Destiny (15 page)

Bart sat at a table in the back that offered a view of the street. He was six feet two inches tall, with dark hair clipped short, a square jaw that was freshly shaved and wearing a dark blue suit with a gold tie firmly knotted at his neck. He stood as Maria guided Annja to the table.

“You look like a million bucks.” Bart pulled out a chair.

“You see?” Maria pinched Bart's cheek. She spoke English so he could understand. “You see why I like this one? Always he knows the right thing to say.”

Annja put her backpack on the chair next to her.

Embarrassed and off balance, Bart sat across from her.

“Have you ordered?” Maria asked.

Bart shook his head. “I was waiting for Annja.”

Maria threw her hands up. “Don't you worry. I'll prepare your meals. I'll make sure you get plenty.” She turned and walked away.

Bart shook his head and grinned. “This is a big city. How do you get to know these people so well?” he asked.

“I like them,” Annja said.

“Then you like a lot of people. It seems like everywhere we go, you know somebody.” Bart didn't sound jealous.

“I've met a lot of people.”

“But you're an absentee resident. Gone as much as you're here.”

“I grew up in an orphanage,” Annja said. “I learned to meet people quickly. You never knew how long they were going to be around.”

Bart leaned back in his chair. “I didn't know that.”

Annja smiled. “It's not something I talk about.”

“I mean, I figured you had a family somewhere.”

“No.”

He shook his head. “How long have I known you?”

“Two years.”

Smiling, he said, “Two years, four months.”

Annja was surprised he'd kept track. It made her feel a little uncomfortable. She didn't timeline her life other than when she was on a dig site. In her daily life, she just…flowed. Got from point A to point B, with an eye toward a multitude of possible point Cs.

“I'll take your word for it,” she told him.

“It's been that long. And in all that time, I didn't know you were adopted.”

“I was never adopted,” Annja said. For just an instant, the old pain twitched in her heart. “I grew up at the orphanage, went to college and got on with my life.”

Bart looked uncomfortable. “Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get into this.”

“It's no big deal,” Annja said. But she remembered that it used to be. She'd walled all that off a long time ago and simply got on with living. Just as the nuns had counseled her to do.

Gazing into her eyes, Bart said, “It's just that you have this way about you. Like with that woman—”

“You mean Maria?”

“See? I didn't even know her name.”

“That's because she's never been a homicide suspect,” Annja said.

Bart gave her a wry look. “No. That's not it. You're just…someone people are lucky to get to know.”

“Thank you.” Annja felt embarrassed and wondered if the meeting was going to suddenly get sticky and if Bart wanted to explore the possibilities of a relationship.

“I was telling my girlfriend about you. That maybe we should try to fix you up with somebody we knew.”

Annja didn't think she'd heard right. “Girlfriend?” She suddenly felt let down in ways she hadn't even imagined.

“Yeah. Girlfriend.”

Hesitating, Annja said, “How long have you had a girlfriend?”

“We've dated off and on for the last few years,” Bart said. “It's hard to maintain a steady relationship when you're a cop. But a week ago, we got engaged.”

“You asked her to marry you?” Annja was reeling.

He grinned and looked a little embarrassed. “Actually, she asked me. In front of the guys at the gym.”

“Gutsy.”

“Yeah. She's some piece of work.”

“So what did you say?”

Bart shrugged. “I told her I'd think about it.”

“You did not.”

“No,” he agreed, “I didn't. I said I would.” He shifted in his seat. “I'd like to ask you a favor if I could.”

“You can. I seem to ask you for favors from time to time.” Annja didn't like the little ember of jealousy inside her. She knew she didn't want commitment at this point in her life, but she'd liked the idea of having Bart kind of waiting in the wings. She didn't like how casually that had just been taken off the table. Or how she'd made the wrong assumptions about his feelings for her. She felt foolish.

“I'd like something special for a wedding ring,” Bart said. “Something that has…a history to it. You know. Something that has—”

“Permanence,” Annja said, understanding exactly what he was looking for.

Bart nodded and smiled happily. “Yeah. Permanence. I want to give her something that didn't just come off an assembly line.”

“I can do that. How much time do I have?”

Spreading his hands, Bart shrugged. “A few months. A year. We haven't exactly set a date yet.”

“What does she do?”

He gazed at her through suspicious, narrowed eyes. “Are you curious about the kind of woman that would go out with me? Or choose to marry me?”

“I figured I'd be checking a psych ward.”

Bart snorted.

