To The Death Part 16

"Afraid so. One of those local guys tried to rape me in the parking lot."

"So I'm guessing he's dead?"

"Correct," said Shakira. "He was too big for me to fight, so I had no choice. Now let's get out of here-for good."

CHAPTER 6

Fausi turned the Buick north. He drove fast out of Brockhurst to Route 17. It was a hot, cloudy night, very dark, and very light traffic. The Buick clocked 80 mph all the way, since Shakira believed a speeding ticket was a lot better than becoming a suspect in a brutal murder. It was a hot, cloudy night, very dark, and very light traffic. The Buick clocked 80 mph all the way, since Shakira believed a speeding ticket was a lot better than becoming a suspect in a brutal murder.

When they reached Chesapeake Heights, she got out, on the road, and walked to the front entrance, a distance of 150 yards. She moved fast, straight past Fred, the doorman, to avoid his observing her slightly hectic appearance, and immediately took the elevator to her apartment.

Once inside, she grabbed her suitcase and placed it on the bed, wide open. In a blur of activity she hurled her clothes, shoes, possessions, laundry, and toiletries inside. She changed her shirt, forced the suitcase shut, and put on a denim jacket.

She checked every cupboard, checked under the bed, checked the kitchen and the bathroom. Throughout her stay, she had been careful to acc.u.mulate nothing. She stripped the bed of sheets and pillowcases, gathered up two damp towels, scooped up a couple of dish towels, and raced for the incinerator hatch, down which residents could get rid of any rubbish they no longer required. She dumped anything that might bear DNA samples straight down the chute. Shakira would leave her apartment carrying only what she had brought with her.

She took her cell phone onto the balcony and dialed the numbers for the house in Gaza. No reply. She had not expected one. She just left the briefest of messages: Evacuating immediately. Cell phone active. Evacuating immediately. Cell phone active.

Then she dialed a local number, let it ring twice, and pressed the cutoff b.u.t.ton. Downstairs, Fausi pulled into the drive, his headlights off. He parked in the shadows, rendering the car almost invisible.

Then he walked around the side of the building, selected an expensive Lincoln Continental, picked up a stone from the rock garden, and hurled it through the windshield.

The alarm system went off like a klaxon, echoing through the deserted parking lot. Fausi raced back to his own car and swept up to the front of the building. He charged through the door, still in his chauffeur's uniform, and yelled through to the little anteroom where Fred was watching television.

"Excuse me, sir, I think I just saw two guys break into one of the residents' cars. I heard a crash and then they ran right past me. I didn't realize anything was wrong until I heard the alarm go off."

Fred, a heavyset former Green Beret, came out of his chair like a bullet. This would not look good for him, a professional security officer. "Thanks, pal," he called, as he raced across the foyer. "I'm right on it."

The big doorman rushed outside, following the sound of the blaring car alarm. And as he did so, the elevator door slid open. Fausi beckoned Shakira to come out, and she edged her way through the foyer, turning deliberately away from the door and covering her face with a copy of American Vogue. American Vogue. She walked slowly, in a stooped fashion, like an old woman. She walked slowly, in a stooped fashion, like an old woman.

Outside, Fausi grabbed her suitcase, and the two of them slipped swiftly through the shadows to the Buick, which was running quietly. Fausi shoved the suitcase onto the pa.s.senger seat and climbed in behind the wheel, while Shakira prostrated herself on the backseat.

The black car, displaying no lights, sped off down the drive, swung right toward Route 17, and moments later was hurtling up the highway. No one at Chesapeake Heights, especially the night doorman, knew that Carla Martin was no longer a resident.

It was almost midnight now. Back in Brockhurst, Emily Gallagher was sound asleep, content in the knowledge that Carla would take care of Charlie in the morning. Jim Caborn was upstairs watching television, feeling self-congratulatory at the competence of his latest bar manager. And the undiscovered body of Matt Barker seeped blood, silently, in the shadows of the hotel parking lot.

By 1 A.M., Fausi had reached the junction with Interstate 95, the endless highway that runs north-south down the entire length of the eastern seaboard of the United States.

Once more they turned north, and Fausi asked, "Okay, where's it to be, Shakira? Washington Dulles, Philly, or New York?"

