Tell Me When It Hurts (11 page)

One day, on the way home from seeing
On Golden Pond
at a classics theater in Springfield, Connor grew quiet.

“
Hey, anything wrong, McCall? You’re unusually morose, even for you,” Archer joked.

He said nothing for a few seconds, then shook his head. “Nah, it’s stupid, but that movie got me thinking about Lauren. You know, in almost every movie I’ve ever seen, the estranged child softens at the end and is happy to see the creepy, absent parent. I mean, in
The Rock,
Sean Connery’s daughter wants to see him even after, what was it, twenty years? In
My Favorite Year,
Peter O’Toole finally gets up the courage to see Tess, and it goes well, or so we’re led to believe. Even in
Absolute Power,
Clint Eastwood’s daughter forgives him his life of crime and his abandonment of her.

“
But maybe, in real life, a kid is just mad and cuts you out forever for leaving them.” He looked at her, then refocused on the road. “Maybe sometimes it
is
too late.”

Archer put her hand on his arm and said gently, “No, that’s not true. It’s never too late if you really want something. Wasn’t it your mother who said it’s never too late to be who you might have been?”

He was quiet for a moment, then drawled in his best Wyoming twang, “Yeah, but what did my mother know, anyway? She was a librarian in south Boston, who expected Heathcliff to stop in some afternoon for tea.” Still, he smiled as he drove on.

CHAPTER 11

The dream started again. This was the bad one, not like the dream of Clique in Madison Square Garden.
Everyone remembers her first time,
Archer thought wryly as her midnight mind went again where it willed,
and it’s never quite what you expected, is it?
Four-plus years had not blunted the force of the dream that recorded in accurate detail every moment of her first time—her first solo assignment for the Group.

* * *

Miami Beach was no one’s destination of choice in August. Archer arrived at Miami International from Boston’s Logan Airport on a steamy afternoon, her itinerary memorized, no incriminating notes to lose, just one sheet of paper with a neighborhood map.

She glanced around, but no one appeared interested in her. Walking briskly past the window of a dark bar and restaurant, she caught her reflection in the glass. She drew in her breath, startled by her own appearance. With gray curly hair, owlish wire-rimmed spectacles, realistic-looking face lines, a denim wraparound skirt to midcalf, a plain yellow T-shirt, and blue Keds, she looked every day of sixty-two. “Frumpy” didn’t begin to do the look justice, she thought, satisfied. Turning away, she headed to the Hertz counter, dragging a medium-size overnight bag behind her.

Ford Taurus—that was her car. No one ever remembered someone renting the most popular, most vanilla car in America. Arriving at the counter, she pulled out her wallet.

“
Reservation for Miriam Hayes, please,” she said evenly.

“
Welcome to Miami, Ms. Hayes,” beamed a young woman with dark hair and eyes, identified by her name tag as Maria. Thumbing through a stack of reservations, she found Archer/Miriam’s.

“
Everything seems to be in order. May I please see your driver’s license and a credit card?” she asked, glancing at the form.

“
Oh, certainly,” Archer replied, and presented an Illinois license and a MasterCard, both identifying her as Miriam Hayes of Chicago. Maria examined them and handed them back with a cheery smile.

“
Just sign here, please.” She handed Archer a pen.

Archer smiled and held up a pen from her purse. “My lucky pen,” she joked, and Maria nodded.

“
I see you’re from Chicago, Ms. Hayes. Are you here in Miami for business or pleasure, may I ask?”

Archer hesitated an instant, then replied, “Pleasure. To visit my grandchildren. My daughter moved down here last winter, and I’m dying to see her new home.” She smiled fondly.

“
Yeah, I figured it wasn’t a vacation. Not many tourists here in August. Is it your first visit, Ms. Hayes?”

“
Yes,” she lied smoothly. “And I sure like what I see.”

“
Well, we do hope you enjoy your visit,” said Maria, handing her the keys. “I know it’s hot, but don’t let that get to you. Everything is air-conditioned. And don’t miss the aquarium, if you’ve never been.”

