by Susan Fleet
“What’s going on at home? Are you and Greg okay?”
Her eyes grew distant, like she was reliving an unhappy memory. “We were until I got breast cancer. Since then things haven’t been so hot.”
“Such as?” He had an idea, but he didn’t want to say it.
“Bed. Greg’s not so hot to trot these days.”
He traced a finger along her cheek and down her jaw.
“It’s the scar, I guess. He doesn’t . . . he can’t deal with it. We tried to talk about it but . . ." She shrugged. "Before the diagnosis we were talking about having kids. But that’s not something I want to think about right now.”
Kids. He’d never pictured Gina with kids. She was too gung ho about her career. Until she got a birthday present with a bitter twist. He stroked her cheek. “You need to take care of yourself, Gina. That’s the important thing. Make sure you’re healthy and feeling good. Greg needs to understand that.”
What he wanted to say but didn’t: Greg needs to understand that you don’t love a person and when she gets sick decide you don’t want to deal with it.
When she remained silent, he said, “You want me to talk to him?”
She gave him a look: Are you crazy?
“Okay,” he said. “Stupid idea.”
Gina touched his cheek. “You’re just trying to help. I know that.”
“Yeah. You want me to go punch his lights out?”
They dissolved in laughter.
“It’s still fun, isn’t it, Franco.”
“Yes,” he said in a husky voice. Still fun and he wanted her as much as ever. Maybe more.
They were quiet for a while, gazing at the sunset and the ocean.
“Gina, I’d love to”
“You don’t have to say anything. I figure you’ve got somebody else now. Why shouldn’t you? I got married and”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”
Her eyes glistened with tears. “I care about you, too, Franco. You deserve to be happy after what you went through with . . . how’s she doing?”
Meaning his ex-wife. “Panic attacks in the middle of the night every so often. She calls me. I calm her down.”
Gina nodded, then smiled. “How’s Maureen?”
“Great. She's an orthopedic surgeon now, joined a group practice in a Baltimore suburb last year. We’re having lunch at the airport before I leave tomorrow. She's up here visiting her mother.”
He felt a twinge of guilt. Maureen had wanted to have dinner with him tonight, but he’d told her he was busy working a case. All these complicated loyalties were eating him up.
“I wish you’d called me when you got the diagnosis, Gina. You held my hand a few times when I was hurting. After my mother died. The fuckup with the little girl.”
“That’s what friends are for. We were never just lovers, Franco.”
“Right. So next time call me if you’ve got a problem. Call me any time. I want to know how you’re doing.” It took every once of willpower he had not to take her in his arms and say: To hell with dinner, let's go to a hotel.
“I will." Her eyes took on a steely look. "Greg and I will work it out. One way or the other.” Then she smiled, the smile he remembered so well, the smile that said I love you and we’re okay.
“I’m ravenous, Franco. Let’s have dinner.”
_____
Tuesday 12 August
Delectable aromas permeated the Legal Sea Foods inside Terminal B at Logan Airport. The place was busy, not a vacant table anywhere. He and Maureen had claimed two stools at a high table in the corner. His daughter was all grown up now. Looking at her, he felt proud, but sometimes he missed the little girl he used to play catch with and drive to riding lessons and read to at bedtime. She had inherited his build, tall and rangy, but she had Evelyn's green eyes and auburn hair.
She’d changed her hairstyle since he'd last seen her. Now it was shorter, tendrils of hair falling over her ears. A gorgeous young woman devouring her fried clams with gusto.
He was pretending to eat a bowl of fish chowder. Gina's bombshell had killed his appetite. He couldn't stop thinking about her. And how much he loved her. Seeing her had filled him with a terrible feeling of loss, pain that he'd buried for years. Pain that was sharper than ever.
Maureen set her fried clam plate aside and licked her fingers. “Mom wants me to start a medical practice up here, but Jeremy doesn’t want to move. His dental practice is doing great. He just opened a second office.”
