Rogues & Patriots, page 30
Our plane left at four p.m. Once we were in the air, riding business class, I felt inexplicably shy. When the flight attendant came around, we ordered drinks and grilled chicken sandwiches with brie and arugula and cranberry mustard. After we’d eaten, we chatted quietly. Not about anything much. I didn’t want to describe the mayhem in Bel Air, and Adara didn’t ask. She smelled of lemon and orange, but with a hint of something else, something all too human—joy or expectation tethered by fear and pain—complex emotions that seemed to take on a material presence.
Finally, as our plane arrowed through complete darkness, Adara leaned close and said, “Thank you, Nick. I can’t thank you enough. It’s hard to believe Thomas is in custody. I have to pinch myself. I’ve been waiting for this day since practically the moment we moved to California. And I’m pretty sure my father and I will be much better off answering to Dee Cole instead of Thomas.”
“You will be better off. We’ve got to hope rescuing your father goes smoothly. Unfortunately, there are no guarantees.”
“I’ve got a good feeling about it,” said Adara. She leaned even closer and pressed her cheek against mine. So soft and warm. Smooth like Caroline Best’s breasts. I breathed her in. Let her fill me. Like a starving man in the desert drinking pure, sweet water. We stayed this way for a long time. Finally, Adara spoke.
“There’s another good side to this. Since I won’t be under Thomas’s thumb anymore, I’m going to look into joining a repertory theater. I may contact Connie Reardon, my old drama professor at Hawthorne College. She was always after me to go farther in drama.”
“I hope you do,” I murmured softly. After that, we didn’t talk much. At times, Adara moved closer; at other times, she moved away.
She had booked us two rooms at Breed’s Hill Hotel on Charles Street north of the Commons, a few blocks from Agresti’s office. When we got to Logan International, we picked up our rental car and drove to the hotel. I kept both eyes open, but saw nothing alarming. We staggered upstairs to our rooms just before two a.m. Said goodnight in the hallway. No ado, not even a kiss, as if Adara had decided the rest of her night would not include me.
My room was small but elegant, painted a deep burgundy. Desk lamps resembling candles. Queen-sized bed with stained-oak, colonial-style headboard. I took off my shoes and socks and propped myself up against the headboard, thinking. My mind kept returning to Quincey’s basement. Could not get over the stoic way Cole had endured his horrific beating. These aristocrats seemed imbued with a hidden strength, which made them all the more terrifying.
When I began yawning, I took off my pants and shirt and lay down to sleep. Was just dropping off when I heard a knock on the door.
“Is that you, Adara?”
It was. She wore a blue bathrobe with white piping over a simple cotton negligee. “I can’t get to sleep. Too much excitement, I guess. Maybe you’d like to talk for a while?”
I needed little urging. Put my pants and shirt back on. Then we sat there, yoga style, facing each other on top of the bed.
We spoke quietly, letting the mood arrange itself. Nothing about the recent traumatic events. Instead, pieces of our lives—lives so impossibly different yet in some ways similar. I talked about my mother who left when I was only three, and she spoke of hers—a kind, elegant woman struck down in her prime by a deranged servant.
After a while, during a break in our conversation, she said she was going to take a shower. “Don’t fall asleep on me, Nick. Unless you really must.”
