The Woman (6 page)

Actually, the wait would be good. She needed more time to decide just what she would tell Chief McIlhenny. After a few minutes, she went back inside and into Cynthia’s bedroom. She tried not to look at her friend on the bed. She had come to take another look at the room. She had remembered it correctly. The mirror over Cynthia’s dresser was more than just cracked. It was a maze of fractures, like a car windshield hit by a rock. Cynthia’s face had been that rock.

Chapter 8

“Ms. Darby?”

Chief McIlhenny’s deep Montana voice slightly scorched by the nasal sounds of New Jersey came from inside Cynthia’s condo.

“Out here, Chief,” Linda hollered, “on the patio.”

“Hello, Ms. Darby. Linda.” The chief left the slider open. “I’m sorry you had to see this; I already peeked in the bedroom. What can you tell me about all this?”

Linda crossed her arms and leaned against the railing. “Not all that much. Despite the difference in our ages, as you know Cynthia and I were best friends. We met once every week at O’Malley’s, for lunch. Day before yesterday, Cynthia didn’t show up. She didn’t call. My calls to her cell over the past day and a half have gotten no answer. Eventually, I became worried enough to come on over.”

“How did you get in?”

“We have keys to each other’s home. I came in when she didn’t answer the doorbell.”

The chief stepped closer. “I’ll need to go in and look around a lot more. You up to going back in, with me? You’ve already been in there so . . . I understand if you don’t . . . it’s just that, well, you might recognize something that’s missing or different. You game?”

“If it’ll help.” Linda ran her tongue over her dry lips before following the chief inside.

Linda walked through Cynthia’s condo with Chief McIlhenny. Then he asked, “Well, did you see anything missing or out of place?”

Linda shook her head before saying, “Everything looks right except her bedroom and bath.”

A moment later, McIlhenny picked up an unfinished crossword puzzle from the table. “What’s a seven-letter word with an ‘s’ in the center, than means two?”

“Ambsace,” Linda said after thinking for a moment. “Does that mean something?”

“She was working the down words, with all the ones above having been crossed out. Did Cynthia work crosswords?”

“Passionately. I do, too. But not like her. She was addicted. What does that matter?”

“Just wanted to make sure it wasn’t the killer who did crosswords. That also explains the magnifying glass next to the puzzle.”

“That would seem unlikely, wouldn’t it, Ben?”

“Hey, stranger things, you know. I’m just covering all the bases, without being all that sure what in hell all the bases are.”

He led Linda back into Cynthia’s room. The chief looked closely at Cynthia. Linda looked away.

“Your friend was shot twice, head and heart. Looks like her face had been smashed against the dresser mirror, over there.” He pointed with his note pad. “Her teeth and gums are bloody. My guess is she’d been beaten quite a bit before the mirror came into play. Holy shit. Look.” Linda did not. “A hole has been drilled in her front tooth, two of her teeth.”

“Why would someone do that?” Linda asked with an expression of pain and confusion.

“They wanted something from her. Maybe they got it, maybe not. Either way, they ended up killing her.”

“I’ve been here over an hour and I’d really like to get away from . . . all this. You still need me?”

“You go on. I need to get the official stuff going anyway. Once I figure out what all that is. Sea Crest is part of what’s called a joint violence task force. The way it’s supposed to work is the state police provide a homicide investigator. This here’s the first time I’ve had to call on it. Bradford city police, Bradford’s the county’s seat, will send down a fingerprint guy and somebody who knows more about forensics than I do. All of which means he doesn’t need to know much to outsmart me on that stuff. Sorry we had to see each other under these conditions.”

Linda paused at the door and looked back at Chief McIlhenny.

“I’ll likely need to talk with you some more,” he said. “After I get things going here, I plan to mosey down to where she worked. What can you tell me about SMITH & CO.?”

“Not a thing. Cynthia never talked about her work. I never even had a work phone for her, only her cell.”

“Ever meet any of her coworkers?”

“No. When I said, Cynthia never talked about her work I meant it. Never.”

“What kind of consulting do they do, anyway?”

“Search me,” Linda said. “I meant it literally. Cynthia never told me anything about her work so I’m as curious as you are about that place.”

Chapter 9

Ryan Testler’s flight had passed the high point over the Rockies, not far from Denver, on its way to Reagan National Airport in Washington, D.C., and Ryan had still not decided how he would handle his meeting with Webster. The man always demanded the truth, and until now Ryan had always delivered the truth.

Testler had placed a local observer to watch SMITH & CO., and more specifically, its owner, Cynthia Leclair, and to assist in picking up the surveillance tapes from the dead drops. A man he could count on, not like the scum who had killed Leclair and accosted Linda Darby. Testler had instructed this man to melt into the local scene, to be accepted in the community, but to stay in the shadows.

Men like Webster always had or envisioned forces opposing him. If Testler denied knowledge of who killed Tag and the Dentist, Webster would be left to choose between not believing Testler, and believing that someone opposing his agenda had intervened.

Testler had been with Webster for nearly ten years and never failed him. Truth is men like Webster who bought muscle would accomplish little without men like Testler. Given that reality, Testler expected that for now Webster would believe him, would need to believe him.

The men in Testler’s family, as far back as the revolutionary war, had always been in the military and he had followed that tradition. He was a natural athlete who had easily taken to the training and physical demands of being a special-forces soldier, and the enduring patience required of a sniper. He had tested at the expert marksman level or higher using multiple hand and shoulder fired weapons, as well as earning high status in several forms of martial arts. He had allowed his country to hone him into a killing machine. And, as far as the world knew, he had even allowed himself to be killed in the battle to drive Iraq from Kuwait. That was when he became Ryan Testler, and he had now been Ryan Testler for so long he no longer thought of himself as the name under which he had been born and raised in a small Nebraska town.