Alarm bells clanged in his mind. For three years Jeremy had been her steady boyfriend. Like Maureen, Jeremy was into horses and show jumping. Maybe he'd better go down there and meet the guy.
“But I’m a little worried about Mom.”
Inwardly groaning, he put on his blank face. Mo had voiced her concerns about Evelyn before, saying she should be dating. Not a subject he cared to discuss. He didn’t care whether Evelyn was dating or not. And he didn’t want to talk about his own love life, either. Too complicated. Especially now.
“She’s not paying her bills," Maureen said, gazing at him with troubled eyes. "She showed me a second notice for the real estate taxes on the house.”
“That's crazy! I send her a check twice a month for the taxes and other expenses.” Checks that ate up a considerable amount of his salary.
“I know, Dad. But I think she’s been using it for something else.” Mo gave him a guilty look. “I hope you won’t be mad, but after she went to bed last night I looked through the file cabinet where she keeps her credit card statements and found some of the bills.”
For a moment it shocked him. But even as a child Maureen had been independent and self-reliant. When it came to problem solving, she took after him, not her mother. Evelyn could think of a million reasons why a problem had no solution. So he could fix it.
“And? What did you find?”
“She’s been sending money to some charismatic Catholic group. I found a charge for 300 dollars on last month’s Visa statement. And the one before that and the one before that.”
Acid ate at his gut. Three hundred a month. More than enough to pay the real estate taxes. He popped a Roll Aid and counted to ten. He didn’t begrudge Evelyn the money. She’d been a good mother at least. But damned if he was going to let her piss his money away on charity and get in trouble with the taxes on the house he’d paid for.
“I’ll call her tomorrow. Do me a favor, Mo. Mail me the real estate tax bill and I’ll send them a check.” Seeing relief flit across her face, he squeezed her hand. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this. I’ll handle it.”
But a rising tide of anger swelled inside him. Raised by strait-laced Catholic parents, Evelyn adhered to their ways, attending Mass each Sunday and all the holy days. He believed her strict Catholic upbringing was the cause of their abysmal sexual relationship, which had essentially ended after Maureen was born. He couldn’t recall Evelyn giving big chunks of money to the church before, but now he wasn’t there to pay the bills. Another problem to solve.
His cell phone vibrated against his leg. He checked the Caller IDVobitchand answered.
“Frank,” Vobitch said, “we checked the flights out of the Atlanta airport. June Carson, the mystery woman with the ankle tat, wasn't on any of them. Anything new on your end?”
“Yes. Find out if a Robin Adair flew out of Atlanta during that time period. Focus on flights to Boston. She's the prime suspect in that murder.”
“Robin Adair. Okay, will do. What time do you get back?”
Vobitch sounded edgy, his voice tense and strained. Was DA Demaris pressuring him? “Not till seven-thirty. You want me to come in then?”
“No. Meet me in my office first thing tomorrow.”
Aware that Maureen listening, he said, “How’s the patient?”
“Juliana and I brought her a homemade dinner last night. She’s looking good.” A dry chuckle. “Now that her dad and her brother are gone she can’t wait for you to come back
.”
He smiled. “Good to hear. See you tomorrow.” He closed the phone.
Maureen looked at him expectantly. “A lead on a case?”
“Yes. We’ve got a female suspect with at least two aliases, maybe more.”
“Who’s the patient?”
Trust his daughter to zero in on the one thing he didn’t want to discuss.
“A police officer got shot during the evacuation last week.”
She stared at him, aghast. “That’s awful. On the Weather Channel they said another hurricane might be headed for the Gulf. If there’s another evacuation, you better be careful.”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
But another hurricane was the least of his problems.
Every woman in his life was in crisis: His current lover recovering from a near-fatal gunshot wound; his former lover dealing with breast cancer and an asshole husband; his ex-wife sending money to Catholic charities instead of paying her bills; his daughter seriously involved with a guy in Baltimore.
