“I agree, doctor.” Ivan’s words were clipped, as if he were angry. “I also believe no one was supposed to leave that house alive. This was an execution, but there was something they wanted in addition to the deaths of those involved. I doubt it was drugs—those would have been a bonus. The doctor must have been convinced cooperating would spare his family. If he hadn’t, why give them the information they wanted?”
Jason frowned and clenched his fists. “We know they wanted the jewelry—well, the wedding rings at least—because they cut her finger off to get hers, and that’s probably how they got his, too. But you think there was something else in the safe they wanted? Money? Just how much money do you think the doctor had in a home safe?” He stared at Alf and Ivan. What else could have been in that safe worth the lives of four people?
Ivan steepled his fingers in front of him and pursed his lips. He was obviously a man who didn’t like being questioned. The look on his face spoke volumes. “I came to San Francisco to see and hear for myself that this was the same man I’ve been searching for these last fifteen years. I’m quite sure he was hired to execute the family and retrieve whatever was stolen. Hélas, it’s highly unlikely you’ll ever catch this man. He’s called The Butcher. He works as an assassin for the highest bidder.”
“You mean he’s a contract killer, an ordinary hit man? But why the mutilations?”
“Believe me, there’s nothing ordinary about The Butcher. Cutting off the fingers could be part of his current employer’s signature. The Butcher has done work in the past for Vincent Scarletti, the capo of the Sicilian mob. Scarletti wears a mechanical arm because he has phocomelia—he was born with only a stub where his left arm should be, a thalidomide baby I believe you call them in America. Removing the fingers of the left hand is his signature—we see it when he orders an execution. The fact both hands were taken leads me to believe there’s more to this than any of us suspect. The writing is a warning to others. If you wrong the man, your family will pay for your sins. It’s a typical Sicilian vendetta.”
Jason sucked in a quick breath. If it were indeed a vendetta, then Nikki and her daughter were still in danger. Those things didn’t end until every last family member of a bloodline was gone. His blood ran cold.
Jason stared at the Frenchman. “You think this was a hit by the Sicilian mob? What could the mob want with an American doctor?”
“That’s the question we need to answer. The Butcher comes and goes at will. No one knows his name or his nationality. Apparently he’s hired through an agent in Switzerland, but we can’t figure out how it’s done. We’ve tried infiltrating Scarletti’s group, hoping to get a lead. All we got were two dead agents and nothing to bring us any closer to this psychopath. We believe he uses local men to assist him in his duties, but he’s a ghost. No one who’s seen him lives to tell of it.”
“That fits,” Jason interrupted excitedly, his heart racing. Could this be the lead he needed? “He may have killed off his partners but we know something else about him. We have his voice on tape. Mrs. Hart made a 911 call, as I said. She had the phone hidden in the pocket of her top, and it picked up the background sounds. The FBI technicians in Sacramento were able to enhance the tape, and we have his voice, clear as a bell. According to the linguistics expert, he’s from New Zealand.”
“Maudit! We knew he wasn’t European, but New Zealand? I wouldn’t have guessed that. We have an extensive file on him. May I hear this tape?”
Brad cut in. “We can all hear it. There’s a digital copy in the file Jason sent. Greg, you have it in your inbox.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The young technician connected his computer to the speakers, and the sounds branded in Jason’s mind filled the room. Once more he relived Nikki’s agony, but he wasn’t alone. He hoped Ivan could help him stop this monster once and for all.
When the tape ended, Ivan walked over to the board and picked up the marker Jason had put down. He drew a question mark in the center of the board and circled it. “Twice The Butcher mentions that what they want is in the safe. You assumed it was drugs, money, and jewelry.”
“What else could there be?” asked Greg.
“Documents, information. At the end, the man said they’d recovered money, drugs, and papers. I don’t think he was referring to the deed to the doctor’s house. He was sent to recover the ring Mrs. Hart wore. The doctor must have taken something else that was equally valuable. Four lives is a steep price to pay for a ring.”
