by Sharon Sala
The cocoa-colored dirt was face-powder fine and poofed up in the air with each step he took, turning his white tennis shoes into a dirty brown. But he wasn’t looking down at his shoes. He was looking up to the rafters. They were high. It would take some time to get a rope over one and then tie it off, which meant he couldn’t make this happen without some prior preparation.
He went back outside and looked around, looking for signs of a walking path through the grass or a road coming in from another direction, but as far as he could tell, it didn’t look as if anyone had been here in years.
He thought for a bit, knowing he was taking a chance on setting things up ahead of time, then showing up with Laura Doyle and facing the possibility of not being able to get in. Then he decided to risk it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
He went back to get the van and drove out to the barn.
He began by making a hanging noose with the rope he’d purchased days ago, and then spent the next twenty minutes trying to throw it over the rafters before he gave up. He stood for a moment considering the situation, then drove the van inside the barn, used the stepladder to climb on top of the vehicle and easily threw the rope over the rafters.
He got down carefully to avoid reinjuring his back, put the step stool beneath the noose, then adjusted the length of the rope before tying off the other end to the rungs of a ladder running up the side of a granary that led to the loft. As he turned around, a rat ran out from beneath the rotting floor of one of the granaries and disappeared into the grass outside.
His eyes narrowed as he watched it run and wondered how many others were in here. Rats could climb. If there was something hanging from the end of that rope that they wanted bad enough, he wondered if they would think to chew through the rope, or just climb down to it and eat their fill. Either way suited him just fine.
He stood back, eyeing the setup, picturing how it would go when he kicked the stool out from under her feet, and decided it would suit just fine.
He got back in the van and drove out as carefully as he’d driven in, then stopped at the gate and fastened it shut. The tracks he’d made in the grass were already springing back up in the breeze, and this time when he drove away he took note of the distance in miles and all the landmarks, making sure he could easily find his way back.
He still had to buy a wedding gift, and find out how much longer Laura Doyle would be at that shelter. He’d tried to take Nola Landry down in one of those places and nearly gotten himself caught. His plan this time was to abduct Laura from home.
Once he got back to Reston, he drove until he found a mall, then went into a department store and went straight to bedding. It didn’t take long to pick out a white, king-size comforter, and after he paid for it, he took it back to be gift-wrapped.
Less than thirty minutes later he left with the present in the back of his van. The next stop on his agenda was to see if his theory about the FBI team was correct. He was convinced they would be working the murder cases, and since they weren’t actively investigating things themselves, he was betting they were working with the D.C. police department. He wouldn’t let himself believe that they’d ignored his signature methods. They had to know he was back on the job, and he was convinced they were actively trying to find him.
He knew what kind of vehicles they drove. He also knew that the feds and local governments were rarely happy to work together. He was curious to see if there were any government-issue vehicles parked at the P.D., and if there were, it might be interesting to stick around and see who was driving them.
His belly was grumbling from lack of food, his mustache was itchy and the eyebrows he was wearing felt weird. He stopped at a drive-through restaurant long enough to pick up a chicken sandwich and some fries, then headed for the police department. By the time he arrived, his sandwich was cold. He slowed down as he made the first pass, intent on scanning the parking lot, but traffic forced him to speed up, so he came back around for a second look. This time the traffic was slower, allowing him more time. That was when he saw three dark SUVs with even darker tinted windows parked almost side by side near the back of the lot.
“Just what I thought,” he muttered, then started circling the block, looking to find a parking spot nearby that would give him a clear view of those vehicles. Eventually someone would have to claim them. He wanted to see who they were.
He finally found a place to park that suited his needs and settled down to eat. By then it was almost three o’clock, so he pushed the seat back for more legroom. Might as well get comfortable while he waited.
One hour passed into another, and he needed to pee. But if he did, he was afraid they would leave while he was gone. He dug around in the back for an empty drink cup from a quick stop and peed in that, then opened the door just enough to pour it out.
He could just imagine Louise’s disgust if she’d been sitting there with him, then wondered why it mattered. While he was all about revenge on her behalf, he was somewhat disenchanted with her recent behavior.
Time slowed down to what felt like a snail’s pace, and the longer he sat, the closer it came to sundown. If they came out after dark, even though the lot would be well lit he wouldn’t be close enough to clearly see their faces. He was trying to figure out his next step when three men in street clothes suddenly walked across his line of sight, heading straight for the vehicles he’d been watching.
He smiled. There was no need for binoculars. He knew their build and their walk as well as he knew his own. It was the team, just as he’d suspected. They were working in conjunction with the D.C. police but keeping a low profile, undoubtedly thinking they would have him at a disadvantage if he didn’t know they were around. One by one, they drove away, two going in one direction and one in the other.
He smiled.
“Thought you were playing me, didn’t you? Giving the cops all your info without stepping into the media spotlight. You don’t want the public to know it’s me because I’ve made you look bad. Not once has the media mentioned the Stormchaser. I happen to think the public has a right to the truth.”