"Boston," she replied.

"Wow!" said Fausi. "That'll take us another eight hours. That's a long way. I guess you mean nonstop?"

"I most certainly do," she replied. "And I am sure you understand, Fausi, that right now this car is my best friend in all the world. Every mile we travel is one more away from Brockhurst. Every mile means I am just a little more remote."

"When do you think they're going to find that body?" he asked.

"Probably early in the morning. When one of the hotel residents drives out that way. I suppose around eight o'clock. I'm hoping they'll think it's a local murder and concentrate their search for the killer in the Brockhurst area."

"You want to go straight to Logan?"

"Oh, I think so. Then I'll get the first flight to Europe I can." Not even Fausi was permitted to know her destination. And he knew it. Never even asked. He just said, "I'm going to miss you, Shakira. It's been tense, but enjoyable."

Shakira had never heard those two adjectives used together, and, as a student of language, she found herself laughing. "Very nicely stated, Fausi," she said. "I think you are better at speaking English than I am. Which is important, because I am really good."

"Thank you, Mrs. Rashood," he replied. "I'll accept the compliment."

It was forty miles more from the I-95 junction up to Washington, which they made by 1:45 A.M. They avoided the city, because 95 swings sharply right on the southern outskirts of Alexandria and sweeps across the Potomac on the Woodrow Wilson Memorial Bridge, straight into the state of Maryland.

From there it makes a huge easterly sweep, combining with the Beltway, right around the outside of the nation's capital for about twenty miles, running directly past Andrews Air Force Base, and then, in Fausi's case ironically, veering resolutely off-course, diametrically away from the National Security Agency at Fort Meade.

The Buick angled back to its northeasterly route at around 2:30 A.M. and headed for Baltimore. They were past that city by 3:15 and heading on up to the Philadelphia area. Shortly before first light, they crossed the Delaware River at Trenton and made the New Jersey Turnpike, toward New York and the long wooded highways of New England.

They stopped for gas and coffee somewhere north of New Brunswick, and kept going to the George Washington Bridge. Traffic was beginning to build even at 5:30 in the morning, but it was still flowing fast, and Fausi crossed the Hudson at high speed, gunned the Buick along the north end of Manhattan, and then straight up the New England Thruway.

Three and a half hours later, they were approaching Logan airport, and they pulled into the international building, Terminal E, at 9:15 A.M. Their parting was achieved in under five seconds; they shook hands, and Shakira grabbed a nearby baggage cart and walked into the terminal.

At precisely this time, seven states away in Virginia, the pace was less frenetic. Matt Barker's body was discovered in the parking lot, not by a departing resident but by a member of Jim Caborn's cleaning staff who always entered the hotel that way, and who almost tripped over the body.

She stood there in the parking lot and started screaming at the top of her lungs. It was never made clear whether this was because Matt's c.o.c.k was still sticking ramrod-straight out of his trousers, or because the hilt of the jeweled dagger did suggest he had been murdered. At any rate, Mrs. Price did some world-cla.s.s screaming.

Jim Caborn, who was in his office, heard the commotion and came running outside, thinking someone was being murdered. Close. But the deed had taken place many, many hours before. Jim reached in his pocket for his cell phone and dialed 911.

Within ten minutes, the local police chief, in company with two officers, a detective, and the pathologist, arrived at the parking lot. An ambulance came five minutes later. The body was photographed and briefly examined by the pathologist, who took the temperature and p.r.o.nounced that Matt Barker had died around midnight or before.

The detective in charge of the investigation considered that there would be no point in casting a police cordon around the town. If the killer had left, it was too late. If he was still in the area, he would almost certainly remain in place. There was no harm in having the body removed to the nearest mortuary, since it was obviously not a perfect advertis.e.m.e.nt for Jim Caborn's Estuary Hotel.

"Thanks, Joe," said Jim, as the ambulance pulled away. "Now come in for some coffee, and I'll arrange for you to speak to everyone you want."

All three of the princ.i.p.al men in this sudden, unexpected small-town saga on the banks of the Rappahannock had known each other since childhood. Detective Joe Segel had been at school with Matt Barker. Jim Caborn had played football with Joe at Virginia Tech in Blacksburg, out in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains in the western part of the state. This was a very local murder.

