The Sarah Roberts Series Vol. 7-9

by Jonas Saul

  When she was done, she told him in her soft voice to relax, don’t get up too fast. When he was ready, he could get dressed and meet her at the front counter.

  The feeling that the police would be waiting for him when he stepped outside turned his stomach. The feeling of missing something still nagged at him and he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  Violeta had to be up to something. Maybe he had underestimated her. If he had, she would make it hurt. But she wouldn’t kill him. He didn’t believe that she wouldn’t hire someone to kill him, but she needed him in the short term. She needed his signature for a business deal and to sign over his shares and any other interest he held in the company.

  She wouldn’t have him killed, but she’d make sure he knew just how painful it was for her that he had left in the first place.

  At the counter, he paid Lina, offered a small tip but not enough to be disrespectful, and set another appointment for next Wednesday.

  Even though he tried not to think it, the thought of not being here next Wednesday crossed his mind.

  She thanked him profusely and he said his goodbyes, his muscles warm and jelly like.

  At the bottom of the stairs, once the door was open a crack, he stuck his head out and looked up and down the street.

  No police cars anywhere.

  Relief swept over him.

  The thought of relocating made him feel better. Maybe in a week or two he would move to another city, another village, and settle down. If that American man had found him, Violeta wouldn’t be far behind.

  Maybe he should’ve relocated already.

  Across the street at the market he got enough fruit and vegetables for three days when he would return for the Saturday market. Enough for two stir frys, a couple of salads, and lots of cucumbers to cool him off by the pool in an attempt to combat Greece’s relentless heat.

  When he looked across the street at Lina’s spa, it all came to him in a flood. When he realized what he had done, his knees almost gave out. He moved to the side and sat down beside two gypsy ladies with their children.

  With his bags between his legs, he breathed in and out, trying to calm down.

  He was a creature of habit and Violeta knew that. Wherever he would live, Oliver would locate the local spa and have regular massages. Sugar Spa Spell had a monopoly. Lina’s spa was the only one in Nafplio. If Violeta even suspected he was in Nafplio—with enough money she could find that out as he didn’t hide through a fake name or a fake passport—she would hire someone to watch the local spas with a description of him.

  That’s why the cop watched him in the village that morning. They knew he would be walking out to Nafplio today. The two officers in their car parked up the street from Lina’s door had been watching him.

  Hell, they were probably watching him right now.

  He looked up and felt the blood drain from his face as he scanned the crowd. No one seemed to pay him any attention. Behind him, where the farmer’s market vendors parked their vehicles, no one was looking his way.

  He needed to get home. Think on things some more. Evaluate the need to move. Weigh everything.

  The combined adrenaline rush of his realization and the recent massage weakened his legs even more. He needed food, peace and quiet.

  A left through the throng of shoppers took him out to the road. He flagged a taxi down and hopped in the backseat.

  “Agios Adrianos, efharisto,” he said.

  The driver nodded and performed a U-turn to move away from the congestion of the farmer’s market. Once they got through the suicide corners and started along the side road that led to the village, Oliver chanced a look out the back window.

  Directly behind the taxi were three police cars, one right behind the other.

  He spun around and sunk lower in his seat. He waited for them to hit their sirens, pull the cab over and yank him out, but nothing happened.

  The driver maneuvered through a traffic circle and continued toward Oliver’s village. In the rearview mirror, the driver’s eyes watched the cops behind him, probably wondering what they were doing.

  Oliver didn’t try to look back again. They were either going to pull them over or let it go. Looking back did nothing to change that.

  On the outskirts of the small village, the road turned to the right and became one-way. When leaving the village, there was another one-way on the other side.

  The taxi driver turned onto the one-way and applied his brakes.

  Up ahead, two Greek police cars blocked the road.

  The driver muttered something unintelligible in Greek and stopped his vehicle.

  He opened his door to get out.

  “No, wait,” Oliver shouted.

  Either the driver didn’t hear him, didn’t understand English, or didn’t care. He spoke to the officers who were approaching the taxi.

  Someone knocked on the trunk. Then the back doors on each side of the taxi opened.

  A young Greek cop, probably just out of high school, gestured for Oliver to get out. Oliver looked to the other side of the car where another cop nodded and smiled.

  “Go ahead,” this cop said in English. “Everything be okay.”

  Oliver got out and stood beside the car. The taxi driver was arguing about something, most likely that he was trying to do his job and that this interruption was unheard of.

  Two cops pointed at the driver’s seat and yelled something back at him. The driver was suddenly convinced that he should just get in his car and leave.

  A sour look on his face, the driver walked by Oliver, spit on the ground and dropped into the driver’s seat.