He started the van and drove away with the full intent of buying a disposable phone to make his calls. Then he saw the gas gauge in his van and amended the plan. Gas first. Phone later.
The traffic was getting heavier. It was the end of the workday, and people were on their way home. He pulled into the first gas station he came to, but as he drove toward the pump, he realized there was a D.C. patrol car parked on the other side, having what appeared to be the beginnings of an altercation with a customer.
He started to drive away and then decided the cop was too preoccupied with that guy to pay any attention to him. He glanced over at the cop’s car as he killed the engine, and because he was sitting up so much higher, he had a clear view of the clipboard lying on the console. There was a photo on it, and when he first saw it, he thought the guy looked familiar. Then he looked again, and at that point his heart nearly stopped.
Son of a bitch! It’s me.
They had made him but hadn’t said a word about it in the press. That meant they were purposefully keeping it under wraps to keep from spooking him. This changed everything. To hell with phoning the media.
He started the engine and very carefully drove away.
His hands were shaking as he stopped at the next gas station. He refueled his van and then headed back to his apartment as fast as he dared.
It was dark by the time he arrived. The security light was on outside, but he knew it was the time of evening when his nosy landlady was at her dinner table. He threw his clothing into his suitcase, packed up everything that was his, including food, and began moving it out to his van, but there was so much crap in there now, there wouldn’t be room to haul a body. So he took out the ladder and paint supplies that he’d kept to back up his profile and repacked what was there. His back was beginning t
o hurt after he’d made the second trip, but it couldn’t be helped. Once his picture hit the media, Lucy would recognize him and they would know where he’d been living, so trying to wipe away fingerprints was wasting time. He just needed to be sure there was nothing left to tell them where he lived.
He left the key on the coffee table and the apartment in darkness. He drove slowly past the house and didn’t turn on his headlights until he was out on the street.
It was time to hide.
* * *
The morning sky was overcast and the wind was stiff, making the jogger’s early-morning run that much harder. He was on the last leg of his route and about to head back to his apartment when he spotted something in the river. After taking a closer look, he realized it was a body and called the police.
Lionel Ricks had finally made it home, which was ironic timing, because Lionel’s arrival coincided perfectly with Paul Leibowitz’s departure.
* * *
Lucy Taft suspected Leibowitz was gone for good when she didn’t hear him come home. When she woke the next morning and saw that the van was gone she guessed that he might have moved on, but she needed to know for sure.
She heard the breaking news about the discovery of the fourth body, and while Mildred was making breakfast, she took the extra key to the apartment and went out the back door, only to find the apartment unlocked. She walked in, found his key on the coffee table and pocketed it, then walked through the rooms. Everything he’d brought with him was gone. Even though he was finally off her property, she was still uneasy. She noticed a ladder and some empty paint cans near her garbage cans and frowned. He’d left something behind after all.
When she went back inside to have breakfast, she didn’t say anything to Mildred about cleaning the apartment. She didn’t want it touched until she’d called the boys. The fact that Paul Leibowitz had disappeared the same morning the last body was discovered was yet another fact to be added to her journal. She was convinced there was something shady about him, but this kind of stuff was better left to people in William Harold’s field, not hers. As soon as she finished her breakfast, she took her coffee and went to the library. It made her feel good to sit in William Harold’s chair, almost like sitting in his lap.
She took another sip of her coffee, then set it aside to get the old Rolodex from the bottom drawer of his desk. She took her time flipping through the cards, remembering each person fondly as she searched for one certain name. None of the names on the cards were real ones. They were all in code, and when she finally found the one she was looking for, she made the call.
* * *
Rambo Phillips was in the middle of the best morning sex he’d ever had when his cell phone began to ring. He would have ignored it had it not been for the ringtone. There was only one woman that went with the theme song to The Golden Girls. The minute he heard it, he gritted his teeth and rolled off the woman beneath him.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she asked.
“Sorry. Duty calls,” he said, and headed for the bathroom to take the call in private, while the less-than-happy woman cursed his exit.
“Hello, pretty lady. How the hell have you been?”
Lucy grinned. She hadn’t heard a man curse since William Harold’s death. It wasn’t ladylike, but she had a fondness for the habit in others.
“I’m just fine, Bo. I hope you can say the same.”
He glanced down at his erection and rolled his eyes.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m still wound tight and ready to blow.”
Unaware of the significance of his statement, Lucy giggled, then cleared her throat and got down to business.
“I’m glad to hear that, but I called for a reason.”
She proceeded to tell him everything she’d seen and how she’d kept the journal, mentioning the fact that Paul had switched vehicles only days after his arrival, then capped it off with the fact that he’d disappeared without a word last night and that a fourth body had surfaced this morning.
If it had been anyone else, Bo would have sweet-talked his way around the request, but he remembered hearing William Harold say many times that his wife had better instincts than he did.