Meanwhile, a woman he’d never met was roaming the country killing men. And he had no clue where she was or who she might kill next.
CHAPTER 23
Wednesday, 13 August
Seething with anger, he stalked down the hall toward Vobitch's office. Before coming to work he’d called his ex-wife, got sent to voicemail and left a message asking her to call him. Where the hell was she? During the school year Evelyn worked for the local school system, but not in the summer. He wasn’t looking forward to discussing her spending habits, but he wanted to get it over with. When he got to the station, he had a voicemail message from Roger Demaris who wanted to talk to him ASAP. Another unpleasant conversation. Screw that. He'd call Demaris after he talked to Vobitch.
When he entered the office, Vobitch, looking equally aggrieved, gestured at the man in the visitor chair in front of his desk. “CIA agent Clint Hammer. You two have met, right?”
Hammer glowered at him, had a bug up his ass about something. Great. Problems swamping him like waves in a hurricane.
“Yes," he said, taking the visitor chair beside Hammer’s. "In Boston.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the security video?”
“I didn’t think it was relevant to the discussion.” Mimicking Hammer’s reply when he'd asked if Oliver James had ever asked him to investigate his other girlfriends.
“Not relevant? You got a possible suspect on a security video and it’s not relevant?”
Ignoring the irate response, he said to Vobitch. “I got a message from Roger Demaris. Have you talked to him?”
“Not lately,” Vobitch said, steely-eyed and deadpan. “But I got a couple of other interesting calls.”
Interesting calls from some federal agency in Washington, Frank figured, leaning on Vobitch to cooperate with Hammer.
“I'll let you tell Agent Hammer about June Carson." Vobitch said.
“We got a tip from the sketch we ran on the local TV stations and newspapers.” He gave Hammer a pointed look. “The sketches I showed you in Boston. A hotel desk clerk said he was sure the woman in the sketch had stayed at the Sunshine Inn. It's near the French Quarter.”
“He recognized her?” Hammer said eagerly. “She looked like the woman in the sketch?”
“Actually, he said she didn’t. But she had a tat on her ankle. We included that information with the sketches we published.”
“How’d you know she had a tat on her ankle?”
“We spotted it on the security video.”
“Jesus Christ! You didn’t say anything about a tat in Boston. You didn’t think that might be relevant? You didn’t think that might be helpful?”
As though Hammer hadn’t spoken, he said evenly, “The clerk said he saw her driving a maroon Toyota Corolla.”
“We put out a BOLO,” Vobitch said. “Atlanta PD found the car in long-term parking at the airport.”
Visibly angry, Hammer clenched his jaw. “When was this?”
Ignoring the question, Vobitch said, “We checked the flights out of Atlanta for June Carson and got nothing.” His gaze flicked to Frank.
He said nothing. If Vobitch wasn’t going to tell Hammer they were now checking the flights for Robin Adair, he sure as hell wasn’t going to. Fuck Hammer and the CIA.
“Who’s the clerk?” Hammer asked. “I want to talk to him.”
“Rasheed Cooper. I questioned him at length. I doubt he’ll give you anything else."
“Rasheed Cooper.” Hammer frowned. “What’s he, a jungle bunny?”
He saw Vobitch stiffen, new there'd be trouble ahead.
Oblivious, Hammer went on, “You gotta lean on these jungle bunnies or they'll just dick you around.”
In a quiet voice Vobitch said, “Get out of my office.”
Hammer’s head jerked up. “What?”
“Get out. Now.”
The scary part wasn't the murderous look in Vobitch’s eyes. It was his utter stillness and the way he spoke without raising his voice.
Striking a belligerent pose, Hammer raised his chin. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”
“I’m talking to you, asshole,” Vobitch said in the same quiet voice. “Nobody comes in my office and uses racist language. No one.”
Frank couldn’t take his eyes off Vobitch, stiff with rage, red-faced, neck corded.