“Actually,” Annja went on, “I was thinking it might be nice to get her something that might tie in to her profession. Give her a duality. A bonding of her life with you as well as the life she's chosen.”

“I like that,” Bart said seriously.

“Good. So what does she do?”

“She's a doctor. In Manhattan.”

“A doctor is good,” Annja said. “What kind of doctor?”

“She works in the ER. She patched me up three years ago when I was shot.”

“You never told me you'd been shot,” Annja said.

“I didn't die. Nothing to tell. But I got to know Ruth.”

“Ruth. That's a good, strong name.”

“She's a strong lady.”

“So the offer you made earlier about coming up to my loft and helping me dress—”

“Whoa,” Bart protested, throwing his hands up. “In the first place, I knew you would never say yes.”

Feeling mischievous, Annja said, without cracking a smile, “And if I did?”

“You wouldn't.”

She decided to let him off the hook. “You're right.”

“So what about you?” he asked. “Do you have a special guy stashed someplace?”

“No.”

“Then you should let Ruth and me fix you up.”

“I'm not looking for a relationship,” Annja said. “I have my work.”

“And that's why I knew you wouldn't let me come up.” Bart smiled. “Speaking of work, yours, as I might have mentioned, has taken on a decidedly weird twist.”

“How?” Annja asked.

“Those fingerprints you asked me to run? They're connected to a homicide that took place sixty-three years ago.”

Surprise stopped Annja in her tracks for a moment. “A homicide?”

“Yeah. They belong to the prime suspect.”

“Sixty-three years ago,” Bart McGilley went on, “a woman was found dead in a hotel room in Los Angeles. She worked for MGM studios. Bought set pieces. Stuff they used in the backgrounds to make a scene more real.”

“Anyway, from the way everything looks, this woman, Doris Cooper, age twenty-eight and an L.A. resident, was murdered for one of the things she bought.”

“What was it?” Annja felt a sudden chill.

Bart shrugged. “Nobody knows. Nobody knew what she'd bought that day. The detectives working the case didn't follow up all that well. During the heyday of the movies back then, the death of a set designer only got a splash of ink, not a river of it.”

“She was a nobody,” Annja said, knowing the sad truth of how things had gone.

“Right.”

Annja wondered if Roux was the type to kill a woman in cold blood. It didn't take her long to reach the conclusion that he was—if he was properly motivated. She was doubly glad that she hadn't followed Roux and Garin. Their talking about having lived five hundred years was already weird enough without also thinking of them as murderers.

“Those fingerprints popped up on a computer search?” Annja asked.

“At Interpol,” Bart replied. “They're called friction ridges in cop speak, by the way. Back in the day, so the story goes, the L.A. investigators thought maybe the guy was from out of the country. On account of how Doris Cooper bought a lot of things from overseas. So they sent the friction ridges over to Interpol. After you sent them to me, I sent them on, thinking maybe you were looking for an international guy.”

“Interpol happened to have the fingerprints of a sixty-three-year-old murder suspect?”

Bart blew out his breath. “Interpol has a lot of information. That's why they're a clearinghouse for international crimes. They've gone almost totally digital. Searchable databases. You get a professional out there in the world doing bad stuff, they've got a way to catch them. This case was one of those they'd archived.”

“There's no doubt about the prints?”

Bart shook his head. “I had one of our forensics guys match them up for me. When I saw what I saw, that these friction ridges belonged to the suspect on a sixty-three-year-old murder, I knew I wanted a professional pair of eyes on that ten-card.”

“Was there a name attached to the friction ridges?”

“No.”

Two of Maria's cooks arrived with steaming plates of food. They placed them on the table in quick order and departed.

Annja's curiosity didn't get in the way of her appetite. Laying a tortilla on her plate, she quickly loaded it with meat, tomatoes, peppers, onions, lettuce and cheese.

“So this guy you printed,” Bart said, “he was what? Eighty or ninety?”

He didn't look it, Annja thought. She would have guessed Roux was in his early sixties, but no more. During the shoot-out with the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain, he hadn't moved like even a sixtysomething-year-old man.

“I found the fingerprints on a coin,” Annja said truthfully. She didn't want to mention that the coin was of recent vintage.

“So you thought you'd send them along to me?” Bart shook his head. “You had more reason than that.”

Annja looked at her friend, thought about him getting married and realized that she truly hoped things didn't change between them. She knew one of the things that would change their relationship, though, was a lie.

“I was given the coin by a man in France,” she told him. “He swapped it, while I wasn't looking, for a charm I'd found.”