Archer smiled, taking the keys. “Thank you for the suggestion, dear. That’s a lovely idea.”

The woman nodded and smiled. Archer gave a small wave and stuffed the keys in her pocketbook, then turned away and walked slowly, hoping she looked like the sixty-something Miriam. As she headed toward the ladies’ room, she was already reviewing her itinerary in her head: Check into the motel; get to the post office: Confirm the route and the discard spots; get some sleep . . . do the job. Then report the completion and get out of town.

The ladies’ room was crowded.
Good,
she thought,
the more the merrier.
Archer went to the farthest stall, pushed the door open, and walked in, luggage in tow, latching the door behind her. Unzipping the central compartment of her suitcase, she pulled out faded blue jeans, a white tank top, and black mules with wooden wedge high heels.

Hurriedly, she pulled off the gray wig, yanked the T-shirt up over her head, unwrapped the skirt, and kicked off her Keds. She folded the shirt and skirt, tucked them neatly into her open bag, shoved the Keds in along the edge of the suitcase, and tucked the wig into a corner. Then she pulled on the jeans and tank top and slipped on the black leather mules. From a side compartment she pulled a small silk pouch and shook a pair of pink-feathered pierced earrings into her palm. She slipped these through her ears. Then, from the same pouch, she took a premoistened makeup removal tissue and wiped her face clean of the powder and the lines drawn in for the morning flight. Going back into the suitcase once more, she pulled out a spiky medium-brown wig. It rolled easily over the beige stocking cap, hiding her real hair. She shook her head to fluff out the wig, ran her fingers through it, and sat down on the toilet.

She was breathing fast.
Focus, now . . . breathe deep.
Feeling slightly more relaxed, she reached in her pocketbook and flipped open the compact. Hardly her style, but not bad. Miriam Hayes from Chicago, here in Miami to visit the little ones, was no more. She pulled out a black eye pencil and rimmed her eyes, then finished the look with red lip gloss, a swipe of pink blush, and a pair of oversize sunglasses.

Before stepping out of the stall, she snatched her leather wallet from her purse and slid the tip of her pen along a slim, credit card size sleeve inside. A fine Velcro closure yielded, and from the narrow opening she grasped her new ID with a pair of tweezers and slipped Miriam Hayes’s license back in its place. In less than eight minutes, she had become Michelle Danaher from Cincinnati, here for the party.

Archer left the stall, paused for a second at the mirror to take in her new look, smiled myseriously, and moved out to the parking lot to find her Ford Taurus.

* * *

The afternoon traffic on the interstate was moderate. Archer stayed to the right and never exceeded the speed limit. Her ID was in order, but no need to put it to the test. She had reviewed the maps repeatedly on her first visit to scope out the job. She knew her highway exit, the neighborhood, and her street of interest as well as she knew her own hometown.

At Exit 33, she turned off the highway and drove to the Daisy Inn, a modest motel with no security cameras and a preference for payment in cash. She parked away from the front entrance. Registration at the Daisy Inn was still done manually, and the recordkeeping was slipshod at best. The motel was two blocks from her target’s home. She had made no reservation.

Archer sauntered in, chomping a piece of gum. The clerk, a young South Asian Muslim woman, looked up from the television with little interest. She shoved a form toward Archer, who filled it out using her fictitious Cincinnati address and a fake Ohio car license number. No need to put down the rental car tag. The more the trail was muddied, and the more dead ends inserted into the mix, the better her chances if worse came to worst. She chided herself for thinking of worse coming to worst. That had already happened.

Archer paid for one night in cash, all small bills. Nothing to draw attention to herself. If anyone remembered the girl from Cincinnati, all that could be said was, she had brown hair, was cute, and wore tight jeans. No relationship to the dowdy grandma from the airport, and certainly no relationship to Archer Loh of Lenox, Massachusetts.

As the desk clerk turned to get a key, Archer leaned forward. “Listen,” she said, “do you mind giving me a room away from the main street? I’ll be out late and I’ll want to sleep late, so something away from the noise would be wonderful.” She smiled conspiratorially. No need to be in front, where one’s comings and goings were more noticeable.