“Get out now, before I rip you apart with my bare hands. You think you scare me because you work for some fucking alphabet-soup agency in Washington? Get your federale pals to lean on me? From here on out you get nothing from me or anyone else in my department, understand? Not one fucking word. Don’t call me and don’t call Frank or anybody else in the New Orleans police department. People like you are scum. You make judgments about people you don’t even know.” He pushed back his chair and stood.
Vobitch wasn’t that tall, five-nine or so, but his compact body was brawny and muscular. Hammer stared at him, bug-eyed.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you—”
“Upset me?” Vobitch came around the desk, looming over the CIA man now. “Upset me? You didn’t upset me, you little prick with a two-inch dick. You pissed me off so bad I am using every fucking ounce of willpower, every ounce of self-discipline to stop myself from breaking you in half. Get out of that chair, asshole, and get out of my office.”
Hammer’s face turned beet red. Clenching his jaw, he got up and left.
Vobitch went to his desk and plopped into his chair with a heavy grunt. He raked his fingers through his silvery-gray hair, pinched the bridge of his nose, then looked at Frank. “That guy is scum.”
“You want to talk later? I can wait.” He’d never seen his boss so angry.
“No. I’m okay.” Vobitch gave him an evil smile. “Well, I’m not, but that asshole is in worse shape than me right now. You believe it? I get three calls from the feds yesterday, telling me Hammer's a good guy and let’s share our information, yadda, yadda, yadda. Fuckin make-nice bullshit like that.”
“That's what happened in Boston. Before Hammer left Hank’s office he said he was going to get the woman that killed his friend. His exact words were: I'll get that bitch and make her wish she’d never been born.”
“Well, he won't be getting anything more from us.”
“Did you check the Atlanta flights for Robin Adair?”
“Yeah." Vobitch smiled. "You notice I didn’t mention it to Asshole?”
“I did. And?”
“Robin Adair bought a one-way ticket to Boston, flew out of Atlanta on Friday, July 25th.”
“Gotta be the June Carson woman. Robin Adair was living in Nashua, New Hampshire. The prints Boston PD got from her apartment matched the prints in her car. Hank drove me up there. Lots of clothes and toiletries still there, but I think she might have been there after the Boston hit."
“You’re sure she offed this guy, Oliver James?”
“All the evidence they got? There's no doubt. But who is she now? Robin Adair o
r somebody else?”
“And where is she?” Vobitch said.
“Who is she, where is she and the biggest question of all. Who's she gonna kill next?”
_____
When he got back to the homicide office, Kenyon Miller looked up from his computer. "Roger Demaris called. I said you were in a meeting. He wants you to call him right away."
"Figures. He already left me a voicemail message. Roger's shitting his pants, probably getting all kinds of pressure from the VIPs and politicians. And I'm not ready to tell him about the Boston case."
Miller grinned. "Or the nice CIA man that paid us a visit."
"That too."
“What I do when I don't want to talk to Demaris? Call him when I figure he’s out of his office.” Miller glanced at the clock. "Give it a half-hour, he'll probably be in court."
“Good idea.” He didn't want to talk to Demaris, but he sure did want to talk to Jane Fontenot. He dialed her number. Yesterday Jane had presumably arrived home from her African safari. He'd given her a day to recuperate. But now he needed answers, now more than ever.
Two rings and she answered. "Hi, Jane? Homicide detective Frank Renzi. I got your number from Morgan Vobitch. How was your trip?"
A low chuckle. "Fantastic. What can I do for you?"
"I've got questions about a cold case, a murder in 1988, heard you were the lead detective. You got any free time this afternoon?”
“I have to take my dog to the vet for some shots early this afternoon, but later is okay.”
In the background, he heard ferocious barking. "Settle down, Mischief!" Jane yelled. "It's only the mailman." To Frank, she said, "Sorry. Doberman's are great, but Mischief thinks anyone that comes to my door is a demented killer."
“Good to know you got protection. Can we meet at four o’clock at Rue de la Course?"