Jason picked up the insurance photograph and stared at it, his other fist clenched impotently at his side. Ivan walked over to put his hand on Jason’s shoulder.
“I know you feel powerless, mon ami, but I’ve felt that way much longer. We have a real chance to catch him this time. I’ll do everything I can to help you find him. Let me share with you all a little of what I know about The Butcher.”
He wrote the name on the board under the question mark.
“The man is a perfectionist who fulfills his contracts to the letter, and this contract stipulated no survivors. He also enjoys inflicting pain. I don’t believe for one moment he intended to allow the little girl to live. Most likely, he’s still in the United States. Madame Hart and the child are in danger. They’ll need extra security.”
“We’re already on it,” Jason said with more conviction than he felt. If Interpol couldn’t stop this guy, would a team of hired bodyguards, no matter how well trained they were, be enough to protect Nikki and Mandy?
Ivan wrote the name Scarletti under Sam Hart and drew a line from The Butcher to Scarletti and then to Sam.
“Dr. Hart did something to upset Scarletti. He took something other than Madame Hart’s wedding ring, and whatever he took must have had great personal value for him. Scarletti doesn’t normally punish the innocent. For a criminal, he has a strong sense of honor. A blood oath isn’t something lightly sworn. The Butcher took the fingers from both hands. Why? Perhaps the doctor isn’t who you think he is—no fingers, no fingerprints. How deeply did you look into the victim’s past?”
“No deeper than we had to. The man was well known, well respected. He’d had some cosmetic work done, but we assumed it was vanity. He was twenty years older than his wife. Plastic surgery is a common practice among the rich and famous in California,” Jason said.
“I’m on it.” Greg’s fingers moved rapidly across the computer’s keyboard.
Chapter Seven
Nikki yawned and pushed away the tray. She’d managed to eat the gruel and rubbery, green gelatin, and sip the cranberry juice Cassie had brought her.
They’d given her apple juice, and it had taken her only one mouthful to know she didn’t like it. She finished her replacement drink, put the cup on the tray, and picked up the remote that would lower the head of the bed. She was tired, and before the doctor came back for round three, she wanted to rest her eyes. Who am I kidding? If I close my eyes, maybe the angel will come back. God, I wish he were real. I could use a hug right about now.
So far, the morning had been hectic. Dr. Marion had started by sending her for a series of x-rays and other tests. She’d been poked, prodded, and photographed. Then, the physiotherapist had put her through a series of muscle strengthening exercises.
She’d returned to her room seated in a wheelchair for round two. Dr. James, the hospital psychiatrist, conducted a battery of tests. Most of them had been the standard IQ tests one would expect, given her situation: Raven's Progressive Matrices that evaluated pattern completion and the Wechsler Adult Intelligence Scale to test her verbal comprehension, perceptual reasoning, working memory, and processing speed. He’d also given her the Rorschach Inkblot Test. It was considered a personality test. Maybe once he’d tabulated the scores he could tell her a bit about herself. Anything would be helpful.
Dr. James had wanted to do something more, but she’d adamantly refused. She’d been exhausted and had requested the orderlies put her back to bed. She had tons of questions and no answers, but at
the moment she just needed rest.
She felt as if she’d barely drifted off when the door opened.
Dr. James walked into the room, a large manila folder tucked under his arm.
“Did you have a nice nap?” He placed the folder on the bedside table.
She must have slept a bit after all since her breakfast tray was gone, but the angel hadn’t come. Somewhat depressed, she reached for the remote and raised the head of her bed, not completely upright since her back was sore.
“I guess I must have.” She sighed. “Did you have time to calculate my results?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
“What’s the verdict? How brain dead am I?”
He laughed. “You’re not brain dead at all, Mrs. Hart. As far as I can tell, your brain is working fine. You’re quite normal, not that any of us ever thought otherwise. You’re a remarkable young woman who has beaten all the odds. Time is on your side. You need to be patient and not get upset if memories don’t come back as quickly as you’d like. Do you feel like looking at some photographs?”
