Natalie's Revenge (19 page)

Traumatized by Beauty's ferocious snarl, sharp fangs and menacing eyes, she had driven to Hampton Beach, seeking solace from the sea. The beach was crowded, sun-lovers of all ages enjoying the fine summer day, frolicking in the surf. The ocean breeze and the salt-water scent had soothed her.

But now her fears had returned.

One-Eye knew she’d bought a gun in Nashua last year, which meant there was a record of it. And by now the NOPD would know that Tex and Arnold Peterson were shot with the same gun. She'd dumped that gun in Lake Pontchartrain, but what if Beady-Eyes found it? And this morning Hurricane Gail had dominated the news on NOLA.com. Another worry. 

She flinched as "Agitation" came over the sound system, Miles Davis spewing notes into the stratosphere. She knew it well. Willem adored Miles, saying he was a musical magician. Willem wove his own brand of magic.

On the verge of weeping, she massaged her temples and assessed the damages. Robin Adair’s face had been captured on a security video while buying a gun, but so what? One-Eye probably recycled the tapes. Next week her face would be replaced by someone else’s. Even if he saved all the tapes, why would anyone look for her in a gun shop in Hookset, New Hampshire?

The bartender interrupted her litany of worries. “How’s the wine? Would you like another glass?”

Startled, she saw that her glass was almost empty. “No, thanks.” She paid the tab and surveyed the room. The bar was far more crowded now than before. A slow-burn of acid churned her stomach. The gun buy had gone badly because of her sloppy preparation. From now on, she would take more care with her research and stay aware of her surroundings.

Music sabotaged her resolve.

Miles Davis playing "The Maids of Cadiz."

The haunting ballad brought tears to her eyes. And memories of Willem. She pictured his craggy face. They could have been so happy. Unwilling to cry, she dug her nails into her palms. She had shed too many tears over Willem, and this was no time to think about the past. She had to focus on her target.

She left the Press Room and went to her car. Her spirits lifted. The air smelled fresh and clean, and the .38 Special was locked in the trunk. She had bought it for one purpose. To avenge her mother.  Three weeks from now she would.

Then she could get on with her life.

Memories of Oliver swirled in her mind like wisps of smoke: his sexy smile, his seductive gaze, his intoxicating scent. She got in the Honda, took out his card and punched his number into her cell. After one ring he answered in his sexy low-pitched voice.

“Hi Oliver, this is Robin Adair.”

“Robin! I’m so glad you called. Are you in Boston?”

“No, Portsmouth, New Hampshire, staying with friends.”

“Any chance you can come to Boston Friday so we can have dinner?”

Her body tingled, a delicious hint of the sexual arousal to come.

“I think that could be arranged.”

CHAPTER 14

Friday, 1 August

“Sorry I didn’t have these for you sooner,” Monica said, brushing frizzy carrot-colored hair away from her face. “It’s the hurricane. Three of my clients called yesterday wanting to pick up their orders early.”

Cursing the storm, Frank nodded, as though it wasn't a big deal, but Vobitch was pissed. He'd wanted to publish them yesterday. "It’s only two o’clock and traffic’s already crazy. The gas stations are mobbed, everybody topping off in case the mayor orders an evacuation.”

“The supermarkets are worse. Everyone’s stocking up on bottled water and non-perishable food. Even if there’s an evacuation a lot of people won’t leave. They’ll just hunker down and ride it out.”

The odor of printer’s ink and paste-up glue filled Monica's first-floor studio. She was the graphic artist NOPD hired to do their composite sketches. Her shop was on Frenchman Street near the French Quarter.

“How about you? Are you leaving?”

“I doubt it. This place is on fairly high ground. I don’t want looters to come in and trash the place.” She went to a gun-metal gray desk in the corner, opened a folder and showed him a computer printout.

He studied the sketch. It was based on Natalie Brixton’s yearbook photo but altered to what she might look like at age 30. Monica had made her face thinner to highlight her well-defined cheekbones and altered her mouth. Unlike the photo, Natalie wasn't smiling. The image was striking.

“Great job.” He'd love to compare it to the video, but the hat brim and dark glasses had hidden the woman's face.

Monica gave him another sketch. “I did a three-quarter view to show her profile.”

“Excellent!” Natalie’s chiseled jaw and slender nose were clearly visible.

“I did another one," she said, hesitantly handing him another printout. "I don’t know if you’ll like it.”

He stared at it, amazed. Monica had added sunglasses to the first likeness. Now it looked eerily like the woman in the video. He’d shown Monica a still from it but warned her not to talk about it. Over the years, he’d found her to be trustworthy. He hadn’t said where he got the still, but Monica watched TV and read the newspaper. She knew he was working the Peterson case.

