To the Death am-10

by Patrick Robinson

  Mrs. Gallagher was far too wise to argue with a rowdy group of men who’d been drinking the entire evening, and she nodded a polite sign of thank-you to the garage owner, and then hissed to Shakira, “Don’t you dare put it on his tab.”

  Slightly to her surprise, Matt Barker drained his beer, paid his check, and was the first to go. “Early start tomorrow,” he said. “Washington. Again. Still, the new Porsche knocks it off pretty sharply.”

  By 10:45, there were just a few residents left. Matt’s crowd had gone, and so had Emily and her friend. Shakira was tired, and she asked the night security man to take over for the last few minutes.

  Then she slipped through to the small room behind the bar, put on her short jacket and her driving gloves, and headed for the back door. She ran down the steps and across to the dark side of the parking lot, and there, waiting in the shadows, was Matt Barker.

  “Oh, hi, Carla,” he said, stepping toward her. “I told you I had a little present for you, and I’m here to give it to you.” And with that, he lunged for her wrists, drawing her toward him and then ramming her against the wall.

  She could feel his hot, beery breath as his right hand reached down and pulled her skirt up around her waist. He pressed against her, clamping his huge hand over her mouth. She could feel him ripping down the zipper of his pants, and suddenly thrusting his hard cock right between her legs, forcing her to sit astride him, protected only by the thin silk of her panties.

  “Let’s see whether little Ray can do this to you,” he grunted, tearing her shirt, groping for her breasts. “Come on, Carla, you’ve been waiting for this. And you know it.”

  She leaned back almost submissively as he tried to force her underwear aside. In his eagerness, he did not notice her right hand slipping surreptitiously behind her back, toward the thin, jeweled dagger she carried, holstered in her wide leather belt — the present from Ahmed.

  Matt now cast care to the winds and used both hands to tear down her panties, and, as he did so, Shakira Rashood, aka Carla Martin, shoved the lethal dagger directly between his ribs, all the way to the hilt, cleaving his heart almost in two. It instantly went into spasm and then stopped. Ravi had shown her how to achieve that.

  Then she let go and twisted away, watching Matt Barker slide slowly, face forward, down the wall. He was dead before he reached the ground. Carla rearranged her underwear and skirt, refastened the only three buttons she had left on her blouse, leaned back, and delivered an almighty kick to Matt’s twisted face. “You stupid little bastard,” she breathed.

  And with that, she turned onto the side street behind the Estuary Hotel, leaving the corpse, with the dagger still protruding, lying on its side on the edge of the parking lot. There was blood on the ground now, seeping slowly out into the night.

  But there was none on Shakira, who had been well taught that there is almost no risk of a killer being bloodstained if the weapon is left in the body. Knives and daggers betray people, when they are pulled — messily — out. Because they bear DNA samples, not to mention fingerprints. Shakira’s dagger would betray nothing, thanks to her driving gloves.

  Those had been Ravi’s idea. “You are armed at all times,” he had told her. “So you must always wear your gloves when you are alone at night. That way, you can eliminate your enemy and leave behind no clues.”

  The unlit side street was deserted, and Shakira walked swiftly without breaking into a run. When she swerved onto a piece of waste ground, she could see the Buick, engine running.

  Fausi looked up at her and sensed in the dark that she was slightly disheveled. He jumped out and opened the door for her.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Oh, nothing much,” she replied.

  “Someone attacked you?”

  “Afraid so. One of those local guys tried to rape me in the parking lot.”

  “So I’m guessing he’s dead?”

  “Correct,” said Shakira. “He was too big for me to fight, so I had no choice. Now let’s get out of here — for good.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Fausi turned the Buick north. He drove fast out of Brockhurst to Route 17. It was a hot, cloudy night, very dark, and very light traffic. The Buick clocked 80 mph all the way, since Shakira believed a speeding ticket was a lot better than becoming a suspect in a brutal murder.

  When they reached Chesapeake Heights, she got out, on the road, and walked to the front entrance, a distance of 150 yards. She moved fast, straight past Fred, the doorman, to avoid his observing her slightly hectic appearance, and immediately took the elevator to her apartment.