She used my bathroom and I waited for her, dreaming. Her elegance, her rose petal lips, and her gold-flecked, earth-brown eyes. The work of an artist…And then, there she was in front of me. Backlit by lamplight, the whole mystery. From ankle to calf to blossoming thigh. From hair to face to throat to breasts to gently sloping belly. And there in the middle—a purely modern girl…
We started out slowly. Both a little shy. I kissed her lips softly. She sighed and moved closer. Draped herself about me, her arms slim and strong. I caught her lower lip between my teeth. Bit down gently, then harder. She gasped. I released her lip and her tongue darted into my mouth. Like lightning. It inflamed me. But I didn’t hurry. There was no rush. One thing led to another, and before long I found myself, headfirst, in the wonderland between her thighs. By now, her sighs had turned to moans. When it was time, she came shrieking and muffled the sound with the bedsheet. This got her giggling. Then I got inside her. “Oh, Nick, honey!” She threw her head back and it was sweet abandon—her tawny throat so inviting, her breasts shimmying against my chest, and the supreme pleasure below…
After we’d recovered from the first time, she sat up in bed, her breasts damp, her nipples distended. She smiled. Joy with an edge of sadness that made it all the more joyful. Or…
The second time was different. Like plunging down a tunnel deep into the earth. A darker realm. Unchained sounds. Earthy smells. I crushed her breasts against my wounded chest and forgot everything except the woman who was loving me. Afterwards, she covered my face with kisses. Then we slept.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Woke up at seven-thirty, Adara by my side. I lay there with my eyes closed and breathed deeply—musk and perfume and the earthy smell of sex. I cradled her from behind; she rolled over and faced me. This time, we were calm and gentle. With a hint of sadness because we knew…Afterwards, we barely had time for a quick shower before heading downstairs for breakfast.
I asked for a table with a view of the street. Cold dark morning. Ominous sky. But beautiful in its own way. Famished. Both of us. I ordered the smoked salmon omelet and frittata. Adara chose Belgian waffles and their fancy egg sandwich. Then she ordered a second round of vanilla pancakes with fresh strawberries and maple syrup, which we shared. After the food was gone, we sat there looking at each other and smiling shyly.
But time. Had to get to Agresti’s office. Tipped our waiter and the maître d’hotel and asked the concierge to get me a taxi…and walked Adara back up to her room. We locked the door behind us. She sat down on the edge of the bed, and I sat down beside her. The sweet and the bittersweet. We didn’t say much. Mostly, we just held each other. Except at one point she murmured, “Nick, we are so good together.” Something caught in her throat. She released me, sat up straight, and took a deep breath.
I looked at her, and I felt something I hadn’t felt for nearly forever—something found and something lost on a cold, dark New England morning. I couldn’t explain what I was feeling, but it made my heart ache. I reached out and stroked the hollow of her elegant cheek. And wished we could vanish into some Neverland. Told Adara I would meet Mohammad and I’d bring him back, and then, with the help of my colleague Agresti, we’d take her and her father to a safe house.
As an added precaution, I had the cabbie run some counter-surveillance before dropping me off in front of Agresti’s building. The sky was gunmetal gray except to the immediate north across the Charles River, where a wine-dark stain stretched like an angry wound.
No sign of Agresti’s admin Valerie. Agresti himself sat behind her desk. There were fresh lines on his forehead that hadn’t been there two weeks ago. I told him Quincey’s team was on its last legs. At least for now. QB Tragg had gone to boxer’s heaven, and Quincey was in jail facing federal charges for cocaine trafficking. I told him spiriting Mohammad away from the Esplanade should not pose too much of a problem. Barring unforeseen circumstances. Then I shut up and waited. To at least a count of ten.
Finally, he spoke. “Everything’s ready.” He looked at me strangely.
“Hit me, Agresti. What’s up?”
He told me he’d been followed several times over the past few weeks and had received threatening emails. Although alarming, that was hardly the worst part. The worst part was the fact his garage had been firebombed. Fortunately, he and his fiancée were both at work when it happened.
“How much damage?”
“My boat was destroyed and all my sailing equipment.”
“Your boat?”
“Yeah, my boat. You got something against boats?”
“Of course not. I guess they were sending a message.”
“Something like that.”
“When did it happen?”
“A few days after Jet drove you to Hartford.”
“When was the last email?”
Agresti pondered. “Three or four days ago.”
“Have you been followed since then?”
He shook his head.
“Any more emails?”
Shook his head again. Could feel the wheels churning.
“Like I said, Quincey and his people are mostly locked up or dead. Or so it appears. There’s a new guy named Desmond Cole running the play. He’s the shiftiest of them all, but seems less addicted to violence than Quincey. Maybe. Strangely, at this point, I’m actually authorized by him to liberate Mohammad. For whatever that’s worth. So I need to get on with it. I don’t expect you to come with me. Not after they bombed your garage. And you’re about to get married. You don’t need this shit.” A little reverse psychology. I knew Agresti could see right through my ploy, but I also knew it would be hard for a take-charge guy like him, the tough as nails son of an even tougher Italian longshoreman, to simply wish me good luck and go on with his day.