For the first time, the desk clerk showed signs of life—she understood. She nodded and smiled, then moved her hand along the board to another row of keys.

“
Here you go. You won’t hear a thing in this room.”

“
Thanks. You’re a doll,” Michelle said, turning her three-hundred-watt smile on the desk clerk.

At her room, she unlocked the door, pushed it open, and looked around. Tacky, with a dreadful harbor scene print over the headboard— screwed to the wall, as if someone might actually be tempted to steal such a thing. But the place was clean enough, and private. With a relieved sigh, she pulled off the short brown wig and the skullcap and, opening her suitcase, tucked both next to the Miriam hairdo, and shook out her own reddish-brown shoulder-length hair. Then she took off the earrings, removed the eye makeup, slipped into white cotton shorts and a white T-shirt, and lay down on the bed for a half-hour nap. That left plenty of time to get to the post office before closing and pick up the package she’d mailed to herself a week ago.

* * *

Two hours later, having run her errands, she was back in her room. With a big pair of scissors from a local drugstore, she cut through the thick packing tape on a package addressed to Michelle Danaher—nineteen inches by five by five, weighing a little over three and a half pounds. She had packed it well and addressed it in large print in black indelible marker, with fake return name and address in the upper left corner, before taking it to the post office window in Pittsfield, where she was not known, and sending it by priority mail with the correct postage. It was labeled “Fragile: Glassware.”

Inside the cardboard box was a smaller cardboard box, with three pairs of beige latex gloves, a disassembled Armalite AR-7 rifle, a variable-powered scope, disposable plastic silencer, and ammunition. The AR-7’s serial number was filed off. Putting on the gloves, she laid the gun parts out on a dry cleaner’s bag on the bed—all there. Methodically, she wiped each part and assembled the weapon, then swabbed each bullet clean of prints before loading the clip.

After reviewing the street layout one more time, she burned it in the bathroom sink and washed the ashes down the drain.

* * *

Her target was Julián Baca. Baca had beaten his wife, Maricela, to death when she tried to leave him after enduring years of abuse. His record of drug dealing and violent assaults on women, both before and after his marriage to Maricela, was long and grim. Two neighbors had seen virtually the entire murder and had been more than willing to come forward.

But Baca was released because the police had not given him his full Miranda warnings on the scene, before his confession. The confession was thrown out, and without it, the case against him collapsed, leaving him at liberty to continue his personal reign of terror.

Maricela’s parents, Cuban immigrants, were devastated to learn that this madman had been freed—and then he petitioned the court for a return of custody of their granddaughter, Lucero, whom they had been raising since their daughter’s murder. They were told, “Florida law supports the rights of the biological parent above all others.” It was just a matter of time before Lucero would be returned to him.

Julián Baca lived alone in a duplex on the south side of Miami. Archer had come down a month ago for a few days to settle her strategy and learn his routines. Although the Group’s advance arm typically provided the legwork, Archer preferred to do her own. Everything must go perfectly on this, her first solo assignment.

Like most people, Baca kept a predictable routine. Each morning around seven, he appeared on his back patio, wrapped in a blue robe, to smoke and drink coffee from a red ceramic mug. He was tall and muscular, with curly, black hair and a black, full mustache. He would sit for at least an hour, smoking, reading the newspaper left at the front porch, and talking on a cell phone.

Around eleven, Baca’s house became a hive of activity. Cars would pull up, usually with two people, one of whom would get out and knock on the door. Baca would open the door with a smile, wave the visitor in, glance around, and close the door. In a few minutes, the passenger would return to the car, and the car drove away. This went on until around four in the afternoon.

Around seven in the evening, Baca left home on foot, in a clean shirt and cutoff jeans, for a café a block away. He had dinner alone, drinking three glasses of red wine with a plate of pasta, and ending each meal with a glass of sambuca and an espresso. He always paid in cash and was home by nine. He watched television until eleven, when he went outside for a last cigar of the day. He would sit on the patio in the dark, the end of his cigar brightening with each puff. That was the moment, the vulnerability.