  Once inside, she grabbed her suitcase and placed it on the bed, wide open. In a blur of activity she hurled her clothes, shoes, possessions, laundry, and toiletries inside. She changed her shirt, forced the suitcase shut, and put on a denim jacket.

  She checked every cupboard, checked under the bed, checked the kitchen and the bathroom. Throughout her stay, she had been careful to accumulate nothing. She stripped the bed of sheets and pillowcases, gathered up two damp towels, scooped up a couple of dish towels, and raced for the incinerator hatch, down which residents could get rid of any rubbish they no longer required. She dumped anything that might bear DNA samples straight down the chute. Shakira would leave her apartment carrying only what she had brought with her.

  She took her cell phone onto the balcony and dialed the numbers for the house in Gaza. No reply. She had not expected one. She just left the briefest of messages: Evacuating immediately. Cell phone active.

  Then she dialed a local number, let it ring twice, and pressed the cutoff button. Downstairs, Fausi pulled into the drive, his headlights off. He parked in the shadows, rendering the car almost invisible.

  Then he walked around the side of the building, selected an expensive Lincoln Continental, picked up a stone from the rock garden, and hurled it through the windshield.

  The alarm system went off like a klaxon, echoing through the deserted parking lot. Fausi raced back to his own car and swept up to the front of the building. He charged through the door, still in his chauffeur’s uniform, and yelled through to the little anteroom where Fred was watching television.

  “Excuse me, sir, I think I just saw two guys break into one of the residents’ cars. I heard a crash and then they ran right past me. I didn’t realize anything was wrong until I heard the alarm go off.”

  Fred, a heavyset former Green Beret, came out of his chair like a bullet. This would not look good for him, a professional security officer. “Thanks, pal,” he called, as he raced across the foyer. “I’m right on it.”

  The big doorman rushed outside, following the sound of the blaring car alarm. And as he did so, the elevator door slid open. Fausi beckoned Shakira to come out, and she edged her way through the foyer, turning deliberately away from the door and covering her face with a copy of American Vogue. She walked slowly, in a stooped fashion, like an old woman.

  Outside, Fausi grabbed her suitcase, and the two of them slipped swiftly through the shadows to the Buick, which was running quietly. Fausi shoved the suitcase onto the passenger seat and climbed in behind the wheel, while Shakira prostrated herself on the backseat.

  The black car, displaying no lights, sped off down the drive, swung right toward Route 17, and moments later was hurtling up the highway. No one at Chesapeake Heights, especially the night doorman, knew that Carla Martin was no longer a resident.

  It was almost midnight now. Back in Brockhurst, Emily Gallagher was sound asleep, content in the knowledge that Carla would take care of Charlie in the morning. Jim Caborn was upstairs watching television, feeling self-congratulatory at the competence of his latest bar manager. And the undiscovered body of Matt Barker seeped blood, silently, in the shadows of the hotel parking lot.

  By 1 A.M., Fausi had reached the junction with Interstate 95, the endless highway that runs north-south down the entire length of the eastern seaboard of the United States.

  Once more they turned north, and Fausi aske
d, “Okay, where’s it to be, Shakira? Washington Dulles, Philly, or New York?”

  “Boston,” she replied.

  “Wow!” said Fausi. “That’ll take us another eight hours. That’s a long way. I guess you mean nonstop?”

  “I most certainly do,” she replied. “And I am sure you understand, Fausi, that right now this car is my best friend in all the world. Every mile we travel is one more away from Brockhurst. Every mile means I am just a little more remote.”

  “When do you think they’re going to find that body?” he asked.

  “Probably early in the morning. When one of the hotel residents drives out that way. I suppose around eight o’clock. I’m hoping they’ll think it’s a local murder and concentrate their search for the killer in the Brockhurst area.”

  “You want to go straight to Logan?”

  “Oh, I think so. Then I’ll get the first flight to Europe I can.” Not even Fausi was permitted to know her destination. And he knew it. Never even asked. He just said, “I’m going to miss you, Shakira. It’s been tense, but enjoyable.”