“Call me Nikki. What kind of photographs?”
She was afraid he might show her pictures of the accident where she’d been injured. Her concern must have shown on her face because he frowned.
Dr. James was in his late fifties and reminded her of a television character she couldn’t quite place. He had a head full of white hair, cut normally for a man his age, and wore wire-framed glasses. His complexion was clean-shaven and ruddy. His clear, blue eyes conveyed trust and sympathy.
“Pictures from your childhood and significant events in your life, what many people call milestones. If the pictures upset you, I’ll put them away, and we’ll talk about something else.”
She nodded, curiosity getting the better of her. She needed to know about herself—the good, the bad, and the ugly—the sooner the better. She wasn’t a patient woman. She smiled, realizing she’d just added to her pitiful pile of information concerning herself.
Dr. James opened the file and placed the photographs on her tray. She reached for the top half-dozen. They were pictures of herself at various ages. She set them down and picked up a photo of a younger Nadia and a man she assumed must be her father. Her mother had aged well. Her father was tall, heavyset, and bald. He had heavy eyebrows and deep-set, dark eyes. He was a man who commanded obedience, and since he was obviously rich, judging from what she’d seen in the photographs, he probably got it. Dressed in a tuxedo, smiling for the camera, something about him made her uncomfortable, and she shuddered. His body shape and the baldness disconcerted her. Her hand trembled slightly, and she dropped the picture on the pile and reached for another.
“What is it, Nikki? You seem upset. Do you want to stop?”
“No, it’s nothing,” she lied, preferring to keep this reaction to her father to herself for now.
She stopped flipping through the photos when she came to the wedding picture. The couple looked happy. Sam—that’s what Dr. James called him—had been a handsome man, distinguished with olive skin, dark hair peppered with gray, and deep brown eyes, although there seemed to be something furtive about him. It was in the eyes—they seemed cold, full of mystery. What had Shakespeare said? The eyes are the window to your soul. His age surprised her. Somehow she’d thought she’d have married a man closer to her own age. Sam was old enough to be her father. The thought troubled her, and she returned to the pile of pictures.
These were of her immediate family—a baby boy and a baby girl. There was a picture of her and Sam, and she appeared to be in the early stages of pregnancy. The picture evoked a sadness she didn’t understand, the same feeling she got when she looked at Cassie. The last picture was on a Christmas card. Dr. James told her it had been taken last year.
Tears slowly trickled down her cheeks. The people in the picture looked like a happy family, but they were strangers. How could she not remember the man she must have loved and her own children? The doctor had assured her there’d been no brain damage, but surely losing all your memories couldn’t be normal? Who forgot her own flesh and blood?
“Sam and Danny were killed in the incident when you were injured.”
Incident? What a strange word to use.
The doctor didn’t explain what the incident had been or how they’d died. Judging by the severity of her injuries—all on the left side of her body—she concluded they’d been in a car accident, and she must have been driving. They’d been killed, and she’d been injured. Thank goodness the little girl had been spared. Why didn’t he call it an accident? Had it been her fault? She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded.
She looked down at the photograph again, and guilt threatened to drown her. Her son, a baby she had probably nursed, yet all she felt was sadness that a young life had been wiped out so early. She looked at her husband, and numbness filled her. She should be upset, crying for the loss of two people she’d loved, but how did you mourn someone you didn’t know?
Nikki scrutinized the image, willing her memory to connect. Danny resembled his father. He had the same proud, stubborn tilt to his head.
He must have been a hellion.
Her gaze was drawn to the little girl sitting on her father’s knee. The child, blond and dark-eyed, resembled her grandmother Nadia. Amanda, that was the name Dr. James called her, wore a frilly, pink dress. In her hand she held a baby-boy doll with beige wool hair. The toy wore an Angels’ baseball uniform. The doll and its uniform were the only familiar things in the picture. The smell of baby powder came to mind.
