by Susan Fleet
Frank said nothing. Vobitch was right. In this town, a hurricane in the Gulf trumped everything, including VIP murders, pit-bull politicians and asshole DA's like Roger Demaris.
_____
For her Friday night date with Oliver she wore her favorite silk dress, an Yves St. Laurent with a long skirt, boat neckline and red dragons on a black background. She had banished her worries, for the moment at least.
Time to relax and have fun with an attractive man.
He took her to Ristorante Abate, an Italian restaurant in Boston's North End. When they arrived at seven, the Maître d' greeted Oliver by name and said he had a superb table for two on the second floor.
In the foyer, a well-dressed couple sat at a bar watching a national weather report on TV. Hurricane Gail was a huge orange swirl in the Gulf heading for New Orleans. Pretending to adjust the strap on her shoe, she read the crawl line at the bottom: the New Orleans mayor had ordered a mandatory evacuation. She straightened and smiled at Oliver, but the news darkened her mood. If New Orleans took a major hit from Hurricane Gail, the city might not get back to normal for weeks.
But she’d worry about that tomorrow, along with all the other things she had to worry about.
Their table had a fabulous view of Boston harbor and twinkling lights on buildings along the waterfront. Once they ordered their drinks—a Manhattan for Oliver, red wine for her—she stopped fretting about the hurricane. She wanted to enjoy the company of a man she found enormously attractive. Tonight Oliver had on a charcoal-gray Armani suit—she’d know that tailoring anywhere—and a pastel-blue shirt that favored his sky-blue eyes. He sipped his Manhattan and smiled. “Have you ever been in a hurricane?”
Sometimes it seemed like he could read her mind. Dangerous.
“No, have you?”
“Yes. When you hear about 150-mph winds on TV, it’s just a number, but it’s downright terrifying when you’re in the middle of it.”
“When was this?”
“Years ago, in Barbados.”
“What were you doing in Barbados?”
He did his George Clooney bit, leaning forward and giving her a sexy smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“If I told you," he said quietly, "I'd have to kill you.”
She laughed dutifully, but the comment scared her. He'd said it as a joke, but it might have been a ploy to avoid answering her. She did that sometimes when she didn’t want to deal with inconvenient questions.
“I lived in New Orleans as a kid, but I don’t remember any hurricanes.” Back then hurricanes had been the least of her problems.
“Really?” Oliver said. “I thought you grew up in the Midwest.”
She sipped her wine, buying time to concoct an answer. Why did she say she’d lived in New Orleans? Because for the first time in weeks she was having fun. From now on, she'd think before she opened her mouth.
She was saved by their waiter, who recited the specials.
“I recommend the Zuppetta di Cozzi for the first course," Oliver said. "Sautéed mussels in a garlic and tomato broth. It’s delicious.”
“That sounds wonderful. I love mussels.”
The waiter wrote down their order. While Oliver chose a bottle of wine she glanced around Ristorante Abate. An intimate restaurant, one suited for romance, not business discussions. She wondered when he’d been here, and with whom. A woman, probably.
After the waiter left, Oliver said, “You were about to tell me about where you grew up. New Orleans and the Midwest? Whereabouts?”
In addition to charm and intelligence, Oliver had an excellent memory. She cursed herself for mentioning the Midwest. She’d never been there. “We moved around a lot. One little Midwestern town looks pretty much like another. Where did you grow up?”
He said nothing for a moment. At last he said, “Connecticut until I was ten. Then we moved to Washington, D.C. My father was a low-level diplomat in the Foreign Service.”
“That must have been interesting. Did you travel abroad?”
“No. I didn’t get to Paris until after I graduated from college. Where did you go to college?” He sipped his Manhattan and looked at her expectantly.
Her hands dampened with sweat. All these questions about her past were unnerving. “I didn’t,” she said, truthfully. “My parents had no money. I took a few courses here and there at community colleges. None that you’ve ever heard of, I’m sure.”
"Where did your parents come from?" he asked, smiling at her.
Another question she wasn't prepared to answer.
