by Susan Fleet
She left the Interstate at Exit 11, paid the toll and drove to the gun shop. According to the website, Gerry’s Sport Shop sold firearms, ammunition and accessories of all kinds. The store had 1500 new and used guns in stock, and a wheelchair ramp for the disabled. She didn’t expect any problems. Buying a .38 Special at the gun show in Nashua last year had been easy. Anyone over 21 could buy a handgun in New Hampshire, as long as they hadn’t been convicted of felony or a crime of domestic violence. That let her out.
A mile down the road she pulled into a gravel parking lot in front of a one-story building with redwood siding. Gerry's Sport Shop looked like a well-fortified log cabin. Iron bars protected two small windows. A wheelchair ramp led to the front door. She parked several yards away from a battered green SUV. The only other vehicle, a Ford-250 pickup with Harley-Davidson decals on the rear window, stood at the rear of the store, shaded by pine trees. The owner’s truck, she assumed.
A bell dinged as she entered the store. The odor of gun oil permeated the shop. Twenty feet ahead of her, a man with an eye patch stood behind a waist-high counter talking to a customer in a red-plaid shirt. Behind the counter, dozens of cubbies held boxes of ammunition. Engrossed in conversation, the men ignored her. Good. She'd make her move after the buyer left the store. The fewer witnesses the better.
Along the wall to her right, rifles and shotguns stood butt down in wooden racks, their muzzles resting in grooves to separate them. She went to a six-foot-long glass display case on the opposite wall and pretended to look at the handguns with red price tags dangling from their triggers.
Ten minutes later, the man in the plaid shirt left with a double-barreled shotgun and two boxes of ammunition.
“Help you with something, Missy?” called the owner.
She went to the counter. The man stank of cigarette smoke, and a black patch covered his left eye. “I’d like to buy a handgun.”
“You licensed to drive in this state?” he asked, glowering at her as if she were a criminal.
“Yes.”
He held out his hand. “Lemme see.”
She took the license out of her wallet, conscious of his breathing, sucking air through the dark hairs sprouting from his nostrils. He held the license close to his good eye, frowning as he examined it. “Okay, DOB makes you over 21 so we got that over with. Ever been convicted of a felony?”
“No.” Going for humor, she added, “Never been convicted of a domestic violence charge, either.”
“Look here, Missy! Men ain’t the only ones beat on their spouses. Women do, too.”
So much for humor. “I’d like to buy a handgun—”
“Hold it.” His visible eye bored into her like a laser beam from hell. “No use telling me what ya want till I check to see if I can sell it to ya. State law requires me to do a background check. Hold on while I go out back. Don’t touch nothing while I’m gone. I got video cameras all over the store.”
The words hit her like a shotgun blast. Video cameras recording her clearly-visible face, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, no sunglasses.
“You don’t behave, Beauty’ll take care of ya, ain’t that right, Beauty?”
A low menacing rumble made her neck hairs stand up.
Behind the counter, a huge German shepherd rose to its feet, fixed its yellow eyes on her and drew back its lips in a snarl.
She tried to swallow. Couldn't. Her mouth felt like sawdust.
The owner smiled, revealing pointy yellow teeth. “Beauty won’t do you no harm, long as you don’t touch nothing.” He opened a reinforced steel door beside the counter and disappeared.
Her heart pounded so hard she feared the dog would hear it and attack her. Dogs could smell fear. She took several deep breaths, trying to calm her racing heart. Hoping to hide her face from the security camera, she slowly squattedno sudden movesand pretended to look at the hunting knives in the display case below the counter.
A menacing rumble came from the dog. Her legs trembled. Using every ounce of her willpower, she maintained her squat. But why bother? If a security camera was behind the counter, it had already recorded her face. Her mind scrabbled for a solution. How could she think when every fiber of her being was focused on the dog? And what it might do to her. With people, she felt confident her taekwondo moves would save her in dangerous situations, but they would be useless against a trained attack dog.
Beauty’s sharp fangs and menacing snarl effectively imprisoned her.