“This is perfect!” he said. “Great idea.”

Monica beamed. “That’s what my clients pay me for, Frank. Great ideas.”

“You got an invoice? I want to get these on the early news.”

“I only put two on the invoice. I wasn’t sure you’d want the other one.”

“I want it. Can you print an invoice for all three?”

“Sure.” She sat down at her computer and got to work.

While she redid the invoice he wandered the shop. Colorful brochures, company logos, letterheads and poster board signs hung on the walls. One had a red arrow at the top that pointed both left and right. Below it, red letters said:
Parking for Italians Only
. He’d seen such signs in Boston’s North End, an Italian neighborhood where old women sat on stoops chattering in Italian and white-haired men played bocce in Paul Revere Park. The mobsters hung out at Café Pompeii, plotting their dirty deeds over cups of espresso. But most of them were in jail now, and gentrification had brought more affluent residents.

Monica gave him the invoice. He thanked her, got in his car and called Vobitch. “I just picked up three sketches from Monica. They’re great.”

“About time,” Vobitch growled. “This fuckin hurricane is headed right at us. Bring ‘em in so I can fax ‘em to the TV stations.”

“You think the mayor will order an evacuation?”

“Hell if I know. The TV stations are running a crawl line about the mayor’s news conference at three. If he mandates an evacuation, the sketches won’t be worth shit. Only thing you'll see on TV will be the mayor and live shots of stalled traffic on the Interstate. Even if they run the sketch, nobody'll see it. Most people have already left.”

Frank said nothing. Vobitch was right. In this town, a hurricane in the Gulf trumped everything, including VIP murders, pit-bull politicians and asshole DA's like Roger Demaris.

_____

For her Friday night date with Oliver she wore her favorite silk dress, an Yves St. Laurent with a long skirt, boat neckline and red dragons on a black background. She had banished her worries, for the moment at least.

Time to relax and have fun with an attractive man.

He took her to Ristorante Abate, an Italian restaurant in Boston's North End. When they arrived at seven, the Maître d' greeted Oliver by name and said he had a superb table for two on the second floor.

In the foyer, a well-dressed couple sat at a bar watching a national weather report on TV. Hurricane Gail was a huge orange swirl in the Gulf heading for New Orleans. Pretending to adjust the strap on her shoe, she read the crawl line at the bottom: the New Orleans mayor had ordered a mandatory evacuation. She straightened and smiled at Oliver, but the news darkened her mood. If New Orleans took a major hit from Hurricane Gail, the city might not get back to normal for weeks.

But she’d worry about that tomorrow, along with all the other things she had to worry about.

Their table had a fabulous view of Boston harbor and twinkling lights on buildings along the waterfront. Once they ordered their drinks—a Manhattan for Oliver, red wine for her—she stopped fretting about the hurricane. She wanted to enjoy the company of a man she found enormously attractive. Tonight Oliver had on a charcoal-gray Armani suit—she’d know that tailoring anywhere—and a pastel-blue shirt that favored his sky-blue eyes. He sipped his Manhattan and smiled. “Have you ever been in a hurricane?”

Sometimes it seemed like he could read her mind. Dangerous.

“No, have you?”

“Yes. When you hear about 150-mph winds on TV, it’s just a number, but it’s downright terrifying when you’re in the middle of it.”

“When was this?”

“Years ago, in Barbados.”

“What were you doing in Barbados?”

He did his George Clooney bit, leaning forward and giving her a sexy smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“If I told you," he said quietly, "I'd have to kill you.”

She laughed dutifully, but the comment scared her. He'd said it as a joke, but it might have been a ploy to avoid answering her. She did that sometimes when she didn’t want to deal with inconvenient questions.

“I lived in New Orleans as a kid, but I don’t remember any hurricanes.” Back then hurricanes had been the least of her problems.

“Really?” Oliver said. “I thought you grew up in the Midwest.”

She sipped her wine, buying time to concoct an answer. Why did she say she’d lived in New Orleans? Because for the first time in weeks she was having fun. From now on, she'd think before she opened her mouth.

She was saved by their waiter, who recited the specials.

“I recommend the Zuppetta di Cozzi for the first course," Oliver said. "Sautéed mussels in a garlic and tomato broth. It’s delicious.”

“That sounds wonderful. I love mussels.”

The waiter wrote down their order. While Oliver chose a bottle of wine she glanced around Ristorante Abate. An intimate restaurant, one suited for romance, not business discussions. She wondered when he’d been here, and with whom. A woman, probably.

After the waiter left, Oliver said, “You were about to tell me about where you grew up. New Orleans and the Midwest? Whereabouts?”