  Shakira had never heard those two adjectives used together, and, as a student of language, she found herself laughing. “Very nicely stated, Fausi,” she said. “I think you are better at speaking English than I am. Which is important, because I am really good.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Rashood,” he replied. “I’ll accept the compliment.”

  It was forty miles more from the I-95 junction up to Washington, which they made by 1:45 A.M. They avoided the city, because 95 swings sharply right on the southern outskirts of Alexandria and sweeps across the Potomac on the Woodrow Wilson Memorial Bridge, straight into the state of Maryland.

  From there it makes a huge easterly sweep, combining with the Beltway, right around the outside of the nation’s capital for about twenty miles, running directly past Andrews Air Force Base, and then, in Fausi’s case ironically, veering resolutely off-course, diametrically away from the National Security Agency at Fort Meade.

  The Buick angled back to its northeasterly route at around 2:30 A.M. and headed for Baltimore. They were past that city by 3:15 and heading on up to the Philadelphia area. Shortly before first light, they crossed the Delaware River at Trenton and made the New Jersey Turnpike, toward New York and the long wooded highways of New England.

  They stopped for gas and coffee somewhere north of New Brunswick, and kept going to the George Washington Bridge. Traffic was beginning to build even at 5:30 in the morning, but it was still flowing fast, and Fausi crossed the Hudson at high speed, gunned the Buick along the north end of Manhattan, and then straight up the New England Thruway.

  Three and a half hours later, they were approaching Logan airport, and they pulled into the international building, Terminal E, at 9:15 A.M. Their parting was achieved in under five seconds; they shook hands, and Shakira grabbed a nearby baggage cart and walked into the terminal.

  At precisely this time, seven states away in Virginia, the pace was less frenetic. Matt Barker’s body was discovered in the parking lot, not by a departing resident but by a member of Jim Caborn’s cleaning staff who always entered the hotel that way, and who almost tripped over the body.

  She stood there in the parking lot and started screaming at the top of her lungs. It was never made clear whether this was because Matt’s cock was still sticking ramrod-straight out of his trousers, or because the hilt of the jeweled dagger did suggest he had been murdered. At any rate, Mrs. Price did some world-class screaming.

  Jim Caborn, who was in his office, heard the commotion and came running outside, thinking someone was being murdered. Close. But the deed had taken place many, many hours before. Jim reached in his pocket for his cell phone and dialed 911.

  Within ten minutes, the local police chief, in company with two officers, a detective, and the pathologist, arrived at the parking lot. An ambulance came five minutes later. The body was photographed and briefly examined by the pathologist, who took the temperature and pronounced that Matt Barker had died around midnight or before.

  The detective in charge of the investigation considered that there would be no point in casting a police cordon around the town. If the killer had left, it was too late. If he was still in the area, he would almost certainly remain in place. There was no harm in having the body removed to the nearest mortuary, since it was obviously not a perfect advertisement for Jim Caborn’s Estuary Hotel.

  “Thanks, Joe,” said Jim, as the ambulance pulled away. “Now come in for some coffee, and I’ll arrange for you to speak to everyone you want.”

  All three of the principal men in this sudden, unexpected small-town saga on the banks of the Rappahannock had known each other since childhood. Detective Joe Segel had been at school with Matt Barker. Jim Caborn had played football with Joe at Virginia Tech in Blacksburg, out in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains in the western part of the state. This was a very local murder.

  Inside the hotel, Jim made a list of everyone he thought might be able to throw some light on the final hours of Matt Barker, which had plainly been spent in the Estuary Hotel bar with his buddies. Top of Jim’s list was Carla Martin, who often talked with the big garage owner. He also gave Detective Segel the full names of Herb, Rick, and Bill, who were presumably the last people to see Matt alive.

  “What time does Miss Martin show up?” asked Detective Segel.

  “Five o’clock sharp,” said Jim. “And she’s never late.”

  “I’ll be here,” he replied.