This morning, she’d learned a bit more about herself. She was an accomplished artist. When Dr. James had jokingly asked her if she’d care to prove it to herself, she’d grabbed his pad and pencil and had drawn a picture of her faceless angel, complete with wings and halo. The picture sat on the bedside table. Now, she knew she’d been afraid of her father, too.
The door opened and Dr. Marion entered.
“Good afternoon. I heard you ate your breakfast. Cassie tells me you’re not a fan of apple juice, but apparently cranberry is fine. We need to stay with fluids and a light diet for at least another twenty-four hours. How do you feel? Any pain?”
“Nothing I can’t deal with. Cassie said I might go down to physio again later this afternoon. She mentioned a whirlpool. It sounds heavenly. I think we agree I’ve been in this bed long enough.”
Her speech was still slow, but the words were clear, and if her voice continued to be unfamiliar, it was just one more thing to add to the list.
“Don’t worry. We won’t be kicking you out any time soon. If you’re very good, I might toss in a shampoo and massage.” She chuckled. “Hello, Eli. It’s nice to see you again,” she acknowledged the white-haired man sitting beside the bed. “How’s she doing?”
“Remarkably well, Irene. Both sides of the brain appear to be functioning normally. I’ve asked the physiotherapist to evaluate her skeleton-muscular system functions. I can tell you her right hand’s fine motor skills are excellent. Take a look at this. She produced it in a matter of minutes.”
He handed her the sketch Nikki had made. Dr. Marion stared at the drawing, obviously surprised by what she saw.
“Is something wrong?” Nikki asked.
“No, Nikki, nothing’s wrong. It’s an incredible portrait. I’m just awed by your talent. Who is it?”
She giggled nervously. “My mother was sitting over there yesterday with rosary beads. I must have a strong religious upbringing because that’s my guardian angel. He came to me when the pain was unbearable. There was a different one last night. I suppose most artists have wild imaginations.”
The speech was the longest she’d made, and while her words were halting, she hadn’t had trouble finding the right ones to say. It made her feel better about her condition.
Dr. Marion smiled. “I don’t know much about angels, but there was a man in your room last night. There’s another outside in the hall right now. Your father hired them from
Sentinel Security to make sure no one bothers you. News that you’re awake and on the mend made the paper this morning.”
Nikki frowned. Knowing that a man, a stranger, really had sat with her all night unnerved her.
“Why would anything about me make the news?”
“Your family’s wealthy, and you’re a well-respected artist. Anything concerning you or your family is news. You’ve had a regular visitor who sits and talks to you. It’s hard to tell without a face, but you’ve captured his shape quite nicely.”
“Who is he?” Nikki asked.
“His name is Jason Spark. He’s the lawman who found you, after the . . .” The doctor paused, and Nikki could see she was choosing her words carefully.
He’s a lawman?
Jason was the name the security guard had mentioned last night. Her heart beat faster at the thought that she might see him again, but then happiness gave way to worry and fear.
Why would the lawman who found me be so interested in my recovery? What did I do?
“The incident,” Dr. Marion continued as if she hadn’t stopped talking. “He’s been in to see you at least once a week. In fact, I called him yesterday, and he’ll probably be in again later today.”
Tears pooled in her eyes. “Why would I remember a stranger when I can’t recall my own children, my husband, my parents—the people I loved and who loved me? And why so much interest on his part?”
“Nikki, don’t get upset.” Dr. James laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We don’t know a lot about the way the brain works when a person is in hypovolemic shock—when a person has lost as much blood as you did.” He reached for the sketch. “If your eyes were open when this man found you, your brain could’ve stored his image in your subconscious, away from your regular memories. You’ve mentioned dreams and nightmares. It’s quite possible that’s where the memory of this man resides.”
“Jason Spark found you,” Dr. Marion added, “at the worst possible moment of your life. In fact, like many of us, he thought you’d die. You survived. He has questions about the incident. Is it any wonder he’s interested in following your progress?”
On His Watch Page 8
