Natalie's Revenge (34 page)

Fear blossomed in his eyes. When I shut off the tape recorder and raised the gun, the fear turned to terror.

“Please,” he said, “Don’t shoot me. I couldn’t help it.”

I had known this moment might come, but I hadn't allowed myself to think about it. Now the moment had arrived. The murderous moment. Arnold was at my mercy, naked, trussed to a bed.

Could I shoot him and walk away with a clear conscience?

I thought about Randy, teetering on the edge of the bluff, begging me not to shoot him. But that was different. Randy killed defenseless animals like Muffy and made his sister give him blowjobs. Randy deserved to die.

Arnold wasn't the man who murdered my mother, BoBo was. But Arnold had helped him get away with it, had driven BoBo home and listened to his confession. Worst of all, rather than call the police and tell them he knew who murdered the woman in the Royal Arms Hotel, Arnold had told no one.

Because Arnold wanted to become rich and powerful like BoBo.

I aimed the gun at his forehead and pulled the trigger.

CHAPTER 27

Sunday, 17 August

Frank mopped sweat off his forehead and glanced at Kenyon Miller, pounding away on the CYBEX treadmill beside him, his Saints T-shirt dark with sweat. They'd been at it for 40 minutes. He hated running on machines, but it was raining like hell outside. He increased his speed, still frustrated by his fruitless conversation with Joereen Beaubien yesterday.

Wednesday's deadline loomed like a 24-second clock running down at the end of a tie basketball game. Make the shot or lose. Find Peterson's killer or you're off the case. Three days and he had nothing.

Where's Natalie? No clue.

Who's her next target? No clue there either.

Miller took a towel off his treadmill, wiped his sweaty face and looked over, breathing hard. "You training for a marathon or something?"

"No, I'm pissed. Hank called last night. Not a peep from the nationwide BOLO Boston PD put out on Robin Adair." His cell rang and he snatched it out of the cup holder. "Renzi."

"Hi Franco, how you doing?"

"Hey, whaddaya know?" A familiar yearning seized him. Gina. Damn, he was glad to hear from her.

"Got a few tidbits for you. Am I interrupting anything?"

"Yeah, I'm in bed with Angelina Jolie, can't you hear me puffing?" He saw Miller's head swivel, his mouth open in a silent laugh.

"That's my Franco, always wowing the women. Where's Brad?"

"I sent him out to mow the grass." He winked at Miller. "Actually I'm on a treadmill beside my partner, Kenyon Miller." He glanced at Miller's CYBEX dashboard. "I'm three miles ahead of him."

"Total bullshit!" Miller shouted. "Don't believe it."

Along the line of treadmills, heads turned, men with grinning faces.

"Sounds like your partner knows you're a smartass," Gina said.

"True. So what's up?"

"My Boston PD source tells me the ballistics analysis on the bullet that killed Oliver James didn't match the slugs in your murder cases down there."

"Hold on." He hit Stop and stepped off the treadmill. Mopping his face with a towel, he walked to a vacant machine in the corner. "Okay, now I can talk. Hank called me yesterday about the ballistics report. He also said they've got nothing on Robin Adair. But enough shoptalk, tell how
you're
doing."

"I got thinking about what you said. Last Friday I cooked a great dinner. No smartass remarks, Franco, I still make damn good lasagna. When Greg got home, I opened a bottle of Chianti and told him I ran into an old friend. He knew what I meant, not that I said your name or anything. Then I laid it on the line. I said maybe he wasn't interested in sex anymore, but I was." Gina chuckled, the same evil chuckle he fondly remembered. "He didn't even wait for dessert, took me to bed and fucked my brains out."

"Good for you. I'm glad things worked out." But was he really glad or was he just saying that?

"So there you have it. All the news that's fit to print, and some that isn't."

"Greg needed a dope-slap and I'm glad you gave him one."

"Yeah, but you know what? I still miss you. We had some great times."

His throat tightened. "Yes, we did. So stay in touch and let me know how you're doing."

"You got it, Franco. Talk to you later."

He closed his cell. He was glad that she'd put things right with Greg. Gina was a terrific woman and she deserved to be happy. He dearly hoped the Big C didn't come back to bite her. He saw Miller heading his way, smiling. "Was that your new girlfriend?" Miller said

"No," he said, truthfully, "an old one. But she's happily married. Let's hit the showers."

