Gospel (51 page)

‘No question,' said Mannix, who also seemed to be enjoying the light relief that came from teasing his friend. ‘David's got it bad and Sara, well, there's no accounting for taste, right?'

‘Sure,' said King. ‘Besides, maybe she can keep him out of trouble.'

‘This look like “
out of trouble
” to you, Simba?' asked Joe.

‘Nah. You're right, Joe. Cavanaugh's a hopeless case.' And with that they all managed a laugh.

‘That's it,' said David, wiping his face with a napkin and standing from his chair. ‘I'm gonna check how she's doing.'

‘Okay,' said Joe. ‘Let's go. If she's not done we can hit Mick for some of that pecan pie I saw in the fridge earlier.'

‘With ice-cream,' said King. ‘You can't eat pecan without ice-cream.'

They took their plates to the large industrial sink and followed David out of the kitchen and into the café proper, turning the corner to head towards the back corner booth.

But she was gone.

And in her place there was a note – three short sentences in her familiar, slanted scrawl.

Got a hunch. Go home. Will call you soon. S
.

‘Damn it
,' said David.

‘Where . . . ?' began Joe.

‘I have no idea,' said David, a sliver of fear slipping slowly down his spine.

‘She must have seen something we missed,' said King. ‘She must have . . .'

‘Don't worry,' said Mannix, but David sensed the edge of concern in his voice. ‘She's a smart kid. Whatever she's doing she needs to do it solo. We have to trust her.'

‘This is my fault,' said David, the feelings of guilt, regret, trepidation settling like lead inside his stomach. ‘This is all my fault. I should never have left her alone.'

T
he listening device was small but efficient. There was no need for the equipment showcased in all the second-rate movies and TV shows. No nondescript van with fake plates containing hunched-over geeks wearing short-sleeved shirts, too-wide ties and over-sized earphones making adjustments to rising and falling audio levels and various other brightly lit buttons which blinked ominously. It was just him and his driver, one small receiver, a mini-notebook and a set of ordinary earplugs delivering every sound within Myrtle McGee's café with crystal clear clarity.

Their conversation was ‘scanned', processed and then downloaded onto the miniature laptop – with the voice recognition program identifying every speaker and laying out their conversation like a playwright's script before him . . . he said
this
, she said
that
. The only downside was the lack of reception in the kitchen area. But they weren't in there long, and the earlier exchange had more than confirmed his suspicions of their progress.

Now he faced a decision: continue listening or follow the girl. Not one to procrastinate, at least not until yesterday's unfortunate dalliance with hesitation, he decided he had heard enough and instructed his driver to move. After all, he did have the envelope beside him, and knew this could be the perfect opportunity to produce it.

Ten minutes later when she pulled up in front of the Fairmont Copley
Plaza Hotel and gave her keys to the valet, he got out of his car and followed her into the lobby. He noted the controlled urgency in her step and the look of hopeful determination on her face – and realised she knew something, or in the very least
thought
she knew something, and was obviously praying this little excursion would prove her theory correct.

As she approached reception and asked for something or someone, as the receptionist made his call, and moments later as the young housemaid appeared behind parting lobby lift doors, he experienced the controlled but contradictory emotions of concern and relief. Concern for what she may know, or may be about to learn, and relief that he had got to her first.

Half an hour later, he watched as she stood from the red and gold brocade chair and shook the young woman's hand, after which she reached into her handbag and gave her her card. The young woman, took it, nodded and smiled, and then Sara Davis turned to leave.

The look on her face told him everything. Whatever she had come for, she had got. That much was clear. He was an expert in body language – just another part of his extensive FBI training – and he knew that right now Sara Davis was riding the high of self-satisfaction and bursting at the seams to share her newly acquired gem of insight.