Again the waiter saved her. After putting a basket of garlic bread on their linen-draped table, he set tureens of steaming soup in front of them. The spicy aroma made her mouth water. The waiter opened their wine and poured a sample for Oliver, who nodded. The waiter filled their glasses and left.
Oliver gestured at her Zuppetta di Cozzi. “I hope you like it.”
“I’m sure I will. It smells fabulous.”
For a time they were silent, enjoying the soup and the warm buttery garlic bread. Finally, Oliver said, “Seen any good films lately? I’m a big movie fan.”
Movies? She'd been far too busy to see movies. She couldn’t even think of a current title. “Not lately. I used to, but now that I’m busy writing ...”
“Let’s compare favorites. What's yours?”
At last, an easy question. “I loved The Full Monty.”
“Hmm. I didn’t see that one. What’s it about?”
“A bunch of unemployed Brits are desperate for money.” She laughed. “So they go and stand in the unemployment line buck-naked.”
“Sounds hilarious. Where’d you see it?”
“I forget.” Next he’d ask who she’d seen it with. That reminded her of Darren and another film they'd seen together. “I liked L.A. Confidential, too.”
“Yes. Kim Basinger was great, but I hated the Hedy Lamar look. Sad movie.”
You have no idea how sad it is to be a prostitute.
“What’s your favorite?” she asked. Make him talk about himself and stop asking questions. But before he could answer, the waiter came to clear their first course. After he swept crumbs off the tablecloth and left, Oliver said, “Last week in New York I saw The Departed. I love Scorsese films.”
“Me too,” she said. “I loved Goodfellas and the Cape Fear remake.”
“You must be into crime,” Oliver said.
Another unnerving statement. He smiled, his eyes dancing with mischief. She decided he was joking. “Isn’t everyone? Crime films, I mean.”
He nodded but his smile was gone. “You’re very feminine, Robin, but you have an aura of toughness about you. Where did that come from, I wonder?”
And you’ll have to keep wondering. She launched into a story about her visit to Monet’s house in Giverny outside Paris, describing the magnificent gardens. That led to a discussion about art and painting that continued throughout dinner. When they finished, Oliver said, “Would you like dessert?”
“No thanks. Everything was delicious, but I couldn’t eat another bite.”
“Good. I was hoping we’d go to my hotel room.” Gazing into her eyes, he caressed her hand. “I want to make love to you.”
_____
Two hours later she lay beside him in his king-sized bed, lulled into satisfied stillness by his lovemaking. Oliver’s foreplay, by turns tender and passionate, had brought her to a shuddering climax. Not only was he an intelligent man and a fine conversationalist, he was a marvelous lover. Her best ever, except for Willem. She wasn’t in love with Oliver, but this had been a wonderful evening, one she desperately needed. For a few hours, she'd been able to relax and forget the heavy burden of responsibility she carried.
He rolled onto his side and caressed her cheek. “You're an amazing woman, Robin. I can’t imagine why some guy hasn’t married you so he can have you all to himself.”
“I could say the same about you. You’re not married, are you?” After this delightful eveni
ng, she didn’t want to find out he was married. Over the past ten years, she'd met enough married men to last a lifetime.
“No, I’m not married. Never got around to it. And you?”
“Same here. I’m still trying to figure out what I’m going to be when I grow up, remember?”
“I remember everything about you, Robin. It’s been ages since I felt this comfortable with a woman. Would you like a drink of water?”
“That would be perfect.”
He went to an alcove where the bathroom was located. Naked, he looked even better than he did in a suit, his body trim and muscular. Moments later she heard the toilet flush. He returned to the bed with two glasses of water. They drank deeply. Then Oliver lay down beside her and pulled her close.
“Tell me about your parents. Are they still living?”
Why did he have to spoil things with all these questions? Questions that brought back bitter memories, long-ago traumas and more recent ones. She caressed his wiry chest hair. “Oliver, my family is not something I care to discuss right now. Not when I’m feeling so relaxed and happy.”
Gazing into her eyes, he caressed her cheek. “Unpleasant memories?”