  0930 Tuesday Logan International Airport, Boston

  Shakira made a split-second decision not to use her Carla Martin passport to exit the USA. Instead, she went to the one copied from that owned by Michigan-born Maureen Carson, thirty. She walked to the Aer Lingus ticketing desk and asked if she could travel first-class to Dublin on the airline’s new morning flight, leaving at 10:30 A.M., arriving Dublin at 2240 with a stop at Shannon.

  “Yes, I have seats available on that. May I see your passport?”

  Shakira handed it over, and the Aer Lingus girl gave it a cursory look, checked the photograph of Maureen against the dark-haired lady who stood in front of her, smiled, and said, “How do you wish to pay?”

  “American Express,” she replied, knowing the card had been issued to an attaché in the Jordanian embassy in Neuilly-Seine, Paris, and that she, Shakira, was a secondary signature on the card and in possession of the PIN.

  She punched it into the machine, for a ruinous amount of money, more than six thousand dollars. “Is there anything else we can do for you?” asked the girl.

  “I wonder if you could book me a room in the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin, and tell them I’ll be arriving quite late?”

  “Will you require them to meet you off the flight?”

  “No. I’ll take a cab,” said Shakira, ever alert for the necessity of anonymity whenever possible.

  She picked up her bag and walked to the first-class desk. One hour later, Shakira took off for southern Ireland. The Aer Lingus Airbus was climbing steeply out over Boston Harbor just as, six hundred miles to the south, Detective Segel was preparing to return to the police station.

  By any standards, the Estuary Killer had well and truly flown the coop.

  1430 Same Day Brockhurst Police Station

  Detective Joe Segel had little to go on. Someone in the hour before midnight had plunged a dagger into Matt Barker’s heart, and, according to the doctor, killed him instantly.

  The police search of his body had revealed a wad of twenty-dollar bills, adding up to over $300. His credit card wallet was intact, no one had taken his cell phone, and there was no sign of a fight save for a nasty bruise on the left-hand side of his face, which could have happened when he slid, face forward, down the wall.

  And yet. someone had wanted to kill Matt Barker very badly. Detective Segel spoke to his close friends, particularly those who had been in the bar with him the previous evening. None of them had the slightest idea what could possibly ha
ve happened to him. They were obviously all extremely upset. Herb and Rick were both in tears at the death of their lifelong friend.

  Which, essentially, left the Virginia detective holding the dagger. He sat in his office, wearing white linen gloves and handling it carefully. There was no maker’s mark on it, which was unsurprising since it did look as if it had been manufactured somewhere in the Middle East.

  And those jewels in the handle — Jesus! If they were real, the darned thing was worth a fortune. And yet it had been abandoned, jutting out of Matt Barker’s body, in the manner of a true professional, someone who knew the blood would not flow immediately if the weapon was left jammed in the wound.

  This was someone who knew how to make an escape unscathed by the detritus of the crime. The forensic boys had already made a thorough search, and the dagger bore not one trace of a fingerprint.

  In the next twenty minutes, he expected to see the local jeweler, who would tell him, one way or another, whether or not the murder weapon was worth several thousand dollars. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t. The jeweler turned up right on time and told Joe Segel the stones were just colored glass set into brass. Pretty, but worth no more than $50.

  The biggest concern for Detective Segel was Matt Barker’s cock. What the hell was that doing, sticking out into the morning light? There’s only one reason for that — sexual passion. And whoever Matt had intended to stick that cock into had obviously had second thoughts. Male or female? Friend or stranger? Who had taken such an elementary dislike to Matt Barker that, instead of fucking him, they had stabbed him to death?

  It beat the hell out of Joe Segel. But one thought was uppermost in his mind. The killer could not possibly have been a girl. At least, no ordinary girl. That death blow to Matt Barker’s ribs had been delivered with terrific strength, an upward thrust into precisely the correct place to inflict death.

  Hell, thought Joe Segel, was old Matt some kind of a faggot? All these years, and no one’s ever known that. No one I ever met. I’ll be real interested to hear the opinions of Miss Carla Martin when she turns up for work. According to Jim Caborn, that would be another hour.