by Susan Fleet
"Okay," said the woman, tapping her computer keyboard. "I'll see what's available. Round-trip?"
"No, one-way. Actually, I'm hoping to fly to Paris from Chicago. Is that possible?"
"I'll do my best. Do you have your passport?"
"Yes," she said, and handed it over.
"Thanks. One-way to Chicago connecting to Paris. Is that one-way, also?"
"Yes," she said. Her neck prickled.
The predator was still watching her. Could he read lips?
Five minutes later she left the Delta ticket counter with a one-way ticket to Paris via Midway Airport in Chicago. It cost more than $1,200 and the clerk had said it would be a tight connection, but she didn't care about the expense and she'd worry about the tight connection when she got to Midway.
Her most important objective now was to get away from the predator. Forcing herself not to look at him, she headed for her departure gate. Her flight left in 40 minutes.
But there was a long line at the security checkpoint. Another delay. As the line of passengers inched forward with their luggage she put the hunter out of her mind. Too bad she couldn't use her April West passport. April in Paris. A great song.
But after she killed Chip, her escape plan had fallen apart.
And someone had set up a dragnet. Judging by the hunter's questions, it was clear he believed she would try to leave the country and fly to Paris. Thanks to her diary.
By now, Renzi had probably read every entry twice.
As the line shuffled forward, she looked behind her, fearing the predator might appear. What if he checked the name on her passport?
Ten endless minutes later, using her Laura Lin Hawthorn passport, she passed through security and hurried toward her gate. Only after she boarded her flight and the plane was rocketing down the runway would she feel safe.
She dodged two slow-moving passengers and spotted her gate. She was certain the predator at the ticket counter wasn't a cop. Maybe Renzi had clout with the FBI. Maybe he'd convinced them to look for her at the airports that were closest to New Orleans. Like St. Louis.
Another thought set her teeth on edge. In the newspaper article she'd read that day outside the Eighth District Station, the District Attorney had said a federal agent was interested in the Peterson case. Oliver's CIA friend?
Like a fool, she'd told Oliver she had once lived in Paris. If Oliver told his CIA friend, that could be a huge problem. Even if she escaped from Renzi, the CIA had operatives all over the world.
But she couldn't afford to worry about that now. Passengers were already boarding her flight. She strode to a corner of the deserted gate beside her own, took out her cell and punched in a familiar number.
A number she'd thought she would never use again.
But what choice did she have? No one else would help her.
A familiar voice answered.
Relieved, she said, “Hello, Lin. It’s Laura. How’ve you been?”
“Laura! How nice to hear from you. How are you? Where are you?”
“About to board a flight to Chicago and then another one to Paris. Could you pick me up at Charles De Gaulle?”
“I would be delighted to pick you up, Laura. Tell me the time of your arrival.”
_____
Frank snuggled against Kelly, enjoying the feel of her bare skin against his. No sexual activity for two weeks? That doctor was out of his mind.
But after he and Kelly made love, he usually felt fantastic, relaxed and sated, his mood flying high as a kite. Not tonight.
Tonight his mind was churning like a blender. Where was Natalie?
An hour ago Vobitch had called. The NOPD Superintendent had asked his FBI connection to station some agents at the St. Louis and Kansas City airports, an urgent BOLO for April West who might try to fly out of the country. The FBI man said he could, but he'd have to set it up with the Special Agents in Charge of the FBI offices in Kansas City and St. Louis.
Bottom line? FBI agents wouldn't be posted at those airports until noon tomorrow. Useless. By then Natalie would be gone.
As if she’d read his mind, Kelly said, “I can’t believe she wrote all that stuff down in a diary.”
“She probably didn’t think anyone would ever find it.”
“A woman of confidence.”
“She’s got balls, I’ll give her that.”
“Not surprising. Look at the life she led. Strip-dancing in New York, working in Paris as a high-priced escort. The meeting with her father must have blown her away.”
“He’s lucky she didn’t kill him. Maybe he’s next on her hit list.”
Kelly’s eyes widened. “You think she’d kill her own father?”
