Natalie's Revenge (20 page)

Gazing into her eyes, he caressed her cheek. “Unpleasant memories?”

“Yes." She glanced at the clock radio on the bedside table. Almost one a.m. Time to leave before he skewered her with more questions. "This has been a magnificent evening, Oliver, but I should go now.”

“Really? Why not stay the night? I hate to think of you driving to New Hampshire at this hour."

“I’ll be okay. I need to get back. I have a lot to do tomorrow.” She rose from the bed and began putting on her clothes.

“Working on another article?”

Aware that he was watching her, she said, “Oh, various things.”

Worrisome things that were now at the forefront of her mind. Hurricane Gail and the evacuation. Detective Renzi investigating two murders. Most of all, worries about her target. Was he in New Orleans now or watching the storm from another city in one of his swanky bars?

When she finished dressing, Oliver rose from the bed and came to her. She put her arms around his neck. “I enjoy your company very much, Oliver. Thank you for making this such a wonderful evening.”

He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “The first of many, I hope. How long will you be staying with your friends in New Hampshire?”

“I’m not sure.” She wanted to see him again, but she had to keep her eyes on the prize. The countdown to the Main Event had begun. “I may have to fly to Chicago to wrap up my article.”

“If you do, I hope you’ll call me. Do you have a cell phone?”

He was angling for her number, but she wasn't going to give it to him. “I’ll call you in a few days, I promise.”

He smiled and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “You better. I’ve grown quite fond of you, Robin Adair. If you don’t call me, I might have to track you down.”

Track you down
.

The words sent a frisson of fear down her spine.

She brushed his lips with a kiss and left.

CHAPTER 15

Saturday, 2 August  1:15 p.m. 

A fine mist blurred the windshield of his squad car, a hint of the deluge Hurricane Gail would bring. Frank tried to get comfortable, but his uniform, which he seldom wore, had a ton of gear strapped to the belt. For more than an hour he'd been parked underneath the Pontchartrain Expressway a block west of Lee's Circle. Traffic was sparse, almost nonexistent.

Most of the evacuees had already gone. The governor of Louisiana had declared a state of emergency and activated 2,000 members of the National Guard. The mayor had announced a dusk-to-dawn curfew. After six o’clock, he'd be flagging down any car not deemed essential. All NOPD officers below supervisory rank were pulling twelve hour shifts. He’d drawn noon to midnight. Kelly had midnight to noon. He wouldn't be seeing her for a while.

A black Ford Explorer barreled down the St. Charles Avenue exit ramp and slewed to a screeching halt at the red light when the driver spotted his cruiser. During evacuations people drove like maniacs, running red lights and gridlocking intersections.

Evacuation of the parishes on the Gulf had begun yesterday, assisted by contraflow lane reversals, outbound-only on all highways going north, east, and west. Unwilling to repeat the Katrina debacle that stranded thousands of residents, the state had mobilized 700 buses to drive evacuees to shelters north of Lake Pontchartrain. Others had been put on trains at the Amtrak station.

The light changed and the black Explorer lurched forward. He eyeballed the driver, a long-haired white male. The guy was probably up to no good, but he wasn’t here to stop suspicious drivers. He was here to make sure traffic didn't get snarled so that any last minute stragglers could evacuate.

A half hour ago Maureen had called. Hearing her voice and her parting word
s
Love
you, Dad. Be carefu
l
had gotten him through the first hour of his shift, but now he was bored. He’d forgotten to bring some CDs. No music on the radio, the stations were all-talk, people calling in to bitch about traffic and whatever else was on their mind. Many were angry that tomorrow's Saints game had been moved to Cincinnati. Others were furious that Mississippi Governor Haley Barbour had closed the I-10 east-bound lanes at the Mississippi border. Barbour said he didn’t want Mississippi residents to get stuck on a clogged Interstate. This forced Louisiana evacuees headed east to Georgia and Florida to drive north on I-55. Now I-55 was a parking lot.

His cell buzzed,  Vobitch calling him. “What’s doing, Frank?”

“Nothing. I’m parked in a cruiser near Lee’s Circle. What’s happening at the station?”

“Bedlam. Everybody's bitching about something. Did you see the T-P this morning?” T-P was Vobitch’s polite term for the
Times-Picayune
, his more colorful moniker being
fucking local rag
. 

“I didn’t have time, caught a few winks before I came in for my shift.”

“No sketch in today’s paper. When I called they said they had to cover the hurricane to, and I quote,
Serve the needs of the public
. Christ, first they crucify us for not solving the Peterson case, then they screw us because of a fucking hurricane. The TV stations ran the sketch at the end of the news, but who’s watching? Everyone’s gone, only ones left are the nogoodnicks and desperadoes.”

