Dead Asleep (12 page)

Chapter 19

S
tromeyer sat in front of a computer screen and scrolled through picture after picture of known female operatives of the major intelligence agencies of three nations. The dead woman who had hung from the tree didn't match any portfolios from America, England, or Israel. She ran another search, this time looking for known international criminals. Once again she came up empty. She rephrased the search, looking for known terrorists. Nothing.

She sat back and stared out at the evening through the screen door that divided the living area from the terrace of her rental apartment in St. Martin. It was the top unit of a three-flat located halfway up the small mountain overlooking the harbor. Boats bobbed in the water below, illuminated only by lights set on pole supports every few feet along the dock. The balmy night was quiet and lovely, but a breeze blew through the screen, and Stromeyer was content to remain inside while she worked on the case. She wore her usual jeans and a white tee shirt, her hair in a loose bun and her feet bare. She paused when she heard a knock on her door.

She rose slowly, taking care not to move the chair's roller feet across the floor, and went to a messenger bag propped against a wall. It was teal blue on the outside, with a lime green interior, and nestled inside it was her gun. She removed it, checked the clip, took off the safety, and positioned herself next to the front door.

“Who is it?” she called.

“It's Sumner.”

Stromeyer paused, thinking about how to proceed. While she hadn't wanted him to know who she was at the scene of the dock shooting, it would serve no purpose to cover her face now. He still couldn't testify that the masked woman at the dock was the same woman named Stromeyer who lived on the third floor of a walk-up overlooking the bay in St. Martin. She opened the door.

Sumner was framed in the entrance, dressed in a pair of dark jeans, a gray tee shirt, and a casual navy blazer. He wore black suede dress shoes with a square toe and his habitual serious expression. There was nothing frivolous about this man, Stromeyer knew, but she was unprepared for the full force of his intensity. It radiated off him and seemed to fill the space between them. She'd noticed his contained manner at Kemmer's compound and the dock, but the confines of the small apartment intensified that impression. He stuck out his hand.

“It's a pleasure to meet you . . . in person,” he said.

She shook his hand. “Likewise. How did you find me?”

“After I tracked and intercepted a suspicious flight for Banner, he asked me to report to you first.”

“Do you think anyone saw you return to the island? Whoever set that bomb for you could be back.”

“I came in from the French side and in a rented boat. From there I went straight to the police department to check on the arms seller. I rode in the back of a paddy wagon here. I don't think anyone followed us.”

She stepped aside and waved her hand. “Come in. Let's sit on the terrace. Can I get you a drink?” Sumner walked in and scanned the apartment while Stromeyer closed the door. The rental was small, with dark hardwood floors, a slowly turning ceiling fan, and wooden slatted blinds on the windows. Stromeyer went without air-conditioning as often as the ocean breezes would allow. Her private residence was in Washington, D.C., and she found St. Martin's balmy, tropical air a refreshing relief from the capital's oppressive humidity. “Are the authorities detaining the dealer?” she asked.

He nodded. “He's in custody here on the island. They confiscated his bag, but I managed to convince them to allow me to take one of the bullets he was trying to sell. I'm going to send it to the Southern Hemisphere defense guys. Let them analyze the material.”

“Who is he?”

“He said his name was Martin Saint.”

Stromeyer rolled her eyes. “Saint Martin backward? How original of him. Did he have identification that matched?”

“Excellent identification. He carried a Bulgarian passport that looked authentic. Has to be a false one, though.”

“What would you like to drink?”

“I'd love a whiskey if you have it.” She walked toward the narrow wet bar set into the corner of a wall on the opposite side of the living room. The screen on the laptop she passed still showed a woman in an obvious mug shot. Sumner walked over to look at it and gave Stromeyer a quick glance.

“I'm trying to identify the woman from the casino,” she said by way of explanation. “The St. Martin authorities haven't been able to find any information about her. Are there any details that you can recall that might help?” She poured him a shot of Maker's Mark and herself a cognac and carried both to the terrace. Sumner joined her there and sat on a wicker couch that faced the view, while she sat in a matching armchair opposite him. He accepted his drink, took a sip and settled back.