She extended her arm to expose the wristwatch under the sleeve of her jacket and checked the time. What was taking so long? What was he doing back there? Where was the security camera? Correction. Cameras. The store probably had several. She cursed her stupidity. Fearing she might look suspicious, she had left her Raybans in the car.
Two endless minutes passed. She imagined the dog's powerful jaws clamped on her arm, saw its sharp fangs pierce her skin, visualized those fangs clamped on her throat and her blood spurting over the floor. Her leg muscles ached, trembling with the effort to maintain her squat. She tucked her chin to her chest, eased to her feet and flexed her legs.
Another menacing snarl. The dog impaled her with its baleful yellow eyes.
She was desperate to leave but too terrified to move. If she did, the dog might attack. Not only that, the owner had her driver’s license. Panic sat on her chest like a Mack truck. Frozen in place, she focused on her breathing, shallow breaths in and out. It didn't help.
Another agonizing minute passed. At last, clutching her license in his ham-like fist, One-Eye returned and trained his good eye on her.
“You bought a handgun at a gun show in Nashua last year. What happened to that one?”
“My boyfriend stole it.”
“Yeah," he snorted, "and my mother’s the Queen of England.”
Picking up on his master's belligerent tone, the dog resumed its menacing low-throated rumble.
“He did! Last week we had an argument and the next day while I was at work he stole my gun. I’m afraid he’ll come back and kill me!” She didn’t have to feign fear. She felt like a gigantic hand was squeezing her chest.
“He live with you?” One-Eye ostentatiously examined her license, looked up and said, “Robin.”
“No, but he has a key. I changed the locks, but I’m afraid he’ll come back and break down the door.”
“You got a license to carry?”
“No.” New Hampshire gun owners weren’t required to register them, but anyone intending to conceal a loaded gun on their person or in a vehicle needed a license to carry. This year she’d done both, without a license to carry, and she had no intention of applying for one. To get it, she would have to submit an application to the police. No way was she giving information about Robin Adair to the cops.
“You know how to shoot?” he asked, curling his lip in a sneer.
I can shoot well enough to kill someone and you might be next.
“I go to a gun range once a week.”
“What kinda gun you lookin to buy?”
“A .38 Special, like the one my boyfriend stole.”
His implacable one-eyed stare bored into her.
The silence lengthened.
She wanted to kill him, might have if she’d had a gun in her hand. But then the dog would attack, and she would have to kill it, a major violation of her Veneration of Nature code.
A fulminating fury rose inside her. There were other places to buy a gun. She held out her hand. “Give me my license. If you don’t want to sell me a gun, I’ll go somewhere else.”
“Heh, heh, heh,” One-Eye chuckled, showing his pointy yellow teeth. “Don’t get excited. I got just the gun you want right over here. Beauty, stay!”
The dog sat, eyeing her with its menacing yellow eyes. The owner went to the display case with the handguns, unlocked it and took out a .38 Special. Ten minutes later she left the stop minus 400 dollars and a 13-ounce Smith & Wesson 637 Airweight .38 Special with a stubby barrel in her handbag. Unl
oaded.
She didn’t need more ammunition. The box in her apartment was almost full and it would only take one bullet to kill her target.
_____
New Orleans
Seated at his desk in the Homicide office, Frank opened the case file on Jeanette Brixton, murdered October 20, 1988. The crime scene photos were brutal, blood-matted hair, gobs of blood on her face, her lips pulled back in a grimace, her eyes bulging. Even so, she was clearly an attractive woman.
He wished she was still alive so he could talk to her. What had driven her to become a prostitute? Was that the only way she could support herself and her daughter? Did she take Natalie out for ice cream, take her to movies? Did Natalie know her mother was a prostitute? He hated to judge the woman, but couldn't she have found another way to support herself? Apparently not. And even if Jeanette Brixton was a prostitute, she didn't deserve to be murdered.
He skimmed the autopsy report. Cause of death: manual strangulation. Deep bruises but no identifiable prints on her neck. He flipped pages, searching for Jane Fontenot's notes. Most cold case files contained the lead detective's notes, but not this one. Nothing to indicate what Jane's take on the case was. Another dead end.