“I have no idea, but I plan to track down Mr. Thu Phan and talk to him. You heard what happened when I called BoBo's ex-wife. Joereen thinks she’s snug as a bug in a rug in her gated community, but I wouldn’t bet on it."
“Every cop in Louisiana is looking for her," Kelly said. "And thanks to your favorite CIA agent we know she didn’t hop on a bus or a train.”
He said nothing. Hammer was another problem, and they had too many problems already. Boston PD had Natalie's prints, but she'd murdered three people in New OrleansPeterson, Conroy and Beaubienand they didn't have a shred of evidence to prove she killed any of them. They had to find her.
Find her, question her and make her confess.
He pictured her standing beside the Ford Focus. For an instant, her eyes had met his. The eyes of a hunted animal, who'd do anything to escape. If anyone threatened her, she'd kill them. That's what happened with Tex Conroy and Oliver James.
So, why didn't she kill Frank Renzi in the alley when she had the chance? The question nagged him like a sore tooth.
“Want dessert?” Kelly said. “I’ve got pecan pie in the refrigerator.”
Grateful for the distraction, he said, “Already had my dessert. You.”
She smiled and her eyes crinkled, ripe with invitation. Any other night he’d have gone for round two, but his leg was aching.
Still, thanks to Natalie there was always tomorrow. Thanks to Natalie, he would live another day to hunt down criminals and put them in jail.
Natalie might have a hit list, but so did he.
And Natalie was at the top of it.
He gingerly swung his injured leg over the side of the bed. It was sore, but not that sore. “Pecan pie first. We’ll see what happens after.”
CHAPTER 38
Saturday, 23 August New Orleans
“And you never told anyone BoBo murdered that woman?”
“No.”
“She was my mother, Arnold. BoBo murdered my mother. You’re just as guilty as BoBo. You helped him get away with it and so did his wife. She gave him an alibi and the cops let him go.”
Frank shut off the tape recorder and looked at the people seated around Kelly's table. Vobitch, Miller and Kelly sat there in stunned silence. So did Jane Fontenot. He had invited her to the meeting.
Vobitch was the first to recover. Waving the FedEx envelope, he said, “This arrived at the station this morning, addressed to Frank. The sender’s name is Nancy Drew.”
“Nancy Drew?" Miller said, frowning. "I don't get it. That’s the name she used to register at the Dixie Motel. Is that her latest fake ID?”
“She’s probably got enough fake IDs to last a lifetime,” Vobitch said.
Jane chuckled, a low melodious sound. “Geez, guys. Don’t you know Nancy Drew? I bet Kelly does.”
"Nancy Drew, intrepid girl detective," Kelly said. "It's a children’s book series. When I was a kid, I loved reading them. Nancy was fearless."
Jane winked at her. "I guess Nancy didn’t appeal to boys,”
“She’s fucking with us,” Vobitch said, glowering at Jane.
“I don't think so," Frank said. "She sent us the tape.”
“And solved my case,” Jane said. “BoBo murdered Jeanette Brixton, just like I thought.”
"If you believe what's
on the tape," Vobitch said. "Hell, she was holding a gun on the guy, could have made him say anything."
"You think Peterson would make up a story like that?" Frank said. "It dovetails with what BoBo told Jane when she interviewed him, right Jane?"
"It does indeed. BoBo claimed he was home with his wife all night and she confirmed it. I didn't believe it at the time, but Joereen stuck to her story."
"Seems like it solves the Peterson case,” Miller said. “We got the diary. We got video of her in the hotel. Now we got Peterson on tape. Demaris will be thrilled.”
“Don't count on it,” Vobitch said. “She shut off the tape recorder before she shot him. If she got a good defense lawyer, he’d plead hearsay.”
“Maybe not,” Jane said. “Sounds like a deathbed confession to me.”
Frank said nothing. None of it would matter if they didn't catch her.
“The FedEx came overnight express from the St. Louis airport," Vobitch said, "went out last night at six. If we'd had FBI agents there, they might have caught her." His lip curled in a sneer. "When I told the Special Agent in Charge to look for an Asian woman, he gave me some song and dance about racial profiling or some fuckin thing."