Of course, none of it mattered. Whatever the young housemaid – Barlow – had told her, could not be of any major significance. The girl wasn't anywhere near the suite at the time of Bradshaw's death and her opinions would be based on mere speculation or, better still, from his perspective, the unsubstantiated shallowness of hotel staff gossip. Now, his job would be to wipe the conceit off Sara Davis' pretty face. He would apply just enough pressure to make his point and subtly but definitively use the woman to get to the man he was after.

Sara was on a high. She could literally feel the adrenalin pumping through her. This was her chance – to contribute, to be the one to come up with the break they so desperately needed. She knew she had taken a risk when she left Myrtle's alone – without telling them what she had seen, or where she was going. But it had been worth it. This was her way of putting all the other crap behind her, of letting David know she was 100 per cent ‘on board', and of making her own personal mark on this seemingly unsolvable case.

She gave her ticket to the parking manager who gave her registration number to the valet attendant who proceeded to locate and return her car from the parking garage at 131 Dartmouth. She thanked the attendant, smiled, and stood waiting at the front of the hotel – its main entrance ‘fairy' lights casting merging beams on the dancing wisps of her flyaway hair. She was so excited that at first she did not even notice the dark government-issue sedan pull up right in front of her – the driver alighting and opening the back passenger door mere feet from where she was standing.

‘Get in,' said the man in the back seat.

‘I'm sorry?' she said, registering the scene before her at last. ‘You must have me mistaken for . . .' But then she recognised him: the dark eyes, the chiselled jaw, the stone-like expression which said nothing and everything all at the same time.

‘Don't be alarmed, Miss Davis. You have nothing to fear. I have something for you.'

‘No. I don't . . .' But a car horn behind her cut her short. A taxi had pulled up behind Ramirez's sedan and was now beeping for the car to move on.

‘If I recall,' he said quickly, ‘the last time I saw you getting into a car, the move saved your life. Your boyfriend was less fortunate, of course, but then again, the bullet was never intended to kill.'

My God, she thought. That bullet
was
meant for David, after all.

‘May I remind you, Miss Davis, that I am a Federal Agent, and to refuse my invitation would be a serious mistake on your part. So, I shall only ask one more time before instructing my deputy here to assist you in your decision. Get in the car, Miss Davis,' he said again. ‘Get in the car now, for your own sake and for that of your boyfriend's.'

And so, at the mention of David's name, and not knowing what else to do she got in.

‘What about my car?' she asked, as the driver shut her door, slid into his own seat and pulled away from the kerb.

‘It will be returned to your home in North End.'

‘You know where I live?'

‘I know where everybody lives. That's my job.'

‘Like killing people? They pay you to murder, Ramirez? Is that what you do?'

But Ramirez said nothing, just relaxed back in his seat and smiled.

‘So what now?' asked Sara, frustrated by her abductor's silence. ‘You went to all this trouble just to give me a lift home? You needn't have bothered. I would rather have crawled than be sitting here next to you.'

‘But you are, aren't you?' he said at last. ‘Sitting here next to me, that is. My only regret is that we are here to discuss matters of business, in other circumstances we might have . . .'

‘You're a pig, Ramirez,' she said, moving as far away from him as the confines of the back seat would allow. ‘This is as good as kidnapping, the minute you let me out of this car I'm calling the police.'

‘Who? Your friend, Detective Mannix? That hack wouldn't know a homicide if he fell over one. Besides, he's gone home – as has that traitor King and your so-called boyfriend. There is no rescue party, Miss Davis. I am afraid you are on your own.'

‘I told them to go home,' she said in their defence, realising he had been watching them all night.

‘Why? So you could save their case single-handedly? Did Miss Barlow give you some fresh ammunition, Miss Davis? Did she shed some light on your pathetic attempts to uncover the so-called truth?'

‘Fuck you, Ramirez.'

‘Hmmm,' he said with a stifled laugh. ‘Strong words for a young professional. But I get the feeling you're tougher than you look, am I right, Sara? My research tells me your birth mother did her own fair share of manhandling in her day, and they do say the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree.'

‘You're disgusting, Ramirez.' Sara instinctively grabbed for the side door handle which did not seem to budge. ‘Let me out of here.'