Inside the hotel, Jim made a list of everyone he thought might be able to throw some light on the final hours of Matt Barker, which had plainly been spent in the Estuary Hotel bar with his buddies. Top of Jim's list was Carla Martin, who often talked with the big garage owner. He also gave Detective Segel the full names of Herb, Rick, and Bill, who were presumably the last people to see Matt alive.

"What time does Miss Martin show up?" asked Detective Segel.

"Five o'clock sharp," said Jim. "And she's never late."

"I'll be here," he replied.

0930 Tuesday Logan International Airport, Boston.

Shakira made a split-second decision not to use her Carla Martin pa.s.sport to exit the USA. Instead, she went to the one copied from that owned by Michigan-born Maureen Carson, thirty. She walked to the Aer Lingus ticketing desk and asked if she could travel first-cla.s.s to Dublin on the airline's new morning flight, leaving at 10:30 A.M., arriving Dublin at 2240 with a stop at Shannon.

"Yes, I have seats available on that. May I see your pa.s.sport?"

Shakira handed it over, and the Aer Lingus girl gave it a cursory look, checked the photograph of Maureen against the dark-haired lady who stood in front of her, smiled, and said, "How do you wish to pay?"

"American Express," she replied, knowing the card had been issued to an attache in the Jordanian emba.s.sy in Neuilly-Seine, Paris, and that she, Shakira, was a secondary signature on the card and in possession of the PIN.

She punched it into the machine, for a ruinous amount of money, more than six thousand dollars. "Is there anything else we can do for you?" asked the girl.

"I wonder if you could book me a room in the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin, and tell them I'll be arriving quite late?"

"Will you require them to meet you off the flight?"

"No. I'll take a cab," said Shakira, ever alert for the necessity of anonymity whenever possible.

She picked up her bag and walked to the first-cla.s.s desk. One hour later, Shakira took off for southern Ireland. The Aer Lingus Airbus was climbing steeply out over Boston Harbor just as, six hundred miles to the south, Detective Segel was preparing to return to the police station.

By any standards, the Estuary Killer had well and truly flown the coop.

1430 Same Day Brockhurst Police Station.

Detective Joe Segel had little to go on. Someone in the hour before midnight had plunged a dagger into Matt Barker's heart, and, according to the doctor, killed him instantly.

The police search of his body had revealed a wad of twenty-dollar bills, adding up to over $300. His credit card wallet was intact, no one had taken his cell phone, and there was no sign of a fight save for a nasty bruise on the left-hand side of his face, which could have happened when he slid, face forward, down the wall.

And yet . . . someone had wanted to kill Matt Barker very badly. Detective Segel spoke to his close friends, particularly those who had been in the bar with him the previous evening. None of them had the slightest idea what could possibly have happened to him. They were obviously all extremely upset. Herb and Rick were both in tears at the death of their lifelong friend.

Which, essentially, left the Virginia detective holding the dagger. He sat in his office, wearing white linen gloves and handling it carefully. There was no maker's mark on it, which was unsurprising since it did look as if it had been manufactured somewhere in the Middle East.

And those jewels in the handle-Jesus! If they were real, the darned thing was worth a fortune. And yet it had been abandoned, jutting out of Matt Barker's body, in the manner of a true professional, someone who knew the blood would not flow immediately if the weapon was left jammed in the wound.

This was someone who knew how to make an escape unscathed by the detritus of the crime. The forensic boys had already made a thorough search, and the dagger bore not one trace of a fingerprint.

In the next twenty minutes, he expected to see the local jeweler, who would tell him, one way or another, whether or not the murder weapon was worth several thousand dollars. As a matter of fact, it wasn't. The jeweler turned up right on time and told Joe Segel the stones were just colored gla.s.s set into bra.s.s. Pretty, but worth no more than $50.

The biggest concern for Detective Segel was Matt Barker's c.o.c.k. What the h.e.l.l was that doing, sticking out into the morning light? There's only one reason for that-s.e.xual pa.s.sion. And whoever Matt had intended to stick that c.o.c.k into had obviously had second thoughts. Male or female? Friend or stranger? Who had taken such an elementary dislike to Matt Barker that, instead of f.u.c.king him, they had stabbed him to death?