“Take it easy, Morgan. After Gail blows through and people come back, we’ll have ‘em run it again. By then people will be paying attention.”

“I hope so. Only thing we got going for us is the Babylon Casino bigshots are more worried about losing money because they’re closed than they are about the Peterson case.”

“Be grateful for small favors,” he said, eyeballing the intersection. “Man, this place is a ghost town.”

“You’ll get some action later. The drug pushers come out after dark like the roaches they are. You don’t think the little maggots desperate for their next fix are gonna evacuate, do you?”

“Probably not. Where’s Juliana? Did she stay or go?”

Twenty years ago, Juliana, a tall willowy black woman, had been a ballet dancer in New York City. One night after a show Vobitch rescued her from a mugger. Not love at first sight, but close. For all his salty language, Vobitch had a cultural side few people saw. One night over a beer, Vobitch told him his parents had fled Russia to escape the pogroms rounding up Jews. His father, a professor of Fine Arts in Russia, was reduced to selling men's clothes at a Manhattan department store. But he'd taken his son to symphony concerts and art museums on a regular basis.

“She decided to stay. She’s stubborn too." Vobitch chuckled. "That’s why we get along.”

He smiled, imagining the spirited debates that enlivened the Vobitch household.

“Nathan’s South is still open. You want a sandwich?”

Vobitch claimed he maintained an office at the Eighth District Station in the Quarter because he wanted to be where the action was. Bullshit. Nathan’s South, which made New York-style deli sandwiches, was two blocks away. They’d named one The Vobitch: pastrami and Swiss on rye with spicy Dijon mustard and a big dill pickle.

Frank figured Vobitch felt guilty about being in the station while he was out patrolling. “Hell yes. The Vobitch, spicy brown mustard, no tomato. With fries. It might be a while before I see another meal.”

“Okay, I’ll call in the order, bring it over in a half-hour or so.”

He shut his cell and eyeballed the area. No cars and no pedestrians.

But then a skinny black man on a fancy trail bike whipped through the underpass, pedaling like mad, and disappeared down St. Charles Avenue. Fancy bike for such a scruffy-looking guy.

His cell rang and he grabbed it when he saw the ID.

“Hey, Frank, how are things?” Kelly said. "Any problems?"

“Not a one. I'm bored as hell. How bad was your shift last night?”

“You don’t want to know. Why do people turn into idiots when they get in cars?”

“Because they got the idiot genes. Where were you?”

“Slidell. It was chaos, a gazillion people trying to get on I-10 east."

“And couldn’t because the Mississippi governor got the idiot genes, too.”

“He sure did. I don’t know what he was thinking. Instead of getting on a four-lane highway, they had to go north on a two-lane. I hear there's a twenty mile backup on I-55.”

He heard her stifle a yawn. “Better get some sleep. Another long night tonight.”

“I’m going to bed as soon as I hang up.”

Lowering his voice to a sexy murmur, he said, “What are you wearing?”

“Don’t you start, Frank Renzi. I saw
Sea of Love
, too.”

“Ellen Barkin was great, wasn’t she?”

“Yeah. Walks in a grocery store bare-ass-naked under her trench coat and Al Pacino’s waiting for her in the produce department, squeezing the melons.”

“One of my all-time favorite scenes. So? What have you got on?”

But then his radio handset erupted:
Renzi, you still near St. Charles Avenue?

“Hold on,” he said to Kelly, “Dispatch calling.”

He keyed his radio. “Renzi, what’s up?”

“Armed robbery in progress at Walgreen's, corner of St. Charles and Jackson.”

“I’m on it.” He dropped the handset on the passenger seat, slammed the car into gear and said to Kelly, “Gotta go. Armed robbery at a Walgreen’s.”

“Ah, geez. Be careful, Frank.”

“I always am.”

“Liar. Call me when it’s wrapped.”

“I will.” He turned onto St. Charles and hit the lights but not the siren.

Three minutes later he slowed at the Jackson Avenue intersection. Walgreen’s was across the street beyond the neutral ground with the streetcar tracks. He hooked a U-turn and parked. The store was closed, but the drive-up window was open so people could fill prescriptions.

He unholstered his weapon and crept to the front window. The front of the store was dark, but lights were visible in back near the pharmacy window. He edged along the front of the store, stopped at the corner and took a quick peek. And saw the scruffy black guy straddling the fancy bike at the drive-up window. He was holding a gun on the clerk inside the drive-up window.

“Police!" Frank shouted. "Drop the gun and get on the ground!”