  He shouted something else. The cop who spoke English a moment ago responded. The driver slammed his door and drove around the road block, squealing his tires in protest.

  “Hey,” Oliver yelled. “What about my things from the market?”

  The English speaking officer moved to stand in front of Oliver. He had thick black eyebrows, dark skin and a five-o’clock shadow before noon. “He is keeping them in lieu of payment.”

  “What? Why? Who said he could do that?” Oliver had no idea what was happening and he didn’t like any of it. His legs shook and couldn’t be trusted to hold him up anymore. In a foreign country, with foreign police, doing things on their terms, could mean anything.

  “I told the driver he could keep your things,” the dark-skinned officer said.

  His mustache was graying, his temples lined by sun-damaged skin. He had the dark complexion of a Greek descendant whose bloodline had mixed with the Turks from the days when Turkey had occupied Greece.

  He also had a hard edge to him that Oliver couldn’t put his finger on. Something about his half smile that asked the world to challenge him. The officer’s eyes displayed intelligence far greater than his comrades, and his almost perfect English confirmed that. Oliver had met many people in his four months in Greece, but none who spoke English as well as the cop in front of him.

  “My name is Kostas,” the cop said. He didn’t present a hand to shake. “We are cracking down on illegal immigrants. May we see your passport?”

  Oliver turned to examine every officer standing on the road. In total, five police cars sat in the middle of the road with eight policemen scattered about randomly. All for him. In the four minutes they had been there, not a single car had passed.

  His taxi had been sent away with his purchases from the market. That meant only one thing. Kostas had an agenda and it was most likely financed by Violeta. Kostas already knew Oliver wouldn’t need his purchases, which meant this was all a formality for what was coming.

  “Seems like a lot of wasted manpower for an economically weakened government to use on checking an American’s passport.” Oliver turned back to face Kostas, calling on his nerves to cooperate and allow him to appear calm and collected. “Wouldn’t you think?”

  Kostas’s smile widened. His hand came out, palm up. “Passport please.”

  “I don’t have it on me. It’s back at t
he villa I’m renting, in the drawer of my nightstand.”

  “What? You don’t carry identification on you in a foreign country? What if something were to happen to you? A car accident? A mugging? How could we identity your body, or even know where you’re staying without ID?”

  He turned to his assembled men and blurted something out in Greek. The men laughed.

  Oliver’s insides shook so much that he was worried it would show in his extremities.

  “Hop in my car,” Kostas said, gesturing to his car with a meaty hand, his forearm covered in thick black hair. “We will drive you to your villa and take a look at your passport. Then everything will be fine, I’m sure.”

  Two officers rushed up and placed a gentle hand on each of Oliver’s arms, guiding him to the lead car. He sat in the back as the other men reclaimed their cars. A moment later, the entourage drove through the village and up the long driveway to his rented villa.

  The Eurozone allowed a ninety-day stay every 180 days. Basically three months were allowed inside every six months. Oliver was a month past that, which meant he would have some explaining to do.

  Maybe he could offer them money. Enough to feed them and their families for a few months. Just enough to let him leave the country of his own free will. He could go back into hiding. Maybe in the next country, he would forego the massages, change his routine.

  Or maybe Violeta had already paid these upstanding men a handsome sum and this was simply the beginning of a nightmare she had planned.

  Her last words entered his mind. The threats of what she would do if he ever left her. The violence, the pain.

  His mid-life crisis was going to be a bit different than most men’s.

  Chapter 7

  Parkman waited in the visitor lounge after cleaning Sarah’s blood off his hands and arms. The blood on his shirt had darkened. He figured the stain would serve as a constant reminder that it was his fault Sarah Roberts was killed.

  Detective Joffrey sat across from him. Aaron had shown up five minutes before. Parkman talked to Joffrey, but looked at Aaron frequently as he explained what had happened. He covered as many details as he could remember in an attempt to forget nothing and make the entire scene clear to both men.

  “And you hadn’t seen this Jaguar before?” Joffrey asked. “Tailing you? Watching you?”

  Parkman shook his head.

  “What is your relationship to this client that you say has threatened you?”

  “I have to respect confidentiality here, but I’ll tell you as much as I can.” He chanced a side look at Aaron again who had stayed relatively quiet since he arrived. “I did the job for this client. When the job was complete, another job was presented to me, one I couldn’t take on ethical, moral and criminal grounds. Said client became enraged. Swore she would change my mind. I didn’t. Client harassed me through third parties, leaving no trail back to them. Then I was told that if I didn’t perform the final task required of me, they would get to me through hurting my friends.”

  “Your friend, as in Sarah Roberts?”

