They arrived at the Arcadia. The Renaissance façade, high-arched windows, and golden elegance were pleasing to the eye, a bit rococo, though its ostentatiousness was part of its appeal. A doorman was at the ready, squiring them inside with a ready hand and referring to them as Sir and Madam. Manners impeccable, swagger smooth, and posture suave, Brandon escorted her to the elevator and soon squired her down the turning hallways of the seventeenth floor. He knocked on door 1707 and called out. “Ephraim. Ephraim, are you there?” He smiled apologetically and said, more to himself than to her, “Must’ve gone out.” In an absentminded manner, he patted his pockets. Having found a pass key, he ushered her inside and turned on the light. It happened so quickly and so naturally that only after looking around the swanky room did it occur to Liz what this was all about. There was no old friend. There was only Brandon. This was his home away from home, used for private business meetings and other goings-on. He might have been a brash man but he was also a smooth operator. She would have been impressed were it not for the niggling fear of having signed up for something she hadn’t quite expected. But she had, hadn’t she? He had been manipulating her all along the way. Flattering her with compliments. Plying her with food and liquor. Working himself into her psyche. Persuading her to trust him. And she, won over by his interest in her, had naïvely walked the footpath even while knowing in the back of her mind that traps lay ahead.
He leaned forward and kissed her, his arm reaching around and his hand lightly pressing her against him. He released her and said, “Well?”
They were standing closely together, close enough for her to smell his minty fresh breath, his shaving cologne, and his oily charm. “Where’s your friend?” she asked with the slightest of smiles.
“He’ll be along. He said he might be late.”
“Is this his room?”
“You’re asking a silly question.” He used a broad finger to sweep a stray strand of hair across her brow and behind her ear. It was an excuse to let his lips linger close to hers. His emboldened stare held her transfixed.
“It’s late. I’m tired. I should go home.” She slipped out of his embrace and headed for the door.
He moved fast and pressed his back against the panel. The door closed and the latch clicked. “Why? What do you have at home that I can’t provide for you here?”
“I don’t want to be rude, but―”
“Then don’t,” he said pleasantly. There was that smile again, the plastic one, the one that affixed itself to his lips but failed to light up his eyes.
“Please let me go.” She hadn’t meant her voice to sound so harsh. Or beseeching. She was brought up to be polite to her elders, nice to men, and to never say, No.
He raised his hands to indicate his harmlessness. “Who’s stopping you?”
When she reached around, he calmly but firmly gripped her wrist with one hand and engaged the double lock with the other. “I was nice to you. It’s your turn to be nice to me.”
“I … I’ll scream.”
He glanced around the room. “Please do. No one will hear you. The walls are thick. But even if someone hears you, no one will come to your rescue. Do I make myself clear?” He crushed her upper arms and shook her. “Well? Do I?” After a moment of a silence, he said, “Good. That’s good. You’re finally getting the way of things.”
She could scarcely believe she had walked into this situation. Willingly. Foolishly. Innocently. Yet in the back of her mind, she had known all along it would come to this. What she hadn’t expected was her reaction to it. It was a crude situation. She had to get herself out of here and do it without insulting him. “I don’t think you understand―”
“It is you who doesn’t understand. Or do you? Of course, you do.” He started to undress her, peeling away her jacket, her top, and her skirt, methodical about it, and surprisingly gentle. He didn’t have to be heavy-handed since he held her in the grip of his trancelike power using just his narrow eyes and his cruel smiles and his fawning kisses. She would never know why she had let him do what he wanted without putting up the least fight. Maybe it was the cruelty she saw in his eyes. She only knew that her mind had stopped working. She was powerless. Neville Brandon had made her powerless.
He left her dressed in bra and panties and stood back, crossing his arms and admiring her with rheumy eyes. “You have a lovely body. How old are you? Thirty? Thirty-one?”
She didn’t answer him.
He shook a finger in her face, a humorless warning. “Answer when I ask a question.”
“Thirty-one,” she said mechanically.
“Why aren’t you married?”
“I … I haven’t found the right man.”
“Do you have a boyfriend, Liz? Other than Coyote, I mean. No, I don’t think you have a boyfriend. During dinner, you would have called him. He would have called you. Or sent you a text. Even if you had a boyfriend, our having a dinner date would have looked bad. So maybe you do have a boyfriend and turned off your cell phone to keep him from finding out. Do you know where Coyote is?”
Mechanically she moved her head from side to side.
“Then he doesn’t keep you in his confidence. Pity. Maybe we can rectify that.” He finally got around to removing her bra and sliding off her panties with his fat thumbs and probing stares. He used those same thumbs to arouse her nipples with deep circling motions. “Nice. In fact, quite nice.”
She shed silent tears.
He smiled before turning on the television and tuning in a music station. “Go over there, Liz, and dance for me.”
“Dance for you?”
“I won’t repeat myself twice.” He lowered himself into a roomy armchair, sat back, and lit a fat cigar. “Move your hips like you’re enjoying it.”
Tears slid down her cheeks.