“She was well spoken. At first I thought she was a high-end call girl working the casino crowd.” He sighed. “But it soon became clear that she was far too intelligent for that. Perhaps an agent working for a foreign agency?”

“I checked. Nothing.”

“And not one of Kemmer's girls. Though I accused him of it, I didn't really think so. Yet . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Yet?”

“I still think she was someone's girl. Okay, maybe not a call girl, but something higher class along those lines.”

“Mistress?”

He thought for a second and nodded. “Exactly. Yes. Mistress. Not a wife.”

“Why not a wife?” Stromeyer was intrigued. She wanted to know Sumner's view of mistresses versus wives.

“A wife wouldn't have been in a casino alone. She would have had her husband with her. But a mistress
would
be there alone. Perhaps waiting for the man to get free and join her. A mistress would keep herself busy gambling until he appeared.”

“If you're right and she's a mistress, would that be Kemmer?”

Sumner shook his head. “Kemmer doesn't have one. He generally picks from among his girls. Easier for him. He doesn't have to put himself out for anyone, and the girl uses him and his money until he grows bored and picks the next one.”

“How depressing,” Stromeyer said. Sumner looked at her over the rim of his glass and his eyes held a glint of humor.

“I don't know, maybe he has the right idea. Choose from available options.”

“Whoever said that had no romance in his soul. I hope you're not in agreement.”

“Well, since I'm chasing an option that may or may not be available, I think we can safely say that I lean toward the less practical.” Stromeyer assumed that he was talking about Emma Caldridge. She smiled but refrained from commenting.

“So what about Mr. Saint? Can the authorities hold him? Are they interrogating him?”

“They're in the process, but he's not talking. A lawyer has already weighed in and is screaming bloody murder.”

“The guy's an arms dealer caught in the act of transporting illegal weapons. What can the lawyer possibly be complaining about?”

“Jurisdiction. He says I had no authority to intercept.”

“Is that true?” Stromeyer asked. Sumner sipped again and nodded.

“It is. While we've been working in conjunction with St. Martin, we generally are supposed to only intercept suspicious aircraft flying in under radar. This flight didn't match the intercept criteria and his lawyer is crying foul.”

“So he'll be released?”

“I assume so.”

Stromeyer felt the soft air flow around her and the cognac warm her. Despite the calming effect of both, she felt a twinge of dread. The idea that the seller would walk free to attempt another sale of his deadly product was depressing.

“Ever feel that what we're doing is spitting in the wind? That it's never going to make a difference?”

Sumner inhaled slowly and exhaled just as slowly. “All the time.” He finished his drink and rose. “I'd better get moving. As soon as I get any information on the bullet, I'll let Banner know.”

“Watch your back.”

“I'll do my best. You, too.” He stood just as another knock came at the front door.

“I seem to be popular today,” Stromeyer said. She checked her watch. “But midnight is a bit late. Cover the left side, could you?” She put her drink down and returned to the living room, once again grabbing the gun, which rested on the nearby credenza. Sumner pulled out his own weapon and positioned himself against the wall to the left.

“Who is it?” Stromeyer called through the door.

“Police. We'd like to speak to you.” It was a male voice, inflected with an accent that Stromeyer couldn't place. She moved carefully to the door, looked through the peephole and saw nothing. The man had placed his hand over the viewer.

“I'll need you to place your credentials where I can see them,” she said. “That means you'd better remove your hand from the lens.”

After a moment of silence the door shivered as the man on the other side delivered a tremendous kick. The panel cracked and the dead-bolt lock ripped from its seat in the frame. Stromeyer dove to the left, where a hallway led to the bedroom.

Two masked men burst through the door. Both wore black, with bulky shirts covering what might have been Kevlar vests. In their gloved hands were guns. Stromeyer caught a glimpse of a silencer. Professional killers, she thought. Sumner crouched low and shot up at the first intruder, hitting him in the chest. The gun's noise cracked through the small apartment. The man took the hit and staggered, but raised his own gun, confirming Stromeyer's suspicion that they were wearing bulletproof vests. Sumner scrambled to his feet to run but his options were few in the enclosed space.

