A Touch to Die For
Page 2
She was given six months paid leave and enrolled in anger management classes. Alexis tried to cope with the anger - even made deals with herself that she would move on - but it just didn't seem to take. Eventually, it was too much. She left the bureau and took up drinking.
The last ten years had found her traveling the world trying to find an escape that wine, vodka, or scotch didn't provide. She had been in Italy for the last two years and, during that time, had done some consulting work for the Guardia di Finanza, a branch of the Italian police force under the Minister of Economy and Finance. Her reputation for cleverness was even greater than the stories about her final raid with the F.B.I.
Alexis ordered another glass, and a swarthy man in an expensive suit stepped up and said, "I would like to buy this round for the..."
The bartender, a retired British Special Forces expat, had seen this scenario play out before and brought a Louisville slugger down on the bar with a crash. He said, "Walk away, buddy. She doesn't need you to buy her drinks, capisce?"
The man, a full four inches shorter than the bartender, held up his hands and backed away.
Alexis hadn't even flinched. "I might have liked that one."
"You might have liked to bang his noggin off my bar. I just got done polishing it, luv; I couldn't let that happen."
"I do hate it when they bleed on my shoes."
He poured her another glass.
A second man also wearing a suit but not the attitude sat down next to her. He set his briefcase on the bar and took out a photo.
She said, "You're out awfully late, Antonio."
"This happened two hours ago. As soon as I saw the photo, I asked the captain if we could bring you in to help."
"I need to get office hours. Can't you see I'm busy right now?"
"Please, Alex, take a look."
The wine and the dark bar made it hard to see. She got up and went over to the light over the menu board. She rubbed her eyes, and the photo came into focus. "It looks like the letters ATM carved by a very sharp knife, maybe military or hunting."
"What do you think?"
"How did he die?"
"He was strangled in an alley behind the cafe where he worked." He pulled out another photo that better showed the ligature marks.
"You have any other cases like this one?"
"No."
"Then I'd say you have a revenge killing or..."
"What?"
"You know, I drink way too much. My mind is mush right now. Why don't you call me tomorrow? We'll get some coffee and see if we can't put together a coherent profile."
"Grazi," he said, returning to the bar and handing a few notes to the bartender. "See she gets home."
"You got it, mate. Cheers."
Alexis returned to the bar and played with the wine glass. She held it up, said, "Salud," and poured it down her throat. "I best be getting some sleep." She reached for her purse, but the bartender held up his hand. "Your friend covered it."
She smiled and said, "Call me a cab, please."
Twenty minutes later she was sitting at a bare, wooden table with a pad of yellow paper and the last three days worth of newspapers pulled off the pile she rarely threw out. Alexis never slept great, but when her mind was working, it was much worse. For the next two hours she thought and read, but nothing came of it. Eventually, she threw herself on the couch and let the wine do its job.
CHAPTER SIX
Chapter Six
An hour before sunrise he stopped writing. He knew that the story about Mr. Whiskers couldn't continue; his brain had jumped into a gear that was too fast for pen and paper. Ideas for cat adventures were pouring in, and he didn't think he could manage them all. Somewhere around 2 am, he noticed a slight deterioration in his handwriting and decided to type each paragraph before he copied it into the Moleskin. The gift had to be perfect.
Once his brain had gone off the rails, he tried sleep. It didn't take. The sun came up, and he thought about her sleeping, which seemed creepy, so he stopped.
I should drive the Stelvio Pass.
It was one of the most legendary stretches of road in the world, and he had put it on his life "to do" list some years ago. How it managed to force its way into his love-addled brain was a mystery. It shocked him a little.
For three minutes he walked in circles wondering why he suddenly wanted to complete this particular item on his list; an item that, when measured against the wooing of "The Girl," paled by comparison.
Mitch had, some years before, experienced a series of remarkable coincidences, both good and bad, that put him in a place he needed to be at the exact moment he needed to be there. He never dismissed a fanciful idea again. This one, though, had him perplexed.
He asked the voice in his head, "Why?" over and over again, but suddenly it didn't have much to say. He showered and shaved, still obsessing on that one little spark of whimsy and what it could mean. Mitchell got dressed in some comfortable driving clothes and packed up. One last look around the room, and he headed to the front desk.
"I'd like to check out."
"Is there a problem? You have the room for another three nights."
"No, I've had something urgent come up, and I need to be on my way."
"Are you sure everything has been to your satisfaction?"
He look at the desk clerk's name badge and said, "Valente, your service has been excellent. The beds were comfortable, the accommodations were spotless, and the view shall be forever etched into my memory. If I ever...No...when I return, this will be my first stop."
Valente smiled broadly at the kind words and, with a respectful nod, took the key and returned it to the cubbyholes behind the desk. He said, "If you will sign here, please."
One signature later, and with a commanding snap of the fingers by the clerk, Valente had Mitch's car waiting out front. Twenty minutes later he was headed north.