‘No offence intended, I assure you. In fact I was offering you a compliment – nothing wrong with a woman with spirit. So, let's see how your chutzpah holds up, shall we? Because I have something for you which may rattle your cage a little.'

With that Ramirez handed Sara the large manila envelope that had been resting ominously on his lap. ‘Go ahead, open it. I had these taken just for you.'

Sara took it, her curiosity too great to refuse. She lifted the top unsealed
flap and looked inside before reaching in to withdraw ten, fifteen, maybe more, black and white photographs of David . . . and of . . .
her
. . . There was one of them embracing in the car park below David's apartment, another of him shepherding her into his lift. More, taken with a telephoto lens through his apartment windows – Karin in one of his old business shirts, Karin straightening his tie, Karin passing the shower window with nothing but a towel around her, Karin handing him his briefcase as he walked out the door. Karin this, Karin that . . . Karin, Karin, Karin . . .

‘That's right, Miss Davis, she's staying with him, sleeping in his bed, wearing his clothes. Look how he groped her in the car park only moments after you had left to go home. They're fucking, Miss Davis, just like they did in College. I'd provide you with the audio but the last thing you need to hear is your boyfriend calling out his ex-wife's name as he climaxes. Does he do that when he makes love to you, Sara? Or has that little treat always been reserved for . . .'

‘
Stop it!'

‘Of course, this does leave you somewhat on the outer,' he went on, ignoring her. ‘But you're young and smart and something tells me you know it's best to quit while you're ahead.'

And then Sara reached across and hit him, slapped him hard and sharp across his face. The man repulsed her, made her sick to her stomach, and she so wanted to believe that this was all some cruel, sadistic, orchestrated charade.

But still there was that deep, disturbing doubt that at least part of what he was saying was true. The photos were obviously taken on Monday night – after their argument and Sara's hasty departure. Lisa's bandage was still on David's head and Karin was still in the clothes she had worn that day. They certainly looked real . . . they certainly appeared to be . . .

‘So here's the thing, Miss Davis,' Ramirez said, and she could tell by his expression that he was satisfied in knowing the seeds of doubt were now firmly implanted in her mind. ‘I know I am yet to earn your trust, so I have taken the liberty of guessing you might like to gather a little evidence first hand. She's up there right now, you know,' he said, just as the driver took a right at the northern boundary of Boston Common, looping back into Tremont before turning east towards Washington and coming to a stop
in front of David's high rise. ‘If you don't believe me, you can get out and check for yourself. Feel free. I won't stop you.'

The driver turned off the engine and got out to open Sara's passenger side door. ‘Go on. Go knock on his door and see who answers. Remember, I'm only here to help.'

Sara looked at him, half of her dying to leap from the car and the other terrified of what she might find in the apartment twenty-three storeys above.

‘What is it, Ramirez?' she asked, realising this was far from over. ‘What are you after? What the hell do you want?'

‘Him,' he said without hesitation. ‘I want a conversation with him, your lying, cheating boyfriend. Go up there, see what you have to see, and then tell him I want to talk to him, tell him to meet me at the northern entrance of the Common – and tell him to do it
now
.'

Sometimes, even when you have walked over the same piece of ground hundreds of times before, even though you have seen the same things, become accustomed to the details – taken them for granted even – sometimes, there comes a time when all of these familiar things appear uncomfortably different. Tonight, the cream marble entranceway of David's apartment building appeared a sterile washed-out white, the polished stainless steel elevator doors became a mirror for her warped reflection and the button indicating the twenty-third floor seemed to glow with a thousand volts of electricity as she raced upwards towards . . . she didn't know what.

One, two, three, four. She found herself counting the steps along the corridor to his apartment, the carpet absorbing her footfalls as if this moment was too precarious to be recorded. Here she stood – Ramirez 100 feet beneath her and her worst fears inches away – living those seconds between hope and heartbreak, between relief and devastation.