“Sumner, stay down,” she said. He dropped to the floor and the second man's shot missed him. Stromeyer aimed at the first man's neck and fired, glad that Sumner was low and out of the line of trajectory. She heard the man grunt, but it was clear that while she had hit him, it wasn't a kill shot. From somewhere in the hall she heard the voices of her neighbors, an aging couple that had retired from New York City to the quiet of St. Martin. The husband said, “Call the police,” and she hoped that he would stay well away from the apartment.

While Stromeyer was focused on the first man, Sumner had aimed at the second. This one was smarter than his buddy. He'd realized that the lack of places to hide in the small area worked both ways, and with two against two, his options to hide were few. He had been second in the door behind his friend, then angled around him and kept moving. He didn't wait to be shot but instead sprinted through the room and dove into the kitchen.

Stromeyer ignored the second man while she focused on the first. Sumner had managed to get behind the sofa. This put the first masked man between Sumner on his left and Stromeyer on his right. The man backed away, keeping his gun up and sweeping it back and forth to encompass both of them. He hit the door and disappeared. Stromeyer heard his feet thundering down the stairs.

“Loser in the kitchen.” Stromeyer projected her voice in the direction of the man in that room. “There's nowhere to go and we've got the door covered.” There was no sound. “Slide your gun across the floor and come out slowly, hands in the air.” She heard what she thought was a knife being pulled from the block. A second later the gun skittered across the wood floor. Sumner was up and moving quietly to lean against the wall at the kitchen entrance, and Stromeyer took up position opposite him. She could hear police sirens in the distance. Her neighbor had called for help.

“Come out,” Stromeyer said.

The man appeared at the doorway with one hand in the air and the other, the one nearest Stromeyer, held low near his thigh. Sumner put the muzzle of his gun at the man's ear, and Stromeyer let him take one extra step to clear the entrance. She reached down, grabbed the man's wrist, wrapped an ankle around his and yanked his foot out from under him. He staggered, and as he did, she pulled the butcher knife out of his hand. She used her other forearm to push against his back, which sent him crashing face-first to the floor. Sumner crouched next to him and pulled the mask up and over his head. He grabbed the man's hair and pulled it to the side so Stromeyer could get a look at his profile.

“Who sent you?” Stromeyer asked.

“Money guy,” the man said.

“What's his name?”

“I don't know. He never said. I got the job through an ex-con just out of prison. He was hired but couldn't finish.”

“Where is he?”

“Dead. He's the guy they found floating. Two days ago. You hear about that?”

“I shot him,” Stromeyer said. The man groaned, and she leaned closer to him. He watched her with the eye that wasn't plastered to the wooden floor. “Just like I'll shoot you if you don't cooperate.” She knew that the dead man had been a dealer fairly high up in the chain of command of a local gang, but she didn't recognize the one on the floor. “Who gave you this address?”

“The guy gave it to me. Called it in just an hour ago. “

“Where'd he get it?”

“I don't know.” Stromeyer put the tip of the knife on the man's cheek and pressed. A tiny bubble of blood began to form. A look of panic grew in the man's eyes.

“He has a contact at the department. He said they gave it to him.” Stromeyer watched as sweat rolled down the man's neck into his collar. She had no doubt that the combination of stress, heavy Kevlar vest, and the knife at his cheek was making him overheat.

“I have some handcuffs,” she said to Sumner.

“What you gonna do to me?” The man sounded panicked. Stromeyer felt little sympathy. Just two minutes earlier he'd been ready to kill her.

“Shut up,” she said. The man clamped his lips together. She went into the messenger bag and removed the cuffs. She tossed them to Sumner to use while she jogged up the stairs to retrieve several bandannas. She gave one to Sumner. “Blindfold.” She used another to stuff his mouth and a third to tie around his head. When he was trussed, gagged, and blindfolded, they moved him into a bedroom closet. Stromeyer kept a minimum of clothes in the rental. She tossed what she had into her roller bag and within ten minutes was ready to leave.