The drive would take ten hours with favorable traffic and assuming he didn't get lost. His brain, still a little nuts, suggested it was not worth making the entire trip in one day. If you do make it to Stelvio, you will be too tired to drive it safely or enjoy it at all. Mitch agreed and set out to drive until he was tired.
This settled, he no longer cared why he had become obsessed with a once in a lifetime stretch of driving nirvana. She was back, and his thoughts picked up right where they had left off. He had again finished realizing it was creepy to imagine watching her sleep, which reminded him of a time fifteen years before at a wedding.
She was a bridesmaid and had made every effort to not outshine the bride. Her hair was pulled back in such a way as to minimize its loveliness. The bridesmaids' dresses weren't hideous, though, and this presented a problem. Her friend had decided to have the bridesmaids wear black cocktail dresses of their own choosing. She really did want them to be able to wear them later.
"The Girl," now a full grown woman of twenty-five, had chosen one with a high neckline that went to the knee and fairly plain shoes with a modest heel. She still looked amazing.
All throughout the reception were tiny pockets of guys whispering among themselves and casually trying to watch her float about the floor. One by one they got up the nerve to ask her for a dance, and she was happy to say yes. Wives looked on, who were obviously calculating the length of time their husbands would be in the penalty box, but to a man, it seemed that the risk had been worth it. In their defense, most of these guys had known her since grade school, so they were all old friends. This didn't appear to get factored into the pending penalties.
Mitch watched her and the admirers of which he knew he was certainly one. He debated if he should forego his chance to spin around the floor with her because by this point in the evening it seemed cliché. He hated to be ordinary.
He considered what she might be thinking, how very tiring it must be, both physically and mentally, to accommodate each request with a smile that spoke "I would love to have a dance."
Of course, he knew her a bit by then, a
nd she was, at her core, genuine. She didn't fake it and if her smile said she would be happy to have a dance, she meant it. Mitch remembered the moment he decided he had seen enough, suffered too much, and was going to ease himself into the night and drive away sans dance.
There had been a lull. The DJ had to make an announcement about some car's lights being on in the parking lot. He had then mentioned that the throwing of the garter would be forthcoming, and the tossing of the bouquet would follow. Everyone had meandered off towards punch, their seats, or the bar...mostly the bar, and Mitch hadn't seen where she had gone. It didn't matter; he was leaving.
It was only ten feet to the door, and he got up without any fanfare and walked into the hall. At the water fountain, she looked up, smiled, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Whew, they almost killed me with those back-to-back Alabama songs. I do love to two-step, though."
"An impressive feat in those shoes."
"My boots didn't go with the dress," she said with a wink.
He wanted to say, It was good seeing you, and make an excuse when she asked him why he was leaving, but the DJ intervened. The first twenty seconds of that guitar were unmistakable. Eric "Slow Hand" Clapton forced Mitch's hand. Any other song and he would have been gone, but "Wonderful Tonight" was more than he could bear. It was the sort of moment that, if not seized, would hang like a pall over his life for years.
All the lines he had been running through his head about how he might ask for a dance were suspiciously shy about reappearing. They left him to fend for himself. He gave her a nod. "You have one more turn around the floor in you?"
She held out her hand and said, "I love Eric Clapton."
The first words made him shiver. "It's late in the evening, she's wondering what clothes to wear..." because he knew them well and had always imagined her whenever it played.
Mitch told Siri to put on the song, and, for the next few miles, he was back in that VFW hall. He played it again then put Clapton on repeat. The two hundred miles that followed went through some of the most beautiful country Italy had to offer. It was unnoticed. His mind had returned to a calm, near euphoric, state.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Chapter Seven
The lightweight Italian suit lay in a heap on the floor. Paul Lemstock was in bed, naked, awake, and barely able to breathe. Every sound made him flinch. The waiting for the knock he was sure would signal the end of life as he knew it was unbearable. He turned his head to the right and saw it was 11:37 am.
He lay there doing the math. It had been nine days since he had taken the lunch at the Park Tavern in San Francisco. That was a long time ago and many miles. Now he lay in a bed in Italy, a murderer, and soon his life would be over.
Nine days before, Paul had just finished a business lunch with a technology manufacturer from Singapore who had an office in San Francisco. They were interested in using one of his patents and had flown in for the day. He never ate while conducting business, but after they had gone, he stayed and enjoyed his Cobb salad.
Two tables over, near the window, he saw a woman who was quite simply the most remarkable he had ever seen. It wasn't lust or anything like that; he knew beautiful women who would answer when he called. It was merely intrigue. He checked his phone, sent a text, and added some butter to a slice of bread.
The noise of the restaurant was loud enough that he couldn't hear what she and the man were saying, but he could tell they were close. He wondered if the man was her husband, boyfriend, or possibly a business colleague. They were both dressed well, so it seemed possible that it might be the latter, but the ease of laughter made him think it was unlikely.