It beat the h.e.l.l out of Joe Segel. But one thought was uppermost in his mind. The killer could not possibly have been a girl. At least, no ordinary girl. That death blow to Matt Barker's ribs had been delivered with terrific strength, an upward thrust into precisely the correct place to inflict death.

h.e.l.l, thought Joe Segel, thought Joe Segel, was old Matt some kind of a f.a.ggot? All these years, and no one's ever known that. No one I ever met. I'll be real interested to hear the opinions of Miss Carla Martin when she turns up for work. was old Matt some kind of a f.a.ggot? All these years, and no one's ever known that. No one I ever met. I'll be real interested to hear the opinions of Miss Carla Martin when she turns up for work. According to Jim Caborn, that would be another hour. According to Jim Caborn, that would be another hour.

Joe was sitting in the front hall of the hotel as the old grandfather clock struck five times. He waited patiently for five more minutes. Then ten. Then he stood up and walked to the desk and said, "Jim, old buddy, you said she was never late."

"Joe, old buddy," replied the manager, "she never was. Not 'til today."

"I'm gonna sit here for another twenty minutes," said the detective. "Then I have to go find her. This Carla may have been the last person not only to talk to him, but also to see him.

"His three guys all thought he spoke to her, then drank his beer and left. Said something about going to Washington early in the morning. That was around 10:30. And before eleven o'clock, Miss Martin had packed up and left the hotel. Out the back door, directly into the parking lot where Matt's body was found."

"Is she a suspect?" asked Jim.

"She sure as h.e.l.l is. But right now I personally don't think she did it. And if she'd turned up for work on time, she wouldn't be. Get me her phone number and address, will you?"

Jim Caborn flipped through his card index file where he kept details and locations for all of his staff. But he was basically wasting his time. Shakira had long ago removed her card, which bore her pa.s.sport number, Social Security number, reference details, and the name of her "aunt's" village, Bowler's Wharf. She had replaced it with a simplified one, which listed only her address-the Estuary Hotel, Brockhurst.

Jim Caborn could not believe his eyes. He turned to Joe Segel and said, "I just cannot understand this."

"Understand what?"

"I filled out a detailed card with a lot of stuff about Miss Martin, including her Social and pa.s.sport numbers. I even wrote down the names, addresses, and phone numbers on her reference letters. I made a note of her aunt's name in Bowler's Wharf where she lived."

"Did you get her car registration?"

"She never told me."

"Did you ask?"

"Twice. And both times she said she'd get it and fill the card out for me. I a.s.sumed she'd done it."

Joe Segel's hackles were up and bristling. "I'm not being critical, Jim. Believe me. But I want to get this very clear. This girl gets a job here when?"

"Couple of weeks ago."

"Okay, and you're sure you filled out that card?"

"'Course I'm sure. I've done it for everyone who's ever worked here. Both her references were from London, England."

"Okay. So here we have Little Miss n.o.body. She destroys all her records, right here in this hotel. She writes out an address for your file, where she does not live. Someone gets murdered, an obvious s.e.x crime, and Little Miss n.o.body vanishes off the face of the earth.

"How old was she?"

"Now that I can recall. She was thirty. I remember looking at her birth date on her pa.s.sport. It was May 1982. You know how I remember?"

"Lay it on me."

"I graduated from college that month. . . . But wait a minute, Joe . . . wait a minute. She said she was living with this aunt in Bowler's Wharf. I think she said her name was Leno. Jean Leno. I remember. It reminded me of the Tonight Show Tonight Show."

"Jim, let me tell you something. This lady went to a whole h.e.l.l of a lot of trouble to brush away her footprints. Five dollars gets you a hundred if we find a Jean Leno in Bowler's Wharf."

"That's a bet I'm not taking. Not now."

"Was this Carla good-looking?"

"She never made much effort, but anyone would consider her really beautiful. Dark-skinned, black hair, slim with amazingly long legs. A lot of the guys could hardly take their eyes off her."

"How about Matt?"