He slammed the folder down on his desk. Jane wouldn't be back from Africa until August 12th. Today was July 30.
Thirteen days. An eternity.
He didn't know if there was a connection between the death of Jeanette Brixton in 1988 and the murders of Arnold Peterson and Tex Conroy last week, but one thing was certain.
The pressure to solve those cases was only going to get worse.
_____
Portsmouth, NH 6:45 PM
Shaken by her experience at the gun shop, she sought solace at The Press Room, a popular hangout in downtown Portsmouth. She slid onto a bar stool and the bartender came over, mid-twenties and energetic with a full dark beard and a friendly smile. "Hi! What can I get for you?"
“A glass of your house red, please. Will there be live jazz tonight?”
“Not tonight, but we got a great sound system. That's McCoy Tyner playing now.” Moving with practiced speed, he grabbed a bottle, poured wine in a glass and set it in front of her. “Want to run a tab?”
“No, thanks. I’ll just have one.” After her ordeal with One-Eye she'd been desperate for some live jazz to calm her nerves, not a McCoy Tyner CD playing over a sound system.
“Suit yourself.” He set the slip down and moved along the bar to chat with two college students in T-shirts with UNH stenciled on them.
She tried the wine. Not bad, but nothing like the wines she was accustomed to in Paris. She set the glass on the cocktail napkin, pleased that her hand wasn't trembling. Her legs no longer felt weak and rubbery either, but she was still cursing her stupidity. Why hadn't she disguised her face?
But last year when she’d bought the gun at the Nashua gun show, there were hundreds of people milling around. No attack dogs, no security cameras. And breaking into Gerry's Sport Shop to steal the videotapes wasn't an option. Before she left, One-Eye had said: “Beauty sleeps here. Anybody breaks in, she’ll rip their throat out.”
Traumatized by Beauty's ferocious snarl, sharp fangs and menacing eyes, she had driven to Hampton Beach, seeking solace from the sea. The beach was crowded, sun-lovers of all ages enjoying the fine summer day, frolicking in the surf. The ocean breeze and the salt-water scent had soothed her.
But now her fears had returned.
One-Eye knew she’d bought a gun in Nashua last year, which meant there was a record of it. And by now the NOPD would know that Tex and Arnold Peterson were shot with the same gun. She'd dumped that gun in Lake Pontchartrain, but what if Beady-Eyes found it? And this morning Hurricane Gail had dominated the news on NOLA.com. Another worry.
She flinched as "Agitation" came over the sound system, Miles Davis spewing notes into the stratosphere. She knew it well. Willem adored Miles, saying he was a musical magician. Willem wove his own brand of magic.
On the verge of weeping, she massaged her temples and assessed the damages. Robin Adair’s face had been captured on a security video while buying a gun, but so what? One-Eye probably recycled the tapes. Next week her face would be replaced by someone else’s. Even if he saved all the tapes, why would anyone look for her in a gun shop in Hookset, New Hampshire?
The bartender interrupted her litany of worries. “How’s the wine? Would you like another glass?”
Startled, she saw that her glass was almost empty. “No, thanks.” She paid the tab and surveyed the room. The bar was far more crowded now than before. A slow-burn of acid churned her stomach. The gun buy had gone badly because of her sloppy preparation. From now on, she would take more care with her research and stay aware of her surroundings.
Music sabotaged her resolve.
Miles Davis playing "The Maids of Cadiz."
The haunting ballad brought tears to her eyes. And memories of Willem. She pictured his craggy face. They could have been so happy. Unwilling to cry, she dug her nails into her palms. She had shed too many tears over Willem, and this was no time to think about the past. She had to focus on her target.
She left the Press Room and went to her car. Her spirits lifted. The air smelled fresh and clean, and the .38 Special was locked in the trunk. She had bought it for one purpose. To avenge her mother. Three weeks from now she would.
Then she could get on with her life.