“Yes." She glanced at the clock radio on the bedside table. Almost one a.m. Time to leave before he skewered her with more questions. "This has been a magnificent evening, Oliver, but I should go now.”
“Really? Why not stay the night? I hate to think of you driving to New Hampshire at this hour."
“I’ll be okay. I need to get back. I have a lot to do tomorrow.” She rose from the bed and began putting on her clothes.
“Working on another article?”
Aware that he was watching her, she said, “Oh, various things.”
Worrisome things that were now at the forefront of her mind. Hurricane Gail and the evacuation. Detective Renzi investigating two murders. Most of all, worries about her target. Was he in New Orleans now or watching the storm from another city in one of his swanky bars?
When she finished dressing, Oliver rose from the bed and came to her. She put her arms around his neck. “I enjoy your company very much, Oliver. Thank you for making this such a wonderful evening.”
He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “The first of many, I hope. How long will you be staying with your friends in New Hampshire?”
“I’m not sure.” She wanted to see him again, but she had to keep her eyes on the prize. The countdown to the Main Event had begun. “I may have to fly to Chicago to wrap up my article.”
“If you do, I hope you’ll call me. Do you have a cell phone?”
He was angling for her number, but she wasn't going to give it to him. “I’ll call you in a few days, I promise.”
He smiled and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “You better. I’ve grown quite fond of you, Robin Adair. If you don’t call me, I might have to track you down.”
Track you down.
The words sent a frisson of fear down her spine.
She brushed his lips with a kiss and left.
CHAPTER 15
Saturday, 2 August 1:15 p.m.
A fine mist blurred the windshield of his squad car, a hint of the deluge Hurricane Gail would bring. Frank tried to get comfortable, but his uniform, which he seldom wore, had a ton of gear strapped to the belt. For more than an hour he'd been parked underneath the Pontchartrain Expressway a block west of Lee's Circle. Traffic was sparse, almost nonexistent.
Most of the evacuees had already gone. The governor of Louisiana had declared a state of emergency and activated 2,000 members of the National Guard. The mayor had announced a dusk-to-dawn curfew. After six o’clock, he'd be flagging down any car not deemed essential. All NOPD officers below supervisory rank were pulling twelve hour shifts. He’d drawn noon to midnight. Kelly had midnight to noon. He wouldn't be seeing her for a while.
A black Ford Explorer barreled down the St. Charles Avenue exit ramp and slewed to a screeching halt at the red light when the driver spotted his cruiser. During evacuations people drove like maniacs, running red lights and gridlocking intersections.
Evacuation of the parishes on the Gulf had begun yesterday, assisted by contraflow lane reversals, outbound-only on all highways going north, east, and west. Unwilling to repeat the Katrina debacle that stranded thousands of residents, the state had mobilized 700 buses to drive evacuees to shelters north of Lake Pontchartrain. Others had been put on trains at the Amtrak station.
The light changed and the black Explorer lurched forward. He eyeballed the driver, a long-haired white male. The guy was probably up to no good, but he wasn’t here to stop suspicious drivers. He was here to make sure traffic didn't get snarled so that any last minute stragglers could evacuate.
A half hour ago Maureen had called. Hearing her voice and her parting wordsLove you, Dad. Be carefulhad gotten him through the first hour of his shift, but now he was bored. He’d forgotten to bring some CDs. No music on the radio, the stations were all-talk, people calling in to bitch about traffic and whatever else was on their mind. Many were angry that tomorrow's Saints game had been moved to Cincinnati. Others were furious that Mississippi Governor Haley Barbour had closed the I-10 east-bound lanes at the Mississippi border. Barbour said he didn’t want Mississippi residents to get stuck on a clogged Interstate. This forced Louisiana evacuees headed east to Georgia and Florida to drive north on I-55. Now I-55 was a parking lot.
His cell buzzed, Vobitch calling him. “What’s doing, Frank?”
“Nothing. I’m parked in a cruiser near Lee’s Circle. What’s happening at the station?”