In addition to charm and intelligence, Oliver had an excellent memory. She cursed herself for mentioning the Midwest. She’d never been there. “We moved around a lot. One little Midwestern town looks pretty much like another. Where did you grow up?”

He said nothing for a moment. At last he said, “Connecticut until I was ten. Then we moved to Washington, D.C. My father was a low-level diplomat in the Foreign Service.”

“That must have been interesting. Did you travel abroad?”

“No. I didn’t get to Paris until after I graduated from college. Where did you go to college?” He sipped his Manhattan and looked at her expectantly.

Her hands dampened with sweat. All these questions about her past were unnerving. “I didn’t,” she said, truthfully. “My parents had no money. I took a few courses here and there at community colleges. None that you’ve ever heard of, I’m sure.”

"Where did your parents come from?" he asked, smiling at her.

Another question she wasn't prepared to answer.

Again the waiter saved her. After putting a basket of garlic bread on their linen-draped table, he set tureens of steaming soup in front of them. The spicy aroma made her mouth water. The waiter opened their wine and poured a sample for Oliver, who nodded. The waiter filled their glasses and left.

Oliver gestured at her Zuppetta di Cozzi. “I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will. It smells fabulous.”

For a time they were silent, enjoying the soup and the warm buttery garlic bread. Finally, Oliver said, “Seen any good films lately? I’m a big movie fan.”

Movies? She'd been far too busy to see movies. She couldn’t even think of a current title. “Not lately. I used to, but now that I’m busy writing ...”

“Let’s compare favorites. What's yours?”

At last, an easy question. “I loved
The Full Monty
.”

“Hmm. I didn’t see that one. What’s it about?”

“A bunch of unemployed Brits are desperate for money.” She laughed. “So they go and stand in the unemployment line buck-naked.”

“Sounds hilarious. Where’d you see it?”

“I forget.” Next he’d ask who she’d seen it with. That reminded her of Darren and another film they'd seen together. “I liked
L.A. Confidential
, too.”

“Yes. Kim Basinger was great, but I hated the Hedy Lamar look. Sad movie.”

You have no idea how sad it is to be a prostitute.

“What’s your favorite?” she asked. Make him talk about himself and stop asking questions. But before he could answer, the waiter came to clear their first course. After he swept crumbs off the tablecloth and left, Oliver said, “Last week in New York I saw
The Departed.
I love Scorsese films.” 

“Me too,” she said. “I loved
Goodfellas
and the
Cape Fear
remake.”

“You must be into crime,” Oliver said.

Another unnerving statement. He smiled, his eyes dancing with mischief. She decided he was joking. “Isn’t everyone? Crime
films
, I mean.”

He nodded but his smile was gone. “You’re very feminine, Robin, but you have an aura of toughness about you. Where did that come from, I wonder?”

And you’ll have to keep wondering
. She launched into a story about her visit to Monet’s house in Giverny outside Paris, describing the magnificent gardens. That led to a discussion about art and painting that continued throughout dinner. When they finished, Oliver said, “Would you like dessert?”

“No thanks. Everything was delicious, but I couldn’t eat another bite.”

“Good. I was hoping we’d go to my hotel room.” Gazing into her eyes, he caressed her hand. “I want to make love to you.”

_____

Two hours later she lay beside him in his king-sized bed, lulled into satisfied stillness by his lovemaking. Oliver’s foreplay, by turns tender and passionate, had brought her to a shuddering climax. Not only was he an intelligent man and a fine conversationalist, he was a marvelous lover. Her best ever, except for Willem. She wasn’t in love with Oliver, but this had been a wonderful evening, one she desperately needed. For a few hours, she'd been able to relax and forget the heavy burden of responsibility she carried. 

He rolled onto his side and caressed her cheek. “You're an amazing woman, Robin. I can’t imagine why some guy hasn’t married you so he can have you all to himself.”

“I could say the same about you. You’re not married, are you?” After this delightful evening, she didn’t want to find out he was married. Over the past ten years, she'd met enough married men to last a lifetime.

“No, I’m not married. Never got around to it. And you?”

“Same here. I’m still trying to figure out what I’m going to be when I grow up, remember?”

“I remember everything about you, Robin. It’s been ages since I felt this comfortable with a woman. Would you like a drink of water?”

“That would be perfect.”

He went to an alcove where the bathroom was located. Naked, he looked even better than he did in a suit, his body trim and muscular. Moments later she heard the toilet flush. He returned to the bed with two glasses of water. They drank deeply. Then Oliver lay down beside her and pulled her close.

“Tell me about your parents. Are they still living?”

Why did he have to spoil things with all these questions? Questions that brought back bitter memories, long-ago traumas and more recent ones. She caressed his wiry chest hair. “Oliver, my family is not something I care to discuss right now. Not when I’m feeling so relaxed and happy.”