Agresti was pissed. ’Cause I’d put him in this cross. I didn’t blame him. He was scared, too, which pissed him off even more. And the assholes had fucked with his boat. That shit don’t fly with Agresti. I looked him squarely in the eye. “Why don’t you give me the address and the keys to the safe house, and I’ll take care of it? In case there is a problem. And there could be. I’m not going to lie to you.”
Long moment of silence. Then Agresti spoke. “I appreciate that, Nick. But just ’cause I’m worried doesn’t mean I’m out. And it just so happens I need a serious cash infusion. The truth is, I’m a lot more comfortable being your muscle than I’d be sitting here on my ass wondering what the hell was going on.”
I thanked him. With utmost sincerity. I’ve worked alone a lot in my life. More comfortable that way than most guys. But there are jobs where you want backup. This was one of them.
Told Agresti I thought he should bring along a couple of his most discreet law enforcement buddies. This got him rattled all over again, but then he calmed down and got on the horn. Took a few calls. Then he connected and arranged for two Southie policemen to meet us at the drop-off spot on Soldiers Field Road at eleven o’clock.
He was worried and it was contagious. What if Mohammad didn’t show? Or Cole pulled a double-cross? Or Cole and Marguerite were working in tandem? Although Agresti and his people would be wearing iron, I felt naked without a firearm.
The purple stain hanging over the Charles River deepened into black as we shadowed the river on Storrow. My paranoia hit me hard as we passed under the Massachusetts Avenue Bridge. I suppressed a groan and stared straight ahead into the gloom. Agresti knew. “You’re feeling it too. Aren’t you?”
“Yep.”
“Just proves you’re human, my friend.”
We pulled into the drop-off zone a few minutes before eleven. Agresti’s people pulled in behind us. We waited. No sign of Mohammad. Ten minutes later, I looked at Agresti. He nodded grimly. We got out of his Fiat, and his people got out of their cruiser. In uniform. We huddled. Introductions were somewhere between brief and non-existent. I told the three men we would walk east through the tunnel and past the sailing pavilion. If there was still no sign of Mohammad when we reached Boston University, we would look for him in the university library. As a last resort. We’d proceed at the slow pace of the moon. Give Mohammad time to slip away and find us. For I could not believe he would not meet us as planned.
We stepped onto the road. I led the way. Agresti and the cops fell in three abreast behind me. We advanced slowly. With great care. Through the hardwood grove, heading east.
When we were ten yards from the tunnel, Mohammad emerged from its dark maw.
“Mohammad! It’s me! Nick Crane!”
At first, he looked bewildered. He stared at me, then turned and peered back into the tunnel. Satisfied, he waved and started toward us. He was no more than six feet away, and I was already reaching out to shake his hand when an old woman on a mountain bike rode out of the tunnel. The cold cracked my skull. I literally bowled Mohammad over, shouting, “Down! Get down!” Too late. For me. Her first shot skimmed past my skull. Shot two grazed my left forearm. Shot three buried itself in my belly.
Shot four came from our side. The last thing I remember, as the pain ripped through my gut and I went into shock, was watching the old woman topple off her bike.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
I remember waking up in the operating room. Briefly. Medics in lab coats milling about. They seemed satisfied. Nodding their heads and bumping their fists. The absence of pain. That would change. Heavily sedated for now. Back under. Stayed there for days. Spectral world of shapes and shadows. In the deep in the dark water with a bright blue stream of liquid mist above me. That was the good part. The bad part was the sea-green raptors fanning the water with their powerful wings. To escape, I dove deeper into the cold and black, where even they could not follow. There were moments when I sensed Agresti was in the room, keeping silent vigil. Then the dark visions faded, and I was able to sleep peacefully.
Came to some days later. A nurse was adjusting my IV. In a private room. Lime green walls and a large window looking out over the parking lot. The morphine piercing the blood-brain barrier, a warm, drowsy feeling. I closed my eyes. When I woke back up, Marguerite Ferguson was sitting in a chair across from me, smiling like always.