_____

BoBo’s Go-Go Bar in Central City had no lurid neon lights, no flashing outlines of big-bosomed babes with sexy legs. The exterior looked almost prim, the lower half tan-brick, above it white-painted clapboards. A discreet sign above entrance said: BoBo’s Go-Go Bar.

To avoid leaving a record of her destination, she'd given the cabdriver an address two blocks away and walked to the bar. The early evening air was pleasant, cool and not too humid, but her palms were sweaty. If she played her cards right, she would soon be face-to-face with Chip Beaubien.

She entered the foyer, a wood-paneled area lined with photographs, BoBo with various VIPs, beaming his toothy smile. Beyond a wide archway, she saw well-dressed men seated on high-backed stools at the bar. No women of course, not in a club that featured sexy babes dancing in scanty outfits. Soft jazz was playing on a sound system. Not her taste, but she assumed the music would change when the show began an hour from now at eight o’clock.

As she entered the main room, a man intercepted her. He was big and brawny, over six feet tall, and broad shoulders filled his tuxedo. Dressed like a maitre d, acting like a bouncer, his frosty eyes boring into hers. "Help you with something?"

"I'm here to speak to Mr. Beaubien."

"You got an appointment?"

She flashed a confident smile. "No, but I'm writing a magazine article about him, a flattering article. I'm sure Mr. Beaubien will be thrilled with it."

He studied her outfit, her sleek auburn wig, her elegant beige linen jacket, her matching knee-length skirt, and her gold Caparros sandals. He gave her a hard stare. "Okay. Sit at the bar, the stool around the corner at the far end so nobody'll bother you."

Conscious of men's eyes on her, she walked to end of the 30-foot bar. Around the corner were two vacant stools. She took the one next to the wall. To her right, maroon-velvet sofas grouped around low tables filled a spacious dark-carpeted area in front of a stage. No TV sets anywhere or pictures of sexy women. Of course not. Men came here to see live women strut their stuff.

A beefy red-haired man in a white shirt and a maroon cummerbund set a cocktail napkin on the polished mahogany bar in front of her. Above a stylized line drawing of a martini glass,
BoBo’s Go-Go Bar
was emblazoned on the napkin in mauve letters. "Evening, ma'am. Would you like a cocktail? Our Southern Comfort Kamikaze is the Sunday special." 

“Sounds dangerous. What’s in it?”

“Southern Comfort, triple sec and lime juice, over shaved ice.”

“I’ll try one. Could I have a glass of ice water as well?”

He smiled, his ruddy face weathered below his mop of curly red hair. “You must be really thirsty.”

She returned his smile. Always make friends with the bartender. “I am.”

After he left, she took a pen and steno pad out of her tote and set her tinted Vera Wang glasses against the bridge of her nose. Props for her fateful meeting. Earlier, using her well-honed makeup techniques, she had fashioned her sleek Grace Kelly look, cool and sexy but not blatantly so. She put on the sleeveless teal top she’d splurged on in Paris, clingy but not skin-tight. A boat neck exposed the skin above her breasts, but no cleavage. After donning her beige suit, she had crept downstairs, hoping to avoid Banshee. No such luck.

“Going out on the town, are you?” squawked that horrible voice.

“Have a good evening, Mrs. Reilly,” she'd said, and left.

She looked at the doodles on her steno pad, two lines filled with letter B's. B for BoBo? Or Banshee? The woman was beyond annoying. She was like a cat waiting to pounce. No, cats were quick and agile. Mrs. Reilly was like a wild pig, a fat crafty creature, lying in wait for her prey.

The bartender delivered her Kamikaze with a flourish and glanced at her notepad. “What y’all writing? A novel?”

“Could be. Maybe I’ll put you in it.”

“Far out!” He scooped ice into a glass, filled it with water, set it on the bar and left to serve another customer.

She pretended to sip her Kamikaze through the straw. No alcohol to muddle her thoughts. She had to stay alert. Should she take off her jacket? No. The room was chilly. She unbuttoned the top four buttons to expose her teal blouse. The color went well with her auburn wig.

To ease the crick in her neck, she tilted her head back and saw a video camera mounted on the wall above her. She glanced around the room and spotted two more. If there were three, there might be more. Maybe Chip used the tapes to blackmail prominent businessmen as they watched the dancers.