“That’s it.” He admired her with dissolute eyes, arousing himself one-handed as she moved. “Are you a lesbian, Liz? I’ll bet you’ve had lesbian relationships. I wonder what it would be like to be in bed with two dykes. I’m going to have to arrange it. Would you like that? What about your parents? What’s their sexual life like? Is it distant? Probably why you’re so tense. And inhibited.” He blew a puff of smoke toward the ceiling, his face flush with excitement. “Keep moving until I tell you to stop.”
She did.
“So now,” he said, sucking on the cigar, “I’ll tell you why I brought you here, dear Lizzy. I can call you Lizzy? It wasn’t to discuss Tobias. He’s probably dead. Or wished he were. No, the reason I brought you here was to discuss a matter of grave importance. A matter of national security. You see, I need someone to depend on.”
“I … I told you before … I don’t know where Jack is.”
“Smart girl. You understand completely. You may not know where Coyote is now but you do know how to get in touch with him, don’t you? Go on, keep dancing. You can do better than that. Show me you can do better than that. Show me what you really have inside that lovely body of yours. That’s it. That’s marvelous. You’ve been squandering your talents. Don’t stop.” Several minutes later, he lumbered to his feet, unceremoniously shrugged off his suit coat, unbuttoned his shirt, unzipped his slacks, pulled off his shorts, and smiled the smile of the debauched. He looked down. “You’re not arousing Peter.”
When the music changed, he said, “You can stop dancing now. I want you to get down on the floor on all fours. Like a bitch in heat. That’s it.” He knelt in front of her and massaged her temples. “You will follow my orders. You will do whatever I ask. You will be my spy. You will tell me everything you know, even if you think it’s unimportant. Do you understand? Nod if you understand.”
She nodded.
“That’s good. That’s very good. Now let’s get down to business. Show me your loyalty, Liz. Make Peter rise with your pretty mouth and your wicked tongue.”
She made Peter rise. And cried. She couldn’t stop crying. He didn’t mind that she was crying. He liked it. It empowered him since he knew then tha
t he possessed her body and soul. He lifted her chin with a single finger and leered down at her. Tears were still streaming down her face. “There’s something I want you to do. Tonight. To prove your loyalty to me.”
When he left, he put several large bills on the hall table ... as if she were his whore ... which is exactly what she had become.
10
Annapolis, Maryland
Friday, July 25
CRIME SCENE TAPE was plastered across the apartment door.
Jack stood before it, pensive, before reaching into his front pocket and extracting a door key, the key he used when he and Milly were seeing each other. He listened for voices or footsteps before unlocking the door. The latch opened. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, mindful of not upsetting the crime scene tableau. He closed the door without a sound. Removed his shoes and set them aside.
Milly wasn’t a very tidy woman, but her apartment had been turned into a battlefield.
He entered the bedroom and switched on the light. The bed had been stripped and the mattress taken away. Only the box spring remained. Just above the headboard, a pattern of brown spatters dotted the wall. He could only assume it was the letting of blood in a violent struggle with a madman. Poor, Milly. She didn’t deserve what happened to her. No one did.
He gazed at the four walls and tried to picture the sequence of events leading to her final smile. Milly was a needy woman, it was true, but no needier than many women of her generation, looking for love in the wrong places, and too often, with the wrong men.
After picking a fight with Jack, she would have hung around the club for a while, laughing it up and making light of their tiff before quietly slipping out. She would have headed for her car. A man she met at the bar might have made a date with her. Or else he waited for her to leave and followed her out. Whatever the scenario, he had already targeted her for a higher purpose and knew exactly how he would play her. He could have rendezvoused with her as planned. Or approached her on the street. Or cruised alongside her as she strolled down the sidewalk. He could have asked whether she remembered him. She would have said yes. Probably he was handsome, debonair, charming, irresistible … pick one, pick all. He would have invited her for a drink or propositioned her outright. She would have regarded him, assessed his looks, and made a snap decision. She would have told him her car was just down the block. He would have gone with her or followed her to her building. She would have taken him up to her one-bedroom apartment on the fifth floor. In the elevator, they might have kissed, a preliminary to the mating game to come. She would have led him by the hand to her apartment at the far end of the corridor and smiled up at him before unlocking the door. After stepping inside, he would have made his move, pushing her against the door, kissing her with meaning, and whispering love talk into her ear. She would have offered him a drink. He would have taken her up on it. She would have yammered and yapped. He would have peppered her with compliments. They would have clicked wine glasses—white wine for a pink lady—and made a toast. Here’s to fast ladies and slow men. Or simply, Cheers. She would have excused herself to the bathroom. He would have slipped a date-rape drug into her half-empty glass. She would have returned and flopped next to him on the couch. They would have talked some more, but talk would have been superfluous. The bargain had already been struck. They would have finished their drinks. She would have led him by the hand into her bedroom. They would have disrobed. Slowly at first. Then in a hungered rush. He would have toppled her onto the bed, caressed her, whispered endearments in her ear, told her how beautiful she was. She would have believed anything after that, even if he promised to deliver the moon and the stars on a silver platter. They would have romped on the squeaky box spring. She would have giggled throughout. Post-coital conversation would have followed. The drug would have caught up to her by then. She might have become suspicious, but her suspicions would have come too late.