  Parkman nodded. “That’s right. This client wouldn’t take no for an answer. And they didn’t like how much I knew about them.”

  “So they followed you,” Joffrey interrupted, “and shot at you, hitting Sarah.”

  “Something like that. At least that’s what makes the most sense.”

  “What do you mean, something like that?” Aaron asked.

  Parkman turned and met Aaron’s dark eyes. “I think Sarah was the intended target. I came to Toronto to warn her, to keep her safe.”

  “How did this client of yours even know she was alive?” Aaron asked. “As far as anyone knows, Sarah’s still missing in Italy.”

  “I thought about that. There were too many coincidences. The client knew too much. It wasn’t until last night in the hotel that I realized the client had probably tapped my phone. Which means they heard my conversation with Sarah when she called last week. They know I was trying to reach her. The client would also know, if they’re tracking my cell phone, exactly where I am and when.”

  “Are you saying this is your fault?” Aaron asked. “That you were responsible for this?”

  Parkman looked down at his shoes. “I can’t live with that. The responsibility, to have to own that, would be too much.” He looked up, wiped his face with his hands and stared at the stained ceiling tiles above his head. “I came here as a friend to warn her. I shot at the fleeing vehicle.” He looked at Joffrey. “I did everything right. Sometimes the ball just falls and there’s nothing anyone could do.”

  Aaron’s head had dropped. He sat with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped.

  “Aaron, if I could trade places with her, I would. You have to know that. You have to consider how many years Sarah and I have been working together. Getting to her was the last twist of negotiation my client needed. What they don’t understand is that by doing this, they have sealed their own fate.”

  Parkman cleared his throat and looked around the waiting room.

  “Something’s bothering me,” Joffrey said.

  “What’s that?” Parkman asked.

  “Why would someone travel across the United States and enter Canada just to chase you down and shoot your friend? Why not just perform this task themselves, whatever it was they wanted you to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s the worst they could’ve asked of you? Kill someone? Torture someone? If what you’re saying is true, and that client hired someone to trail you here, then why not use tonight’s shooter to perform whatever it was they wanted you to do instead of taking out Sarah? You’re no longer a part of it if they have a shooter. So what am I missing?”

  Parkman shrugged. “No idea, but I will do everything I can to find out.”

  The double doors that led to surgery opened. A tall doctor, at least six foot three, stepped out, swept the room with his gaze, and stopped on Joffrey.

  He nodded subtly, and the three men got up.

  “Follow me to my office,” the doctor said.

  The pit in Parkman’s stomach hardened to a lead ball the size of a shot-put. What would life be like without Sarah? How could he ever face her parents again? Or Aaron? Regardless of how this looked and the actions of the shooter, everything appeared to be his fault and he had to own it. Calling Sarah, coming to Toronto to warn her, was the mistake.

  Sarah had wanted to quit. Vivian even warned her to stay away from him tonight. When Sarah told him that, it hurt. Even Vivian knew he was a threat now.

  And Sarah knew the name, Tam Rood. Sarah was supposed to meet Tam, talk to her, and everything would be okay.

  But Tam was in Santa Rosa with her mother, Violeta. How would Sarah meet with Tam in Toronto?

  Unless Tam was here. Unless Tam was the shooter.

  Would Violeta hire her own daughter to kill people?

  Parkman took one more look around the waiting lounge before the doors closed. No one paid any attention. An old woman read her Kindle in a corner seat. Two young boys were stretched across three seats, sleeping, evidently waiting for their relative to get out of surgery. Six other people were in the area in various states of rest, all waiting for news on their loved ones.

  Nobody looked like Violeta’s henchmen. And Tam Rood was nowhere in sight.

  “Parkman?” Joffrey asked. “You coming?”

  He let the door fall shut behind him. The only reason he still protected Violeta with her client privileged confidentiality agreement was because he needed to be the one to make her pay for what she did to Sarah.

  No one else could be brought in on this.

  The doctor’s office was surprisingly neat and tidy. The desk was uncluttered, a plastic human body with removable parts sat on the corner.

  “Gentlemen,” the doctor said, waving his hand at the chairs. “I’m in and out of surgery today and I only have a few minutes, so please have a seat.”

  Two chairs faced the desk. Aaron grabbed a chair from
the side bookcase and brought it over.

  “How is she?” Aaron asked.

  Parkman studied the doctor’s face for anything that would reveal the harder truth as he sat down.

  “To be honest,” the doctor started, “she’s not out of the woods yet.”

  “What does that mean?” Parkman asked.

  A wave of relief swept over him. At least she wasn’t dead.

  “She’s a fighter, that girl, but she has sustained a major hit to the head. What we call a TBI.”