Testler had been introduced to Alistair Webster by a retired general and a senator who chaired the foreign intelligence committee. Later, Webster claimed he acted as an outside conduit for off-the-books jobs for the government’s intelligence agencies. Over the years, Testler came to know the acts of violence he carried out on Webster’s orders served only to assist Webster in extracting huge sums from his clients when they needed a favorable ruling or vote from some regulator or member of congress. At other times, Webster worked through compromised congressional staffers who generally held great sway over those by whom they were employed.

Testler no longer deluded himself about Webster. The man was a parasite, not a patriot. The problem for Testler was that he had become a shadow citizen and Webster had become his only source of income, an excellent source of tax-free cash. Two years ago, Testler began recording some of his meetings with Webster. Webster fancied himself an intelligence expert, but his belief came from ego not expertise. Testler’s plan had been to continue doing Webster’s bidding for another three to five years, and then retire. The recordings would protect him from Webster having him permanently retired.

Testler knew some of the history of Webster and Cynthia Leclair, the rest he could surmise. Cynthia Leclair had been discharged by the CIA in a budget cut, and Webster had convinced her to gather information for him. Webster used that information along with leverage he could gain through the use of prostitutes, gamblers, and other temptations to draw his targets into compromising situations.

At first, Webster had led Leclair to believe her work was being done for the CIA, off their books. Testler guessed that Leclair was killed because she had learned the truth, or at least suspected the truth. But, in the final analysis, Testler saw Leclair as an insider. And, in his view, everyone who worked in espionage, or intelligence as it is more often called today, accepted that an unexpected death was part of their life, even though for most it never came to that.

To the contrary, Linda Darby personified the citizens for whose protection Testler had first become a Marine and, later, a defense department sniper. Killing Linda would strip away the veneer that allowed him to think of himself as more than a killer for hire. Conversely, he could save Linda Darby. At least he thought he could. However, doing so would end his lucrative income and turn him into an unemployed assassin, without an employer capable of providing him insulation. Left without that protection, Testler’s best option would become work as a mercenary in Asia or Africa with greater risks for lower pay.

The pilot announced the approach to Reagan National Airport without Testler having resolved his dilemma. Should he save Linda Darby, or kill her and keep his retirement plan on schedule?

Chapter 10

Testler drove off the airport grounds holding his phone. He had just dialed the number for one of Linda Darby’s neighbors. He had the phone numbers for all her neighbors, and had chosen an elderly couple after noticing the meticulous care with which they nurtured their small patio garden. They would take pride in doing things well and pay close attention to detail.

The woman of the house gladly agreed to get Linda and bring her back to the phone. He waited.

“Hello?” Linda said into her neighbor’s cordless phone.

Testler had first noticed Linda’s smoky sensual voice, the night she sat in the back of the taxi while he drove her home. It had somehow sounded familiar, listening without seeing her helped him make the connection. She sounded like Julie London, a torch singer from the 1950s. His father’s favorite.

“Miss Darby. Linda. I drove you home after your incident in the alley behind the donut shop. Do you remember?”

“I will never forget a thing about that night.” Linda glanced up as the elderly couple retreated into their bedroom and closed the door. “Who are you?”

“Not important. I have only a few minutes. I am not in Sea Crest, but I will return. There are a few things you need to know. I expect there will soon be another attempt to abduct you. You need—”

“What is this about?” Linda said, interrupting. “Tell me what this is about?”

“Someday, but right now, your life depends on your listening. Do I have your attention?”

“Yes.”

Testler spoke through Linda’s short, rapid breaths. “Your home phone has been bugged, that’s why I called through your neighbor. Continue to use your home phone for routine innocent calls. If you stop using it all together, it will alert those who are listening. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Stay dressed at all times at home. Sleep fully clothed, including the shoes you run in on the beach.”

“How do you know about my running on the beach?”

“Not important.”

“It is important.” Linda protested. “How do you know so much about me? Why do you want to? I’ve got to know what’s going on. Is this related to the torture and murder of my friend, Cynthia Leclair?”

“No time now. Listen to me. You have a canvas bag hanging on the clothesline just below your deck where you hang your wet bathing suit and sweats. Do you know where I mean?”

“Yes.”

“In the bottom of that bag, under the clothespins, I have left you five thousand dollars in cash so if you need to run you’ll have money. If you run, do not use any credit cards. Not even once. Not for anything. There is also a cell phone in the bag. It is safe. If you need to reach me, press the send button. It’s programmed to my cell. I will answer. If that cell rings, it will be me calling you. It is otherwise dysfunctional. It has no phone number you can find in the cell so don’t bother looking. It is only to connect us, particularly if you go on the run. There is also a gun. It cannot be traced anywhere. It is loaded. Do you know how to operate a handgun?”

“Well, there’s at least something you don’t already know about me. Yes I can handle a gun. My dad taught me. But I don’t like guns.”

“You may need to rethink that. With what you’re involved in, a gun might be the only thing that keeps you alive.”

“And just what am I involved in?”

“I said later. For now, keep the things I left in that clothespin bag with you. You can’t know just when you’ll need them.”

“Not the gun, I will never shoot one again.”

“Get over it, woman. You’ll likely be better off running and hiding than trying to shoot it out with the type of men who will be coming. But keep the gun close. If you are cornered, you have one advantage. They will want to take you alive. Let them get close without knowing you have the gun. Then use it. Always aim for their broad center, then close in and put one in their head.”