“I’ll tell you what, sugar. How about I get a buddy of mine and we come see you today? I’ll take a look at your journal, and we’ll fingerprint the apartment...see if any special names pop up, okay?”
Lucy sighed. Finally someone was taking her seriously.
“Yes, more than okay. I’ll have Mildred make you one of those apple-crumb pies you’re so fond of.”
Bo’s mouth watered just thinking about it.
“That would be amazing. See you soon,” he said, and hung up. When he got back to the bedroom, the woman was gone.
Whatever. He could jack off, which frankly was almost as good as the real thing, and still not break a sweat, which he proceeded to do.
A short while later he picked up fellow agent, Grant Whitelaw, who also liked pie and was up for the ride. It was close to noon when they reached the Taft residence, and when Bo pulled up in the drive, Grant leaned forward, looking toward the garage apartment in the back.
“So that’s where the big bad man’s been hiding out?” Grant drawled.
Bo frowned. “You do not make fun of Lucy Taft. She may be old now, but she knows her stuff. This isn’t going to hurt us, and it will satisfy her mind.”
Grant nodded. “Yeah, and there’s that pie to satisfy my stomach.”
Bo parked and got out, stretching his tall, lanky frame before heading for the front door.
Grant was shorter, but just as lean and mean, and followed suit.
Seconds after they rang the bell, a woman in a maid’s uniform answered.
“Mr. Phillips and Mr. Whitelaw to see Mrs. Taft.”
Mildred smiled primly. She knew Bo Phillips from prior visits, and even though he looked a bit like Elvis, he was also more than a little scary. The other one was a stranger.
“Come in, Mr. Phillips. She’s expecting you.”
She led the way into the library, where Lucy was waiting in a chair by the window. When she saw them come in she stood up, and just for a moment, with the sunlight coming through the window behind her, she looked like a tiny angel, which Rambo Phillips knew was a big misconception.
She smiled.
“Pretty as ever,” Bo said, and carefully swung her up in his arms, planted a kiss on her cheek, then set her back on her feet. “Hey, sugar, this is my friend Grant Whitelaw. I thought it would be a good idea to have two sets of eyes on your info, instead of just mine. You know how difficult it is for me to keep my eyes off you, so I’ll most likely be distracted anyway.”
Lucy grinned. “You haven’t changed a bit. You’re still the disreputable rake you always were, and I love it. Nice to meet you, Mr. Whitelaw. I hope you know the company you’re keeping.”
Grant smiled. “All too well, ma’am. All too well.”
“I insist you call me Lucy. All of William Harold’s boys do.”
Grant’s smile widened. “Yes, ma’am...I mean, Lucy, and thanks.”
“Now...where’s that journal you’ve been keeping?” Bo asked.
Lucy took it from the top drawer of the desk and handed it to him. When he opened it and began to read, she still felt the need to narrate.
“I was put off almost immediately by the large amount of cash he was carrying and his claim not to like hotels. Who doesn’t like a hotel? Room service, maids to make the beds...you know what I mean. Anyway, I began with his name and the date of his arrival. As you can see, I noted what he was driving and the tag number, although a few days in, he switched to another vehicle in a completely different color. Another van, though. Good for hauling bodies, you know.”
Grant started to grin and then realized she was dead serious. He looked
at his partner’s face, and saw that he was serious, too. She continued to talk.
“He suffered some kind of injury a few days ago and could barely walk. I recommended a chiropractor, and I suppose he went, because he came back later a little better.” She tapped the page. “But his injury occurred the same night the last victim went missing. Deadweight is heavy to move.”
Bo was listening with one ear as he scanned the entries. He could see the case she was making, and it was damn intriguing. He glanced back up at the top of the page.
“Said his name was Leibowitz, did he?”
She nodded.
“Did you call this in to the D.C. police?”
She frowned. “Yes, and they blew me off like dust on a little black dress.”
Grant stifled a chuckle. He liked Lucy Taft more and more by the minute.
Bo frowned. “Blew you off, did they? So give me the key to your apartment and we’ll see if we can lift some prints.”
She frowned. “Okay, but don’t make a big mess for Mildred to clean up. Oh, he left a stepladder and some old, empty paint cans behind. They’re beside my garbage cans.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bo said.
Lucy rang for the maid, who led them out to the apartment the same way she’d taken Hershel. Grant went to their car to get a kit to dust for fingerprints, and after Mildred’s assurance that nothing had been touched since his disappearance, she left them to their devices.
Grant was smiling as the maid left.
“That Lucy Taft is something, isn’t she?”
Bo nodded. “So was her husband. At one time Taft was one of the best international operatives we had, and she was his cover. Cute little woman married to a rich industrialist. They were perfect. She was also smart enough to know not to clean this place until we could search it. So let’s get started.”
They lifted prints off the most obvious places. The bedside table, the bathroom mirror and the coffeepot in the kitchen, and then took pictures of the prints and emailed them in to NCIC to confirm what they already knew, so there would be no loophole for him to crawl through when they finally got him in court.