Frank massaged his forehead. Still no beer for him. Just as well. His head was throbbing due to lack of sleep and the relentless questions bombarding his mind. Where was Natalie? And where was she going? "Check the passenger manifests for flights out of St. Louis yesterday.”
"What name do we look for?” Miller asked. “Nancy Drew? April West?”
“Forget names. Check for single women in their thirties, traveling alone.”
“You can fly most anywhere from St. Louis,” Jane said. “Where do you think she’s going?”
"Paris," Vobitch said. “We know she lived there for a while.”
“You got connections with Interpol?” Miller asked. “They might help.”
“Or I could call my buddy, Clint Hammer.” Vobitch barked a curt laugh, his steel-gray eyes icy. “When hell freezes over. I got some connections. Frank’s got connections. We’ll find her.”
Frank wasn't so sure. After bamboozling the police in Pecos, Natalie had dropped out of sight, only to surface 13 years later in New Orleans where she’d killed Peterson and Conroy. A woman on a mission. You’re as guilty as BoBo, Arnold. You helped him get away with it and so did his wife.
It seemed clear that she'd murdered Chip Beaubien, but proving it would be difficult. No witnesses. No gun. He doubted they'd find her prints in the motel room, and even if the desk clerk could identify her, it wouldn't prove anything. All they had was circumstantial evidence.
“Maybe she didn’t fly out of St. Louis,” he said. “Maybe she's hiding somewhere, waiting for the hurricane to pass and the heat to die down.”
Jane locked eyes with him. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“If you’re thinking we better warn Joereen Beaubien, I already did.”
Jane stared into space, lost in thought. After a moment, she said, “Natalie had a tough life.”
“Tough life, my ass!” Vobitch said. “She murdered three people: Arnold Peterson, Tex Conroy, and Chip Beaubien. Four if you count her cousin. And don't forget Hammer's CIA buddy in Boston.”
Weary of the bickering, he rose from the wheelchair. Favoring his injured leg, he used the crutches Kelly had gotten him and hobbled to the slider door. The others were still talking about Natalie's tape. Kelly looked up when he opened the slider, but he waved her off and hopped outside onto her deck.
Leaves and twigs clung to the outside of the glass, remnants of Hurricane Josephine, but the air smelled fresh and clean. He didn't want to hear any more speculation about Natalie. Too many theories were already messing up his head. He was certain she had left the country and it royally pissed him off.
He set his butt against the wooden rail that enclosed the deck, recalling the night four weeks ago when he saw Peterson's corpse at the Hotel Bienvenue. One shot to the head. Cold-blooded murder. That night he would never have guessed that a woman shot him. Even after he saw the woman on the hotel security video, he had resisted the idea.
A big mistake, one he didn't intend to make again. Now he had to deal with the consequences. Over the past three days he had analyzed every word of her diary, reading each entry three or four times, marveling at the detail. It was like a blueprint of her life. Killing Randy, who had sexually assaulted his sister. Dancing at strip joints in New York City. Working as a high-priced escort in Paris.
And all those years she had plotted her revenge.
After reading her diary he almost felt he'd come to know her. He admired her tenacity and smarts, hiring a PI to get a copy of her mother's murder file, figuring out from Jane's notes that BoBo killed her mother, monitoring his activities until he died. And then, amazingly, focusing on a new target. Chip Beaubien.
Her diary ended with the Peterson murder, but she had sent him the Peterson tape. With malice aforethought, she had killed Arnold Peterson and Chip Beaubien. Her diary offered an explanation of sorts, justification if he accepted her desire to avenge her mother’s murder. But desire for vengeance didn’t justify going outside the legal system and killing people. Damned if he’d let her get away with it.
He had gone into law enforcement to seek justice for victims, no matter how repugnant their actions. Arnold Peterson and Chip Beaubien might not have led exemplary lives, but they didn’t deserve to be murdered. And Natalie had murdered them in cold blood.
