African-American.
What happened next was in dispute.
According to Renzi and Warner, when they entered the apartment Lewis came out of a room at the end of a hallway brandishing an Uzi and began firing. Renzi and Warner returned fire. Investigators collected forty-five bullet casings. In the midst of the firefight, a girl came out of a room mid-way down the hall. Janelle Robinson, age 11, died. Lewis was wounded and taken to a hospital where he later died. Renzi and Warner were unhurt.
A front page story in the next day’s Globe said Renzi and Warner had been put on paid administrative leave while the Boston PD Internal Affairs unit investigated the incident. A sidebar offered conflicting views. Several black ministers commended Boston police for trying to rid the project of drug dealers. Others questioned why more care wasn’t taken to capture a known criminal with a long police record.
The dead girl's mother was outraged.
“Them cops went in there guns blazing and killed my girl,” said Mrs. Robinson. "I'm gonna sue their ass."
She set the paper aside. Eight years ago Detective Frank Renzi had been embroiled in controversy. Was that why he moved to New Orleans?
She leaned back in her chair and gazed at the high arched ceiling. Thanks to her Devotion to Study, she loved libraries. The BPL, as Bostonians called it, had excellent research facilities. Conveniently located in Copley Square, it was near Copley Place, an upscale shopping center with a parking garage. New York had a great library, too. She'd been there many times. She loved the stone lions that guarded the entrance. Mayor Fiorello La Guardia had named them “Patience” and “Fortitude.”
For the last twenty years she had needed plenty of patience and fortitude.
She had chosen birds, not lions, to protect her. Unfortunately, her firebird pendant had betrayed her. But meeting Tex was a fluke. It would never happen again. No one in Pecos knew where she was, not even Gabe, though they’d stayed in touch over the years. She smiled, picturing his mischievous grin, dark-skinned face and almost-black eyes. What did he look like now? she wondered. Now he was married, with two kids.
Twin boys!!! his email had said.
She opened the next item in her stack, a Boston Globe Magazine dated March 2001. Amanda Kondraki, a Globe staffer, had written an in-depth profile of Franklin Sullivan Renzi titled: Good Cop, Bad Cop?
Facing the text were two photos. In one Renzi gazed into the camera with dark smiling eyes. Despite his hawk-like nose, he was undeniably attractive, an angular face, high cheekbones, a sensuous mouth. The other photo was different: hard eyes, a grim slash of a mouth and a jagged scar visible within the dark stubble on
his chin.
She took a surreptitious sip of bottled water, thinking: Who's the real Frank Renzi, the handsome smiling man or the hard-eyed hunter? The profile might not provide the answer, but it might offer some helpful clues.
After an Internal Affairs investigation cleared Renzi and Warner in the November 2000 incident, Renzi resumed working as a homicide detective. Warner retired and moved to Florida to live with his daughter. Kondraki had interviewed one of Warner's friends, who said Warner had been distraught over the girl’s death and the intense scrutiny that followed.
The next two paragraphs contained some eye-openers. The year 2000 had been difficult for Renzi. First his mother died. Then his wife filed for divorce citing adultery, and a bitter court battle followed.
Then came The Incident, as Kondraki termed it, and the resulting public furor. After summarizing what happened, Kondraki inserted several quotes. Renzi’s supervisor, Lieutenant Harrison Flynn, called his work exemplary, saying, “Detective Renzi has the highest clearance rate of any Boston PD homicide detective in the previous ten years.”
That gave her pause. Her hunter-adversary usually got his man.
Then came a quote from Renzi’s father, Appellate Court Judge Salvatore Renzi: “My son did the job he was hired to do, take vicious criminals with no regard for human life off the streets.”
She turned the page and three photos leaped out at her. One filled the left-hand page: Renzi playing basketball on a playground with several black teens. Below it was a quote from Reverend Horace Denton, minister of the Mission Baptist Church where, ironically, Janelle Robinson’s funeral had been held: “Officer Renzi has served the black community well. Without seeking the spotlight, he goes beyond the call of duty, mentoring many of our at-risk youth, especially boys without fathers. Officer Renzi is a fine role model.”
Two photos on the facing page were starkly different. One showed a grim-faced Renzi, besieged by reporters and television cameras, captioned: "BPD Homicide Detective Frank Renzi leaves police headquarters after giving testimony to Internal Affairs."
Beside it was a photo of Janelle Robinson’s mother, captioned: “That man’s a killer. He murdered my girl in cold blood.”
Citing unnamed sources, Kondraki said several police officers believed Janelle Robinson had been romantically involved with the murder suspect, Thaddeus "Whacko" Lewis.
In a brief interview, Kondraki asked Renzi about this, and why he had attended the girl’s funeral. His response: “I don’t know why Janelle Robinson was in the apartment or why she chose to step into the hall at that moment. All I know is she didn’t deserve to die.”
When asked if Janelle Robinson’s mother was a crack addict, he refused to speculate, saying: “Mrs. Robinson is grieving for her daughter.” Noting that Renzi also had a daughter, Kondraki asked about his ugly divorce battle and the adultery charges. At that point Renzi terminated the interview, saying, “My private life is nobody’s business."
Kondraki's conclusion: "Homicide Detective Frank Renzi remains an enigma to many, including his police department colleagues. While many admire his work ethic, they say they don’t know him well. Good cop? Bad cop? You decide."
Good question. She set aside the article. She now knew more about her adversary, but it didn't reassure her. Renzi was an intelligent man, a detective with a high clearance rate. It was clear that he knew the gun that killed Arnold Peterson was also the gun that killed Tex Conroy. How long would it take him to dig up the dirt on Tex?
A chill iced her spine. What if he went to Pecos and found out Tex and Randy were best friends?
That could lead to other, more dangerous discoveries.