Memories of Oliver swirled in her mind like wisps of smoke: his sexy smile, his seductive gaze, his intoxicating scent. She got in the Honda, took out his card and punched his number into her cell. After one ring he answered in his sexy low-pitched voice.
“Hi Oliver, this is Robin Adair.”
“Robin! I’m so glad you called. Are you in Boston?”
“No, Portsmouth, New Hampshire, staying with friends.”
“Any chance you can come to Boston Friday so we can have dinner?”
Her body tingled, a delicious hint of the sexual arousal to come.
“I think that could be arranged.”
CHAPTER 14
Friday, 1 August
“Sorry I didn’t have these for you sooner,” Monica said, brushing frizzy carrot-colored hair away from her face. “It’s the hurricane. Three of my clients called yesterday wanting to pick up their orders early.”
Cursing the storm, Frank nodded, as though it wasn't a big deal, but Vobitch was pissed. He'd wanted to publish them yesterday. "It’s only two o’clock and traffic’s already crazy. The gas stations are mobbed, everybody topping off in case the mayor orders an evacuation.”
“The supermarkets are worse. Everyone’s stocking up on bottled water and non-perishable food. Even if there’s an evacuation a lot of people won’t leave. They’ll just hunker down and ride it out.”
The odor of printer’s ink and paste-up glue filled Monica's first-floor studio. She was the graphic artist NOPD hired to do their composite sketches. Her shop was on Frenchman Street near the French Quarter.
“How about you? Are you leaving?”
“I doubt it. This place is on fairly high ground. I don’t want looters to come in and trash the place.” She went to a gun-metal gray desk in the corner, opened a folder and showed him a computer printout.
He studied the sketch. It was based on Natalie Brixton’s yearbook photo but altered to what she might look like at age 30. Monica had made her face thinner to highlight her well-defined cheekbones and altered her mouth. Unlike the photo, Natalie wasn't smiling. The image was striking.
“Great job.” He'd love to compare it to the video, but the hat brim and dark glasses had hidden the woman's face.
Monica gave him another sketch. “I did a three-quarter view to show her profile.”
“Excellent!” Natalie’s chiseled jaw and slender nose were clearly visible.
“I did another one," she said, hesitantly handing him another printout. "I don’t know if you’ll like it.”
He stared at it, amazed. Monica had a
dded sunglasses to the first likeness. Now it looked eerily like the woman in the video. He’d shown Monica a still from it but warned her not to talk about it. Over the years, he’d found her to be trustworthy. He hadn’t said where he got the still, but Monica watched TV and read the newspaper. She knew he was working the Peterson case.
“This is perfect!” he said. “Great idea.”
Monica beamed. “That’s what my clients pay me for, Frank. Great ideas.”
“You got an invoice? I want to get these on the early news.”
“I only put two on the invoice. I wasn’t sure you’d want the other one.”
“I want it. Can you print an invoice for all three?”
“Sure.” She sat down at her computer and got to work.
While she redid the invoice he wandered the shop. Colorful brochures, company logos, letterheads and poster board signs hung on the walls. One had a red arrow at the top that pointed both left and right. Below it, red letters said: Parking for Italians Only. He’d seen such signs in Boston’s North End, an Italian neighborhood where old women sat on stoops chattering in Italian and white-haired men played bocce in Paul Revere Park. The mobsters hung out at Café Pompeii, plotting their dirty deeds over cups of espresso. But most of them were in jail now, and gentrification had brought more affluent residents.
Monica gave him the invoice. He thanked her, got in his car and called Vobitch. “I just picked up three sketches from Monica. They’re great.”
“About time,” Vobitch growled. “This fuckin hurricane is headed right at us. Bring ‘em in so I can fax ‘em to the TV stations.”
“You think the mayor will order an evacuation?”
“Hell if I know. The TV stations are running a crawl line about the mayor’s news conference at three. If he mandates an evacuation, the sketches won’t be worth shit. Only thing you'll see on TV will be the mayor and live shots of stalled traffic on the Interstate. Even if they run the sketch, nobody'll see it. Most people have already left.”
