Retribution: The Second Chances Trilogy Book Three (41 page)

“How the hell much more rogue can he get?” Nate scribbles these salient points along a margin.

“I’ve wondered that myself despite having predicted same after he so recklessly waxed Detective Grillo.”

“Waxed? Where’d that come from? Who’ve you been talking to?”

“Detective Helowicz of the Glen Abbey Police in New Jersey. You’ll remember him as Grillo’s former partner. He’s volunteered his services.”

“He’s here, here in the UK?” Nate drops the pen, pushes the notes aside.

Emmet nods, chews on a piece of toast.

“Why haven’t I heard about this until now?”

“Didn’t seem all that important till now. When he showed up, his appearance was viewed as a courtesy call, a compassionate gesture to his slain mate and treated as such. No one expected him to become actively involved in the investigation. But he did. On his own, he did. Followed up on his own pet theories and a few of wee Amanda’s I shared with him.”

“Don’t
ever
let her hear you call her that or she’ll have your—”

“Sorry. Slip of the tongue. As I was saying . . . When I met with Helowicz the first time—that would have been day before yesterday, Wednesday afternoon it was—his whole bent was towards discovering the whys and wherefores that got Grillo a place on Jakeway’s hit list. I was inclined to believe—as Amanda did and the Middlestone constabulary did
not
—that the bloody bastard somehow stalked Grillo—the lot of us, for that matter—to the St. Margaret’s churchyard—to the church itself—and somehow picked up on what was said there the day of the burials.”

“You said
was
inclined to believe. Something happen to change your mind?”

“You might say. I’m no longer just inclined, I’m
fully committed
to that belief because Helowicz followed through where the locals were disinclined to go. He’s effectively scooped these blokes much as Grillo scooped the FBI by being first to discover Jakeway’s cache of horrors over in Jersey.”

“
Jesus
. . . Did Helowicz find something at the church, additional evidence?”

“No, no physical evidence, just the say-so of a gravedigger who had a chat with a cyclist fitting the Hector Sandoval description on the day
before
the burials, and the word of the sexton who welcomed a church visitor also fitting the Sandoval description on the day
of
the burials. They both took Jakeway for just another tombstone fancier come to do rubbings and have a look at a fourteenth-century house of worship.”

“Have you got another cigarette?” Nate asks.

Emmet produces a pack of Marlboros and a lighter, offers them without comment.

Nate lights up, inhales deeply, wallows in the cheap buzz. “I’m guessing the gravedigger gave it away.”

“You guess right. According to Helowicz, the bloke didn’t state any names, only told Jakeway the graves were being opened at request of the same celebrity who tied the knot there at St. Margaret’s back in August—at the big affair that brought in motor coaches and hot-air balloons and no end of foolishness—secondhand quote, that is.”

Second, third, or fourth-hand, the message would be the same: Jakeway has extraordinary good luck and knows how to use it. Parenthetical: Amanda has extraordinary good instincts and knows how to get any job done. But that’s not news. And Amanda won’t gloat over having another of her theories proved right. Like him, she’ll only wonder what it’s going to take to break Jakeway’s lucky streak.

Emmet could be wondering the same. He appears lost somewhere between resolve and resignation, but it’s disapproval he registers when he picks up the thread. “You’ll want to know that the same crackerjack police officials dismissive of the church angle and hesitant to muddy their boots with a
thorough
search of the land opposite Terra Firma, are now swarming the area. Large presence they are, very high profile, and of very little use now that the horse has fled the barn. Face-saving rubbish, that’s all it is.”

Nate responds to this sarcastic outpouring the way he answered Amanda’s much broader condemnation of law enforcement agencies: “I think they’re doing the best they can.” He repeats the platitude as preferable to stating his true beliefs and requests a summary before Emmet can pick up on the hollowness of the statement.

“. . . and that’s everything as of an hour ago when I last spoke with a deputy chief constable,” Emmet concludes the three minute wrap-up. “You know everything I know and Colin knows everything except that last bit about the input from the church personnel. You can fill him in on that at your own discretion.”

Implying that Colin needn’t be told. Never a good idea. The only thing Colin needn’t be told is Nate’s absolute conviction that Jakeway will not be captured by conventional means.

Emmet wins the ritual struggle for the guest check and Nate leaves without further delay.

The urge to go over fresh information with Amanda has never been stronger. Realizing she won’t be available until noon, three-plus hours from now, elevates urge to a craving that stays with him all the way to the King’s Road offices and permeates everything he attempts to accomplish there.

When it’s finally late enough to set out for their lunch meeting at a popular pub near Tower Bridge, he damn near trips over himself in the effort to seem unhurried about leaving the office.

Amanda is there when he arrives at the pub ten minutes early. Her obvious eagerness is confined to telling him about the office accommodations she just previewed in a newly developed area of nearby St Katherine’s Docks.

“A five minute walk from the townhouse you liked best,” Amanda enthuses, “with three executive suites, four conference rooms, generous bullpen space, multi-functional reception area, water views, the visual impact you want, and all kinds of support services close at hand—shops, restaurants, gated parking, easy access to Tower Hill Tube Station, the brand new Docklands Light Rail connection with Canary Wharf and the other—”

“Slow down. You don’t have to sell me the area. That’s a done deal. So’s the townhouse. I made the offer we put together earlier in the week. They’ll be fools not to accept.”

“The offer that includes a slip at the marina?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“Are you
really
gonna buy a boat?”

“Why not? You don’t have anything against boats do you?”

“I don’t know. Never had the chance to find out.”

“Then it’s time to find out.”

“What’s your background with boats? Do you even know how to drive a boat?”