Jack wasn’t just making it up. In many ways, it was how he and Milly first got together. Except for the drugging part. Or the sodomizing part. Or the killing part. Having satisfied his curiosity, and closed the gap between imaginings and realities, he said goodbye to the spirit yet lingering there and walked out without glancing back.
Ten minutes later, he strolled down West Street, one hand tucked into the front pocket of his jeans and the other tapping his thigh to an unheard beat. Aneila’s laptop and his backpack were slung over his shoulder. He stayed close to the storefronts. The bill of a baseball cap shielded his forehead. Sunglasses hid his eyes. The street was hopping with Friday night fever. He entered the boisterous club and asked after the barkeep who served him that fateful night. “Brown hair, French twist, bangs, pale skin, bright red lipstick.”
“That’s Nell. She’s in back. Want me to go get her?”
Before the hostess could go get her, Nell emerged from the back, made eye contact, and motioned for him to follow her. They left the deafening din of Friday-night partying behind. The storage room was dark and dusty, smelling of booze and mustiness, and filled with steel shelving, shipping cases, filing cabinets, and an old wooden desk covered with receipts and bills of lading.
She was quick to turn on him, anger showing in her pinched nostrils and flaming eyes. “Did you do it? Did you kill her?”
Though taken aback by her directness, he placidly answered her question with another. “Would you believe me if I said no?”
Drying her hands on the hand towel draped over her shoulder, she shrugged. “Guess not.” Her uniform came straight out of the Roaring 1920s. He guessed she was a few years younger than he was. She was tall for a lady, around five-foot-eight. He remembered her stocky build from before and couldn’t help comparing it against Milly’s diminutiveness. This woman might have survived an assault like the one visited on Milly. But if not, she would have put up a hell of a good fight. She wasn’t flighty like Milly, either. She needed a good reason to smile, and she wasn’t smiling now. “I heard you were out on bail. Something about DNA evidence. Does that mean someone else attacked her? Raped her?”
“I only know I didn’t. I wouldn’t have had to.”
The ghost of a smile appeared on her lips. Her hands left the towel. She folded her arms in a defensive posture over her breasts. “You want to know about the blonde. Like I told the detective, I never saw her before.”
“Maybe you did.” He dug into his backpack, unfolded photocopies of the likeness of Katerine Cécile Arnaud Madoc, and handed them to her. She considered him for several seconds before glancing down and nodding her head. “The sergeant brought these around, along with some others. I recognized her right off. Even with the hair.”
“Can I call you Nell?” Calling her by her first name made him seem friendly and her more approachable.
She tilted her head to the side, her eyes dissecting him, trying to decide whether he was a dangerous man or a man in trouble. She must have decided it was the latter since her expression became friendly.
“Nell, would you do me a favor? Would you look again? Picture spiked red hair. A floral tattoo on one of her arms. I’m pretty sure I saw her at a private party. Maybe she hung out here, too.”
She shuffled through the photos, shifting her head back and forth in thought. “A lot of people come in here. She bad news?” When he didn’t say anything, she said, “Question answered.” Nell continued to study the photos, searching her memory and bringing up mental pictures. “I remember someone. If it was her, she was approached by several out-of-towners. Middle-aged guys, you know the type, looking for a good time away from home. I thought she was hooker bait. They thought so, too. She took one or two of them up on a drink. Might have had dinner with one of them, but it gets a little fuzzy there. I remember her laugh. It was loud. Overloud. Like she was trying to draw attention to herself. I remember a fight breaking out between two jocks. College kids. Morons. Maybe it was over her, maybe it wasn’t. She stayed two, three hours. Kept watching the door. Watered down her drinks. She might have come
back again. Next night. Or two nights later. I don’t remember a tattoo.” She handed the photocopies back. “Wish I could be more helpful.”
“You were more helpful than you know. Can I use your back door?”
“Sweetie, you can use my back door any old time.” She grabbed a pen and paper, wrote down a phone number and an address, and stuffed the folded note into his pants pocket, leaving a small surprise behind, the kind forward women leave instead of a kiss.
“Darling, they say I’m a rapist, a sadist, a murderer. You don’t want to know me.”
“I know you, sweetie. Anytime you need somewhere to crash, a shoulder to cry on, a place to drown your sorrows, give me a call. Or drop by. I keep a spare key under the potted plant out front.”
“You’re awfully trusting.”
“Call me a sucker for pretty faces. Besides, when you’ve worked in a place like this for as long as I have, you get to know people. I can tell the creeps from the jerks, pervs, and dumb asses. You, sir, fit none of the above.”
“I mean it. You really don’t want to know me.”
“Are you dangerous?”
“Dangerous to be around.”
“In my book, that’s a good man to have around.”
11
London, England
Friday, July 25
THERE ARE TIMES when a man is broken. There are other times when he’s confused and lost. And there are those times when he feels nothing at all.
Cyber Warfare (INTERCEPT: A Jack Coyote Thriller Book 2) Page 7