She didn’t speak. Just held that smile. For at least a seven-count. I matched her smile with a steady frown. She was the first to break. “Crane, I’m glad to see you’re still alive. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to tell you what a natural-born asshole you are. Because of you, Dee Cole lost his best girl, who was innocently riding her bike and keeping an eye on Mohammad. Some bystander said she shot at you, which is ridiculous. I have to admit, though, your Boston PD backup was a clever touch. I’m impressed. And just so you know, we found your armory. Not that impressive, though the plastic explosives do give one pause. No mattah. The contents of your little treasure trove have been duly registered and stored—to be turned over to the U.S Attorney’s Office when the time is right.” Threw me a big smile, her hair perfect as the Werewolf of London. Something about these folks and their hair.
I waited. Spoke. Voice rusty from disuse. “Damn, Marguerite, it’s good to know I can count on you. Fabricating evidence, as always. This is almost as good as your Nick Crane killed Roberto Diaz fantasy.”
This time, she laughed. Almost musically. I was surprised. “Perhaps that was a bit of a stretch. Fortunately, that case is closed. Mr. Diaz was murdered by a notorious narco-trafficker named Javier Fincus and two of his hired thugs. Fincus is indicted federally for meth and coke distribution. For the time being, his murder case remains with LASD, though that may change.”
I found the control and buzzed my bed halfway to upright. Treated Marguerite to my best sarcastic smile. I was feeling pretty decent. With the help of my faithful morphine drip. Fuck this woman with her trim body, pinched mouth, and perfect hair. But cleverly. I was about to compliment law enforcement for its good work in arresting Fincus and his crew, but she spoke first. On to a topic she seemed to relish.
“In case you’re wondering, Dee Cole and I had a little talk with Adara. At first, the little darling refused to confess to anything. She tried to hold her mud, as the saying goes. She thought she was a big brave girl now that her husband was in the can. All she would say was Dee Cole had authorized you to meet Mohammad on the Charles River Esplanade. To ‘liberate him.’ Which was a flat-out lie. And makes no sense because Mohammad wasn’t even a prisoner in the first place. More like a guest of honor, you might say. But then we broke your little Adara. Hoo boy, did we ever break her! And when she started confessing, you couldn’t turn the faucet off. She told us everything. How she hired you to travel to Boston to strategize with her pathetic little father. And how she led you to Thomas Quincey’s house, knowing he would be helpless enjoying lunch with Dee. Oh, how she begged us to let her go! She even wept like a schoolgirl before agreeing to perform certain pleasurable acts upon my person. And then once she got started, she couldn’t stop. That girl is a natural.”
Hmm. Not exactly what I’d been hoping to hear. I took a deep breath. “Well, Ms. Marguerite, I appreciate your candor. And you’re right, Adara did hire me to travel to this fair city to meet Mohammad. And you know why. To rescue him from your boy Quincey’s control. That was my job. Period. And if I’m not mistaken, I’ve succeeded.” Clamped my mouth shut. Let her make her play.
Right on cue, her smile dimmed. “Crane, you have been in la la land for ten days. A lot has happened. Thomas Quincey has admitted to conspiring to smuggle Mexican and Islamic terrorists across our southern borders. Intel had warned us about such terrorist infiltration, and boy howdy, were they ever right! And someone was pimping young girls on the side. Just awful. Though I don’t think Thomas was responsible for that. In fact, several rather influential people are suggesting you might’ve had a hand in that nasty business.”
Her smile gone, she was formidable. All the more reason to provoke her. “Dream on, Ms. Ferguson. The way I see it is like this. Mohammad and Adara are now free of Quincey and have their lives back. You should consider yourself a Good Samaritan. Purely by accident. Because you were the brave truth-seeker working with Quincey in the first place, which set the wheels in motion that ended in his arrest.” I paused for air. Intermittent agony deep in my belly, where the bullet had abused my intestines. “But I’m pretty damned certain you were Quincey’s co-conspirator in this nut job scheme to manufacture terror. Which is bound to catch up with you sooner or later.” Paused. Closed my eyes and let the morphine carry me. Came out of it. She was smiling again.