“No, but I can learn, can’t I?”

The banter about possible boat names ends when a waitress comes for their order. The lighthearted interval wouldn’t have lasted much longer anyway—not with the usual subject on standby, ready to flood their joint consciousness.

Nate holds off until their drinks arrive—ale for him, tea for her—then hurries through a condensed version of the breakfast meeting with Emmet. As anticipated, Amanda takes no satisfaction from having been proved right about Jakeway’s presence at the church. Her only reaction is to shiver a little and then feign interest in an environment themed to events that took place at the Tower of London—mainly executions.

Shit. What was he thinking when he chose this place? Low profile of course; a tourist establishment he wouldn’t be expected to patronize. But did it have to be decorated with fake medieval weaponry and references to beheadings?

If Amanda’s of similar mind, she’s not letting on. She only cups both hands around her mug of tea and makes a gallant attempt to skirt the issue of who found what.

“There’s no avoiding it, honey. I’m afraid we’re reduced to depending on volunteers. On dedicated types like Chris and Detective Helowicz—on ourselves to see this through,” he counsels.

“I’m trying really hard not to come to that conclusion, I really, really am, and I’m trying not to be so harsh on the police officials and trying even harder to find something good to say about the situation and the only thing I can praise is the way the media’s been keeping their distance—physical distance, I mean.”

“I was going to comment on that myself.”

“You’ve noticed too?” She hunches her shoulders to conceal another little shiver.

“Yeah, since the hospital caper, even the worst have shown restraint.”

“You think it’s out of respect or fear?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call it respect. And if it’s fear, it’s not fear of Jakeway, it’s fear of the legal ramifications that would follow if one of those ghouls pinpointed a target for a madman.”

“Well, whatever the reason, Bemus says there are no identifiable paparazzi anywhere around—not even in Middlestone—and that anyone attempting travel on Wheelwright Road or any of the roads bordering the estate better have a majorly good reason or they’re turned back. I asked him if that was legal and he said it’s as legal as putting out word that stopping anywhere on the estate perimeter constitutes trespassing and will bring an armed response and I got the distinct feeling that’s not legal either even though the armed response threat is what kept the slavering hordes at bay during the wedding celebration—that and those jazzy balloons you surprised us all with.”

“There may be another element at work in that area—the element of goodwill established when Colin’s mother chose to depend on locals for goods and services instead of using big-name establishments in London, a practice Colin continued when he took over—as much to please his mother as to invite my disapproval—with the upshot . . .” He has to pause for breath whereas Amanda could probably keep going. “The upshot being, the favor was returned when it came to respecting Colin’s freedom and privacy. Discounting a couple of outlets that deal in manufactured celebrity-schlock, there’s been no exploitation to speak of. Nothing blatant, anyway. No glaring incidents, no sellouts, no loose lips among the retailers or the service sector. And it’s worth noting that the extended community was ultra discreet when we lured the media away from the hospital and when we arranged for the burial of Laurel’s parents.” He blathers on through the arrival of her salad and his burger, citing only the gravedigger for an innocent enough slipup.

“Are you about finished?” Amanda says when he again pauses for breath.

“Yeah, I believe I am. Sorry. Don’t know where that came from.”

“I do. From a feeble attempt to distract me from the worsening situation we’re entrenched in and from the certain inevitabilities I may be even more aware of than you.” She pokes at her salad, lays the fork aside without taking a bite. “Do you have any idea how many knifings there were in London during the past five days? How many there were in Kent during the same period? How many were fatal?”

“No, but I’m sure
you
do,” he says, on the edge of annoyed that she’s moonlighting again, this time as a crime statistician. He regrets the blunt remark the second it leaves his mouth—even before he registers the stricken look on her face and the longer stronger shiver that has her in its grip.

“C’mon, we need to get out of here.” He flips some bills onto the table and all but drags her from her chair. “You’re going someplace safe until this is over.”

“I’m not going anyplace without you!” she protests, drawing a few glances as they exit to the street.

“Yes, you are, but it won’t be for long. I’ll catch up with you in a few days. Sooner if the situation warrants.”

“But we can’t abandon—”

Pulling her along with him, he steps to the curb to hail a cab. “We’re not abandoning anyone, we’re joining them.”

Laurel raps on the partially open door of Amanda’s room. It’s the only room in the north wing with an attached bathroom and outside phone line—the room Nate occupied during the dark days and David occupied the last time he overnighted here. Because of the David association, she’s never really looked inside. But now she does, as much to see what’s keeping Amanda as to satisfy simple curiosity.

Amanda steps out of the bathroom when Laurel enters. “I’ll just be a minute,” Amanda says, slipping into a waist-length jacket.

“I heard Sam Earle say we could be in for some weather, so you might want to bring a scarf in case the wind picks up.”

“I don’t know if Nate packed one for me.”

“He packed for you?”

“Yeah, he kinda had to because I refused. Even though I knew it’s probably safer here than where I was, I didn’t want to come, I didn’t think I
should
come, I mean, don’t you already have enough trouble, like you
really
need more in the form of an obsessive-compulsive that can’t leave well enough alone?”

“Don’t be silly. You know you’re always welcome here—In any form you care to take.” Laurel makes light of Amanda’s self-condemnation and moves deeper into the room, where she identifies the reason Amanda’s been scarce for most of the five days she’s been in residence. Amanda’s trademark portfolio and the contents of several accordion files are spread out on the broad surface of the executive desk dominating one side of the room.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to work while you were here.” Laurel says. “Nate told me you weren’t supposed to do anything more taxing than curl your eyelashes.”