“How y’all doing, dawlin?” said a reedy voice.

Startled, she turned. A man slipped onto the adjacent stool, gazing at her. She’d know those eyes anywhere. Chip-off-the-old-block eyes.

But she couldn’t act like she recognized him. Although her heart was beating wildly, she dredged up a smile. Not a big smile, a hesitant one, as though she wasn’t sure what to say. “I’m doing fine,” she said in a soft voice. “How about you?”

His eyes grew frosty, Prussian-blue eyes, poised to attack, as ruthless as a Prussian soldier. “That depends. You a working girl?”

She knew what he meant. He thought she was a hooker. She had to play this perfectly. Dipping into her bag of acting tricks, she said with a faint smile, “Yes. But not the kind you’re thinking.”

His face, a carbon copy of his father’s, bore a stony expression. His thick blond hair was impeccably styled, tendrils flipped forward over his forehead, but it wasn’t his looks that reminded her of BoBo, it was his attitude. A man used to getting his way in business, and with women. Supremely confident, verging on arrogant, sending a clear message:
Don’t fuck with me
.

“I'm hoping to meet Chip Beaubien. I'm writing an article about him.”

The frosty eyes thawed slightly. “What kind of article?”

“A feature article for the
New Yorker.
”

A glimmer of interest entered his eyes. “You write for the
New Yorker
?”

“A few articles, yes.”
Careful. This is the Internet Age. He can check.

Feigning modesty, she said, “Actually, they were restaurant reviews. I’m writing this one on spec. I sure do hope Mr. Beaubien will help me.”

“What’s your name?”

“April West.”

He squeezed her hand. “Nice to meet you, April. I’m Chip Beaubien.”

She made her eyes go wide. “Oh my God, I can’t believe it. I mean, I can, but this is just so . . . strange. Meeting you like this.”

He smiled, revealing well-tended white teeth. “No need to gush. I’m an average guy like everybody else.”

No you’re not. Your father was a killer. You're as arrogant as he was, and you're going to pay for it.

Chip waved at the bartender who stood at the other end of the bar. The redhead practically sprinted to them. “What can I get you, boss?”

“Make the lady a fresh cocktail. I’ll have the usual. We'll be at Table 69." He got off his stool and took her arm. “Let's talk, April.”

He led her to an alcove set into the back wall. One step up from the floor, a table for two was set with sterling silver and white linen napkins. Chip was having his usual cocktail. Was this his usual table? Wood-paneled walls enclosed it on three sides. To shield it from video cameras? Everyone knew what 69 meant. Did Chip bring women to Table 69 while the show was on and make them give him blowjobs?

She slid onto the semi-circular padded-leather bench. Chip slid in from the other side, snuggled close to her and smiled. A supremely confident smile. “Tell me about April West.”

She had prepared her back-story carefully. “I’ve been freelancing, Boston and New York mostly. But I’d like to move up to a steady job.”

“At the
New Yorker
?”

“Why not reach for the stars? Your father did.”

A tuxedoed waiter delivered their drinks, another Kamikaze for her, a Manhattan with a cherry for Chip, and disappeared. She had a momentary flashback: Oliver James sipping his Manhattan.

Chip sucked the cherry into his mouth and gave her a satisfied smile. "Pops was great. Shoot for the moon, son. That’s what Pops always told me.”

“What was he like?” she asked, eyes wide with innocence.

Chip waved a hand. “Tell me about you. Where’d you go to school?”

“I majored in journalism at Boston University.”

“Good school. Tell me about your article.” He sipped his Manhattan and studied her, his rapacious eyes roaming her body.

“I thought I’d start with a summary of your father . . .” Seeing his sudden annoyance, she quickly added, “But you’d be the main focus. You know, how you took over the business when he died and made it even more successful.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, gazing at her, stroking his chiseled chin.

“I thought I could take some pictures so people would know what—”

“No pictures. We don’t allow photographers in here.”

“Or working girls,” she said mischievously.

No smile. “Or working girls. This is a respectable bar, not a dump.”

But not much different from the Platinum-Plus Gentlemen’s Club where she’d danced topless for rich important men. She wondered if it had private rooms where men could get lap dances. Rooms with hidden video cameras. “Of course it is," she said. "I was kidding.”