“Bedlam. Everybody's bitching about something. Did you see the T-P this morning?” T-P was Vobitch’s polite term for the Times-Picayune, his more colorful moniker being fucking local rag.
“I didn’t have time, caught a few winks before I came in for my shift.”
“No sketch in today’s paper. When I called they said they had to cover the hurricane to, and I quote, Serve the needs of the public. Christ, first they crucify us for not solving the Peterson case, then they screw us because of a fucking hurricane. The TV stations ran the sketch at the end of the news, but who’s watching? Everyone’s gone, only ones left are the nogoodnicks and desperadoes.”
“Take it easy, Morgan. After Gail blows through and people come back, we’ll have ‘em run it again. By then people will be paying attention.”
“I hope so. Only thing we got going for us is the Babylon Casino bigshots are more worried about losing money because they’re closed than they are about the Peterson case.”
“Be grateful for small favors,” he said, eyeballing the intersection. “Man, this place is a ghost town.”
“You’ll get some action later. The drug pushers come out after dark like the roaches they are. You don’t think the little maggots desperate for their next fix are gonna evacuate, do you?”
“Probably not. Where’s Juliana? Did she stay or go?”
Twenty years ago, Juliana, a tall willowy black woman, had been a ballet dancer in New York City. One night after a show Vobitch rescued her from a mugger. Not love at first sight, but close. For all his salty language, Vobitch had a cultural side few people saw. One night over a beer, Vobitch told him his parents had fled Russia to escape the pogroms rounding up Jews. His father, a professor of Fine Arts in Russia, was reduced to selling men's clothes at a Manhattan department store. But he'd taken his son to symphony concerts and art museums on a regular basis.
“She decided to stay. She’s stubborn too." Vobitch chuckled. "That’s why we get along.”
He smiled, imagining the spirited debates that enlivened the Vobitch household.
“Nathan’s South is still open. You want a sandwich?”
Vobitch claimed he maintained an office at the Eighth District Station in the Quarter because he wanted to be where the action was. Bullshit. Nathan’s South, which made New York-style deli sandwiches, was two blocks away. They’d named one The Vobitch: pastrami and Swiss on rye
with spicy Dijon mustard and a big dill pickle.
Frank figured Vobitch felt guilty about being in the station while he was out patrolling. “Hell yes. The Vobitch, spicy brown mustard, no tomato. With fries. It might be a while before I see another meal.”
“Okay, I’ll call in the order, bring it over in a half-hour or so.”
He shut his cell and eyeballed the area. No cars and no pedestrians.
But then a skinny black man on a fancy trail bike whipped through the underpass, pedaling like mad, and disappeared down St. Charles Avenue. Fancy bike for such a scruffy-looking guy.
His cell rang and he grabbed it when he saw the ID.
“Hey, Frank, how are things?” Kelly said. "Any problems?"
“Not a one. I'm bored as hell. How bad was your shift last night?”
“You don’t want to know. Why do people turn into idiots when they get in cars?”
“Because they got the idiot genes. Where were you?”
“Slidell. It was chaos, a gazillion people trying to get on I-10 east."
“And couldn’t because the Mississippi governor got the idiot genes, too.”
“He sure did. I don’t know what he was thinking. Instead of getting on a four-lane highway, they had to go north on a two-lane. I hear there's a twenty mile backup on I-55.”
He heard her stifle a yawn. “Better get some sleep. Another long night tonight.”
“I’m going to bed as soon as I hang up.”
Lowering his voice to a sexy murmur, he said, “What are you wearing?”
“Don’t you start, Frank Renzi. I saw Sea of Love, too.”
“Ellen Barkin was great, wasn’t she?”
“Yeah. Walks in a grocery store bare-ass-naked under her trench coat and Al Pacino’s waiting for her in the produce department, squeezing the melons.”
“One of my all-time favorite scenes. So? What have you got on?”
But then his radio handset erupted: Renzi, you still near St. Charles Avenue?
“Hold on,” he said to Kelly, “Dispatch calling.”
He keyed his radio. “Renzi, what’s up?”