CHAPTER 11
At five o'clock she left the library and walked around the corner to the Copley 222, a boutique hotel with a comfortable lounge. Later it would be crowded but it wasn’t now. She loved the ambiance: lush green fern plants in the corners, muted lighting from wall sconces along dark wood-paneled walls. It reminded her of a bar in Paris where she used to go with Willem. But she refused to think about Willem, or lament about what might have been.
Now that she'd done her research, she wanted to relax with a glass of fine wine and plan her moves. A grand piano stood in the corner with its lid closed. At seven, there would be a jazz trio. Too bad she couldn’t stay. She loved jazz, but she had too much to do. In three weeks she would be in New Orleans for the Main Event. Her endless twenty-year journey was almost over.
Vengeance is coming soon, Mom, I promise.
Three singletons—two men and a woman—sat at the square bar in the center of the lounge. Keeping her distance, she slipped onto a padded-leather swivel chair at one corner of bar. The barmaid, a thirtyish woman with spiky blond hair, came over and smiled at her. “What can I get for you?”
“How about a glass of red wine? A good Merlot.”
“The 2003 Estate Merlot from Napa Valley is good. Want to taste it?”
“No, I trust you.” Always make friends with the bartender.
Lori, according to the name-tag pinned to her white shirt.
“I love your glasses,” Lori said.
“Thanks. They’re Vera Wang.” Set in thin silver titanium frames, the rectangular nonprescription lenses made her appear studious, a ploy she used to convince bartenders she wasn’t a hooker.
Lori delivered her wine, waited as she took a sip, smiled when she said it was great and left her alone. She dug a Sharpie and a small notepad out of her tote bag. In tiny printed letters, the kind she used in her diary, she made a list.
1) G, NH. Massachusetts gun laws were far more strict than those in New Hampshire. That’s where she’d bought the .38 Special that now sat at the bottom of Lake Pontchartrain. She needed a new one, but she didn't want to buy it at the same shop. Last night on the Internet she'd found another one in Hookset, New Hampshire.
2) Buy Car/Register in A’s name. After finding the gun shop, she had trolled ebay for reasonably priced late-model cars. She'd saved a substantial amount of money to finance the Main Event, but half of it was gone, and the final part of her mission would be expensive.
April was her last fake ID. But after the Main Event, she wouldn’t need one. Then she could live life as a normal person.
Whatever that was. Her life had never been normal.
She took a sip of wine and relaxed in her chair. She loved being in a bar with people around. Sometimes a deep loneliness welled up inside her, a visceral longing that made her want to talk to someone. She still missed Gabe. Sometimes when she watched TV she even thought about Darren, half-expecting to see him in some sitcom. She never did. And she missed Willem terribly. She had been so certain that would work out.
Resolutely, she banished thoughts of Willem and focused on her target. He often traveled on business, but during the third week of August he would be in New Orleans to open the latest addition to his chain of swanky clubs.
She became aware of a faint masculine scent, a presence near her left elbow. Startled, she glanced at the man, then away.
Lori was already upon him, beaming as she set a cocktail napkin on the bar in front of him. “Hi, Oliver. The usual?”
“Thanks, Lori. That would be great.”
Lori added ice cubes and liquor to a metal shaker. “Rough day?”
The man emitted a low rumble, part laugh, part groan. “Rough doesn’t begin to describe it.” He appeared to notice her for the first time. “I’m sorry. Did I take someone’s chair?”
She sized him up: Mid-thirties, dark curly hair, and a mouth that might be cruel if he wasn’t smiling. No wedding ring, but men often removed them when they went on the prowl. Still, he was attractive and his suit was well-tailored. She hadn’t come here to meet a man, but she wasn’t averse to interesting encounters.
“No. Be my guest. You’ve had a bad day.” Letting him know she had overheard.
Lori set a long-stemmed glass garnished with a cherry in front of him and discreetly moved away.
“Mayb
e it'll improve now that I’ve got my Manhattan,” he said, gazing into her eyes, his obvious but unspoken words being: Now that I’ve met you.
She slipped her pen and notepad into her tote and raised her glass in a mock-toast. “Here’s to a fine evening. My day wasn’t that great either.”
He sipped his Manhattan, regarding her steadily, Azure-blue eyes, like the sky on a calm summer day. Inviting eyes. Sexy.
“Are you visiting or do you live here?”
“Visiting, sort of.” She turned on the seductive smile that men found so alluring and spun him a story. “I’m a freelance writer. This afternoon a woman was supposed to give me the inside scoop for an article.” She paused, aware that he was hanging on her every word. “But she stood me up.”
He brushed her forearm with his fingers, a quick touch that made her body tingle. “How annoying," he said. "There you were, all set to get some crucial information and the woman ruined your day. Sounds a bit like mine.”
“What happened?”
“A man was supposed to authenticate a piece of art for me. The provenance of an artwork can determine whether it’s worth millions or worth nothing,” he explained.
Thanks to the art lessons provided by her Parisian employers, she already knew this. But never mind. “And it was worthless?”
His mouth quirked. “Worse, actually, but let’s not talk about my problems. I want to know more about you.” He hesitated as though he were making a difficult decision. At last he said, “I’m Oliver James.”
She hesitated too. Should she give him her name? She went with her gut. “Robin Adair.”
He took her hand as if it were delicate porcelain china and held it in his. The warmth of his palms against hers felt wonderful. When he let go, she felt as though she’d lost something precious.
“Happy to meet you, Robin Adair, writer extraordinaire. Are you staying here at the hotel?”
She gave a rueful laugh. “No. Too rich for my blood, I'm afraid. I’ve got a room at the Lennox.” She didn’t, but Oliver didn’t need to know that. “This one has a much nicer bar.”