When the waiter asked if he was interested in dessert, he said yes without hesitation. Paul smiled to himself because he didn't really care for sweets, but soon a slice of New York cheesecake would arrive and he could savor it while he continued his musings about the woman in the power suit.
It was at the moment he brought the first bite to his lips that he first saw her lunch companion. He recognized him immediately, not because of the dust jackets or the interviews but because they had been classmates back in college.
Paul stopped thinking about that moment and returned to the present. He lay in bed, having killed a man the night before, trying to overcome the nausea. It occurred to him that if he had left with the guys from Singapore and gone golfing with them, his life would be as it was: normal, boring, and safe. The old wound would still be buried deep within him, but he had chosen the Cobb salad, and now he had chosen this, too.
Following Mitch had been easy. He had sent a text before the cheesecake was gone and, within an hour, a man skilled in such things had stolen credit card numbers, bank account information, and anything else he would need. The hacker slash techie community, especially at the upper echelons, was small, and the good ones knew when to not ask questions.
The rich traveled on plastic. If one saw where they swiped, it was easy to track them anywhere in the world with just a smartphone or laptop. He had both, and they were tricked out in ways most governments hadn't discovered yet.
It wasn't until yesterday, though, that Paul had been brazen enough to get so close to the object of his scorn that he could actually hear him talking to the waiter. For eight days he had fantasized about killing him, but that didn't seem to satisfy his desires. Then, it seemed like a good idea to simply abduct Mitch and lock him in a dungeon where he could torture him for years. Paul liked that idea but didn't have a dungeon, and, though he could have contracted out the abduction, he didn't like adding more loose ends to the mix. Right now, only one person knew that he had Mitch's personal info and that was enough.
So, the question became one of how would he exact his revenge. Without warning, the idea fell upon him, and he knew the next best thing to a dungeon was a maximum-security prison, the kind they locked serial killers in and threw away the key. It was perfect. He would leave a trail of bodies that led right to Mitchell Bessemar.
Mitch chose the first victim when he put his hand on the shoulder of the young waiter at the cafe. Paul didn't know anything about killing or serial killers, but he could Google them later. The one thing he knew was that they all had a signature. His would be "ATM," which would eventually lead the authorities to Mitch's anonymous blog. It would take a few victims for anyone to notice a pattern, but Paul figured he could kill the waiter then worry about how the rest of it would go later.
What he hadn't counted on was the sound the young man would make as he struggled to find just one more gasp of oxygen or the final shudder that told him it was done. The carving of the letters into the boy's shoulder was upsetting, too, but it was necessary, so he had done it.
It took all of his considerable self-control to make it back to the hotel before he got sick. The vomiting led to the shakes and then a cold sweat. He showered and tried to wash away the three-minute stain on his soul, but it was marked in indelible guilt.
The realization of what he had done was shattering. Soon people with guns would be breaking down his door, yelling at him, dragging him out of the room and within hours the world would know of billionaire tech guru Paul Lemstock's fall from grace. What would his mom think?
He waited for close to twelve hours, but nobody came. The clock read 11:45. He crawled out of bed and put his feet firmly down on the other side of murder. He was through the storm and, when he stood, felt a tinge of satisfaction.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Chapter Eight
She rolled off the couch and headed for her toothbrush. The alarm on her phone had done its job. Alexis had the annoying ability to drink a biker gang under the bar and wake up looking like she'd come from a photo shoot. Even her morning hair looked good. She didn't have too many female friends.
In a scant twenty minutes, she was walking to the café where Antonio and she always met. The coffee was fair and the Boconnotto, a cream-filled, chocolate-covered puff, was renowned for ending many a diet. Alexis didn't ever need to diet.
"Nope, maybe five minutes."
She flipped his tie as she sat down. "Is that a new tie? Did you wear it for me?" she asked with a sly smile.
"Yes, it is. You know I didn't. It was a gift from my beast of a girlfriend."
"Why do you stay with her?"
"Dating sucks."
"Yes, but a handsome man like you with more than a few good years left in him could find a lovely girl who was...well...less beastly." She said it with a wink and a smile.
"Why do you tease me?"
"I would never..."
"The M.E. confirmed that the victim died of strangulation and that the letters were carved post-mortem."
"How old was he?"
"Eighteen years, three months, and seven days."
Antonio was annoyingly precise, which was usually appreciated, but not this early in the morning. "Did he have any family connections?"
"He is a distant relative of the Reina family, but there isn't any indication that he or either of his parents are involved in anything criminal. His parents have three petrol stations and make a comfortable living. He is the nephew of a cabinet minister, which is why this landed on my desk."
"You think it may have been politically motivated?"
"I don't do the thinking. That is your territory. I do facts."
"Any more interesting facts?"
"He collected American comic books and had a disagreement with an online seller six months ago."
"I've heard of stranger motives."
"We're looking into it."
"Anything else?"