Shooting Tex Conroy had been a matter of expediency, one that had allowed her to escape and kill again. He didn't know why she killed Oliver James. but he intended to find out. Most of all, he wanted to know why she didn't kill him when she had the chance.
His memory of the incident in the alley was clearer now. He remembered hearing shots, remembered dropping his SIG and watching it skitter away. Natalie could have shot him then, but she didn't. And then she sent the Arnold Peterson tape to him. Why?
When he caught herand he would capture her if it was the last thing he ever didhe would ask her.
I’ll get you someday, Natalie. Wherever you are.
_____
Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris
When she reached the line of limousines outside Arrivals, Lin was leaning against a shiny black Cadillac. As usual, Raybans masked his eyes, but there was no mistaking his welcoming smile.
“Welcome home, Laura Lin. I’m happy to see you.”
“Happy to be here,” she said, putting a cheerful spin on the words as she climbed into the limo. But she didn’t feel happy. She felt numb and empty, like a rotted husk of corn. She sank into the padded leather seat as Lin negotiated the airport traffic, relieved she didn't have to fend for herself.
She couldn't do this anymore. Fake emotions she didn't feel. Fight down panic and fear. Make decisions she didn't want to make.
Life-and-death decisions.
When they got on the highway to drive into the city, Lin said, “Where shall I take you? Will you be working for The Service again?” He said this in a neutral voice without looking at her.
“If you’ll have me.” What else could she do? Her bank account was almost empty and she would need money to hide. For years she had stalked her prey, first BoBo, then Chip. Now she was prey.
The stone-killer eyes of the hunter at the airport flashed in her mind. Who was he? FBI? CIA? Oliver's friend was a CIA agent, and the CIA operated all over the world. Renzi was a hunter, too. At this very moment he might be trying to track her down. Recalling the way his eyes imprisoned her as she stood by her car near Parades-A-Plenty, she felt a sudden chill.
Should she have killed him when she had the chance? Probably. But she couldn't bring herself to do it. And she was glad.
“I would be delighted to have you.” Lin glanced at her, smiling. “That night when I saw you in New York I knew you were special."
But you didn’t know I was a killer.
“Sit back and relax,�
� he said. “You must be tired after your long flight.”
Tired? She was utterly exhausted. Plagued by nightmares, she hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. She leaned against the headrest, shut her eyes and dozed off. When she woke a few minutes later they were driving west along the Seine. Off in the distance, outlined against the pale blue sky, was the Eiffel Tower, the most famous landmark in the world.
She almost felt like she had come home. Until they passed Isle de la Cite, the Gothic towers of Notre Dame and the thin spire that towered above it. She couldn’t see the gargoyles, but her mind's eye supplied them, ugly horned creatures with large wings, sharp talons and gaping mouths. Reminders of her ancestor spirits who required appeasement. A shiver wracked her.
She looked out the opposite window, saw people sitting outside a café, enjoying coffee and croissants and the brilliant sunshine. A clothing boutique where she used to shop flashed by, and stylishly-dressed women strode along the sidewalk. This did nothing to dispel her dark mood.
The desperate fear she'd felt at the airport were gone, replaced by despair, an endless landscape bleaker than the Alaskan tundra.
“I might need a new name,” she said. “And a new ID.”
“No problem, Laura Lin.” He didn’t look at her, but she knew he was thinking. After a moment, he said, “Perhaps you would feel more comfortable working in different city.”
Comfortable? Not really, but she’d feel safer. Renzi knew she had lived in Paris. After reading her diary, Renzi would know a lot about her. By now, he had probably listened to the tape she'd sent him: Peterson's admission that he had helped BoBo escape and his account of BoBo's confession. That brought a certain amount of satisfaction.
She had taken vengeance on BoBo in the most painful way possible, believing it would free her to live her life as she pleased. But that seemed impossible now. She might have banished the angry ancestor gods, but now she was on the run. Police in Boston and New Orleans were after her. And so was Oliver's CIA friend.
“Yes, Lin. A different city would be better.”
“London? Berlin? Amsterdam, perhaps?”