But the guy didn’t drop the gun. He whirled and shot at him.

_____

Nashua, New Hampshire

At two o’clock she took a taxi to the Super Stop & Shop near the highway exit closest to the Massachusetts border. Last night she’d found the car she needed on eBay. The owner lived in Billerica, 20 miles from the New Hampshire border. After some haggling Bobby Oakes had agreed to sell his metallic-brown 2002 Ford Focus to her for $3,500 in cash. He'd just finished his junior year at U-Mass-Lowell and needed money to pay his tuition in the fall. She'd promised him an extra $100 if he would drive to Nashua to complete the transaction.

Bobby wasn't due until two-thirty, but she wanted to be there when he arrived to make sure he didn't look dodgy. She bought a bottle of iced tea in the Stop & Shop, went outside and sat on a shaded bench in front of the store.

The parking lot was jam-packed with cars and shoppers wheeling grocery carts out to their cars. An elderly woman with wispy white hair pushed a cart out of the store and sank onto the bench beside her. “Pretty soon I’ll be eating Alpo meatloaf. I swear they raise the prices every week.” 

She nodded in commiseration. “It does seem like it.”

The woman smiled at her. “What a cute hat. Where did you get it?”

Earlier, she’d bought the broad-brimmed beach hat at a Dollar Store. “Thanks. I got it at Hampton Beach. Have a nice day.”

Unwilling to get into a conversation lest the woman remember her, she rose from the bench, went inside and stood at the community bulletin-board by the front window, pretending to read the flyers. A minute later a yellow taxi stopped in front of the bench. The elderly woman got in the cab and the driver loaded her groceries into the trunk. As the taxi drove away a metallic-brown Ford Focus entered the lot, trailed by an ancient yellow VW Bug.

The Ford pulled into a space near the Stop & Shop marquee and the Bug parked beside it. A pudgy kid in cutoff jeans and a Red Sox T-Shirt got out of the Ford Focus and looked around.

She left the store and walked over to him. “Hi, Bobby?”

“Yes, are you Angela?”

“I am. Thanks for driving up to meet me. Do you have the title?”

He waved an envelope. “Got it right here. You got the loot?”

“Yes, but I’d like to see the title first, to make sure it’s in order.”

She reached for the envelope, but he jerked it away. “Show me the money.” A wide grin spread over his pudgy face. “Man, I love that line.”

Irritation gnawed at her stomach. She had no time for this. She had too much to do and too many things to worry about. “This isn’t a movie, Bobby. Come on, I’ll count out the money for you.”

She went to the trunk of his car, took out her wallet and peeled off 100-dollar bills. “There’s the 3,500 for the car, plus the 100-dollars I promised you for driving up here. Show me the title.”

He showed her the title but kept a firm grip on it. “I deserve 200 for driving up here. Gas is expensive. I hadda fill Jimmy’s tank to get him to follow me here and drive me home. Besides, you won’t have to pay sales tax if you register it in New Hampshire.”

She had no intention of registering the car in New Hampshire, but he didn’t need to know that. “We made a deal, Bobby. An extra 100. That’s what I brought.”

“But 3,500 only covers tuition. Textbooks are expensive.”

“You’ve got your problems and I’ve got mine. Let’s do a walk-around.” She circled the car to check for damage. The driver’s side had a few dings, nothing to get excited about, but the right front fender had a big dent and a long scrape where the paint was missing.

She gave Bobby a stern look. “You didn't mention the dent and the scratched paint on the phone last night. Take the 3,600 and give me the title and the keys.”

Avoiding her gaze, he called, “Jimmy, take the plate off my car, will ya?”

Jimmy, a string-bean with a long dark ponytail, got to work on the plate. Bobby counted the money again and handed her the title. “The car runs great, Angela. I just changed the oil a week ago.”

“That's good, but I need keys to drive it.”

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot.” He handed her the ignition key, took a spare key out of his jeans pocket and called, “Are we set, Jimmy?”

Jimmy held up the license plate. They climbed into the yellow Bug, and drove off. She climbed in the Focus and cranked the engine. The car reeked of cigarette smoke, and the gas gauge was riding on empty. Thanks a bunch, Bobby. She’d better fill the tank. Another chore, one of many on her Do-list.

Be prepared. Leave nothing to chance. She pulled a rectangular piece of cardboard out of her tot
e
her makeshift temporary plat
e
and placed it in the rear window, hoping a cop wouldn’t stop her on the way home. Her condo complex had a large parking area to accommodate visitors, and the metallic-brown Ford Focus was innocuous-looking. That's why she'd chosen it. The Ford would be just another car among many.