“Was the charm valuable?”

“Maybe. It was made out of hammered steel, not gold or silver. Not even copper. I haven't even found a historical significance yet.” Annja couldn't tell him that it had been part of a sword that Roux had claimed once belonged to Joan of Arc.

Bart took a small notebook from inside his jacket. “Did you get his name?”

“Roux,” she answered. “I'm not even sure of the spelling.”

He wrote anyway. “No address?”

Annja thought of the big house butted up against the hill outside Paris. She'd never seen an address and Garin had never mentioned one.

“No,” she said. “No address.”

Bart sighed and closed the notebook. “I can ask Interpol to look up records on this guy. Maybe we'll get a hit on something.”

“Sure,” Annja said. Curiosity nagged at her. Roux was wanted in connection with a sixty-three-year-old murder. She wondered what other information the old man was hiding. She was glad that she was out of France and far away from him.

 

A
NNJA SPENT
the afternoon putting together the video on La Bête. She used the software on her desktop computer, loading up the video footage of Lozère, the books she'd cribbed for pictures and drawings of what the Beast of Gévaudan might have looked like, and the digital pictures she'd taken of the creature in the cave.

Using the green screen setup in one corner of the loft, she filmed different intros for the segment, a couple of closings, and completed the voice-overs. When she had it all together, it was late and she was tired.

She watched the completed video and timed it.
Chasing History's Monsters
generally only allowed nine to ten minutes per segment, allowing for setup by the host and the ensuing commercials.

So far, she was three minutes over but knew with work she could cut that down.

Okay, she told herself, all work and no play makes Annja a dull woman.

After grabbing a quick shower and a change of clothes, she packed her gym bag and headed out of the loft.

 

E
DDIE
'
S
G
YM WAS
an old-school workout place. Boxers exercised and trained there, smashing the heavy bag then each other in the ring. It had concrete floors, unfinished walls, and trendy exercise machines had never taken up residence there. Free weights clanked and thundered as lifters worked in rotation with their spotters.

It was a place where men went to sweat and burn out the anger and frustration of the day. Young fighters learned the intricacies of the fighting craft and the statesmanship necessary to sweep the ring and move up on a fight card. No one tanned there, and hot water in the showers was a random thing.

There really was an Eddie and he and another old ex-boxer had each been Golden Gloves and fought professionally for a time. They owned the place outright and didn't suffer poseurs or wannabes with no skill.

Training wasn't part of what a membership bought. That was given to those deserving few who caught the eye of Eddie and his cronies.

Occasionally, young men who had seen
Fight Club
too many times came into the club and tried to prove they were as tough as Brad Pitt or Edward Norton. The regulars, never very tolerant, quickly sent the newbies packing with split lips and black eyes.

Eddie's was all about survival of the fittest. Annja liked to go there because it felt real, not like one of the upscale fitness clubs that were more about the right kind of clothing and the favorite smoothie flavor of the week.

When she'd first started working out there, she'd had trouble with some of the men. Eddie hadn't wanted her around because he didn't want the complication.

But she'd stood her ground and won the old man over with her knowledge of boxing. The knowledge was a newly acquired thing because she'd liked the gym, had wanted to work out there and did her homework. She also worked out at a couple of martial-arts dojos, but she preferred the atmosphere at Eddie's. She was a regular now and had nothing to prove.

“Girl,” Eddie said as he held the heavy bag for her, “you musta been eatin' your Wheaties. You're pounding the hell outta this bag more than ever before.”

Annja hit the bag one last time, snapping and turning the punch as Eddie had taught her.

“You're just getting weak,” Annja chided playfully.

“The hell I am!” Eddie roared.

Annja grinned at him and mopped sweat from her face with a towel hung over a nearby chair. She wore black sweatpants and a sleeveless red shirt that advertised Eddie's Gym across it in bold yellow letters. Boxing shoes and gloves completed her ensemble.

Eddie claimed he was sixty, but Annja knew he was lying away ten years. The ex-boxer was black as coal, skinny as a rake, but still carried the broad shoulders that had framed him as a light heavyweight. Gray stubble covered his jaw and upper lip. His dark eyes were warm and liquid. Boxing had gnarled his ears and left dark scars under his eyes. When he grinned, which was often, he showed a lot of gold caps. He wore gray sweatpants, one of his red shirts and a dark navy hoodie. He kept his head shaved.

“Don't tell me you just dissed me in my own place of business!” Eddie shouted.

“You're the one who said he was having trouble hanging on to the bag,” Annja reminded him. He sounded mad, but she knew it was all an act. Eddie was loud and proud, but she liked him and knew that the feeling was reciprocated.

“Girl, you're hittin' harder than I ever seen you hit. What have you been doin'?”

“Archaeology.” Annja shrugged.

Eddie waved that away. He looked at her. “You don't look no different.”

“I'm not.” Annja mopped her arms. “Maybe you're just having an off day.”

“I told people I had an off day when I fought Cassius Clay. The truth of the matter was that man hit me so hard I couldn't count to two.” Eddie picked up a towel and wiped down, as well. “But something's different about you.”

Annja shrugged. “I just feel good, Eddie. That's all.”

“Humph,” he said, looking at her through narrowed eyes. “Usually when you come back from one of your trips, it takes you a little while to get back to peak conditioning.”

“I do my roadwork and keep my legs strong wherever I go,” she replied. But she knew what he was talking about. Tonight's workout had seemed almost…easy.

She'd done plenty of jump rope, the speed bag and the heavy bag, a serious weight rotation with more weight and more reps than she'd ever put up before. Something was different. Because even after all of that she felt as if she could do it all again.

 

E
DDIE STOOD
by his office with his arms folded and stared at the young black man in headgear beating on a guy who couldn't seem to hold his own against his opponent. Annja had noticed the guy, watching the sadistic way he'd beaten the other fighter.

“Who's the new fighter?” she asked.

Eddie shook his head. “Trouble.”

“Does he have another name?” Annja watched as the fighter knocked his opponent down again.

Three men about the fighter's age all clapped and cheered the fighter's latest triumph.

“Name's Keshawn. He says he's a businessman.” Eddie didn't sound ready to give the young man an endorsement.

Annja took in the tattoos marking the fighter's arms and legs. “He looks like a banger,” she said.

“He is,” Eddie agreed. “Knew him when he was little. Had a heart then. It all turned bad now. He keeps doin' what he's doin', he'll be dead or locked away in a couple years.”

This time the other guy in the ring couldn't get to his feet. Keshawn's hangers-on cracked up, cheered and threw invective at the man.

Keshawn turned to Eddie and spit out his mouthpiece. “Hey, old man!” he yelled. “You sure you ain't got nobody that'll spar with me? Just a couple rounds? I promise I won't hurt 'em much.” Arrogance and challenge radiated in him like an electric current.

The other boxers working the rotations didn't respond.

“Anybody?” Keshawn gazed around the club. “I got a thousand dollars says nobody here can put me outta this ring.”

“It time for you to go, boy,” Eddie said. “Your ring time is up.”

Keshawn beat his chest with his gloves. “I'll fight anybody who wants this ring.”

Eddie walked toward the ring. “That ain't my agreement with you, boy. You paid for time, you took your time. Now you haul your ass outta my place.”

A cocky grin twisted Keshawn's lips. “You best stop callin' me ‘boy,' old man. I might start takin' it personal.”

Annja stepped behind Eddie, staying slightly to his right.

“Go on,” Eddie growled. “Get outta here.”

Releasing his hold on the ring ropes, Keshawn skipped out to the middle of the ring and took up a fighting stance. “You want this ring, old man?” He waved one of his gloves in invitation. “Come take it from me.”

Eddie cursed the younger man soundly, not holding back in any way. “You best come on down outta there.”

“You best not come up in here after me,” Keshawn warned. He was over six feet, at least two hundred pounds and cut by steroids. His hair was blocked and he wore a pencil-thin mustache. He grinned and slammed his gloves together. “You'll get yourself hurt, old man.”

Eddie started to climb up into the ring.

Annja caught the old man's arm. “Call the police. You don't need to go in there.”

“This is my place, Annja,” he told her fiercely. “I don't stand up for what's mine, I might as well pack up and go sit in an old folks' home.” He shrugged out of her grip and slid between the ropes.

Keshawn smiled more broadly and started skipping, showing off his footwork. “You think you got somethin' for me, old man?”

Annja caught hold of the ropes and stood at the ring's edge. The confrontation had drawn the attention of the rest of the club's regulars. No one appeared ready to intercede, though. Annja hoped someone had called the police, but she didn't want to leave long enough to go to her locker for her cell phone.

Slowly, hands at his sides, Eddie walked toward the younger man. “I told you to get outta here, boy. I meant what I said.”

Keshawn danced away from Eddie. “They say you used to be somethin' to see, old man. Were you really? Were you a good boxer?”