Tomorrow's Vengeance

TWENTY-ONE

‘[They] never cared to report, nor to return: they longed to stay forever, browsing on that native bloom, forgetful of their homeland.’

Homer, The Odyssey, Book IX, Lines 99-104.

‘What do you think about that?’ Naddie asked me after Filomena had gone.

Charlie Robinson segued from ‘I Got Rhythm’ to ‘Nice Work if You Can Get It’ while I mulled over the conversation.

‘Something’s off. Masud must have been upset to learn that the meat he’d been eating was haram rather than halal. I can easily imagine him flying into a blind rage and killing Raniero over that, but not the other way around.’

‘But Filomena thinks Raniero may have killed Masud to keep him from spilling the beans about the kickbacks,’ Naddie reminded me.

I shook my head. ‘We know the guy is a tattletale. After talking to the meat man Masud would have made a beeline for Tyson Bennett’s office and Raniero would have been out on his ear.’

‘But he didn’t see Tyson,’ Naddie said. ‘Raniero was still working up to the point of being taken in for questioning.’

‘And why didn’t he?’ I asked, trying to follow Naddie’s train of thought.

‘Because he wanted to use the information as leverage. There was something he wanted from Raniero.’

‘Stop messing with my wife, or else?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Yes!’ I was practically leaping out of my chair. And then I sobered up. ‘But was that the something?’

‘Hannah, my dear, I don’t have the slightest idea.’

I pondered what Naddie had said until I thought my brain would explode. I was only half listening to ‘Someone to Watch Over Me’ when Naddie shook my arm gently. ‘Look.’ She jerked her head sideways.

Standing at the reception desk, dressed casually in khaki slacks and a bold Hawaiian shirt, was Richard Kent.

I had Angie on speed dial.

‘Hi, Hannah, what’s up?’ she said without preamble.

‘Dickie’s back.’

‘Shit.’

‘I thought he was on some secret mission for the CIA,’ I said as I watched Richard sign in on the tablet.

Angie snorted. ‘As if. He now works for a contractor at the amputee clinic in Bethesda.’

‘I presume he’s here to see your mother-in-law, but she hasn’t shown up yet, Angie. When she does, what do you want me to do?’

‘Remember what you said the last time about following them?’

‘In a rash moment, yes.’

‘Would you? Please? I don’t trust him one tiny bit.’

‘I don’t know, Angie,’ I said. ‘Everybody knows he’s taking her out. He signed in, for heaven’s sake.’

Suddenly Christie popped through a door into the lobby, all Talbot petites, Ann Klein, a Coach bag and smiles. She took Richard’s arm. As they walked out the front door, Richard eased a ball cap out of his back pocket and put it on.

I caught my breath: a gray baseball cap with a blue star. Damn. Richard was a Dallas Cowboys fan. Hadn’t Masud told me…?

‘No problem, Angie. I’m on it.’

I pocketed my phone and shot Naddie a look of desperation. She waved me off. ‘Write when you get work!’

The sacrifices I make for my friends.

Richard was driving a generic white Dodge Avenger – probably a rental – so at least Christie wasn’t behind the wheel. From the partial cover of a hedge, I observed him opening the passenger-side door then waiting until she slipped in and fastened her seatbelt before closing the door with a solid thud behind her.

I hustled over to my car and followed the Dodge out of the parking lot and down Bay Ridge Avenue. I nearly lost it at the light at Hillsmere Drive, but caught up with the rental car again a few lights later.

When they got to the intersection of West Street and Forest Drive I knew they were headed for the Annapolis Mall.

Restaurant or food court? I wondered as I dogged their tail around the perimeter road of the enormous shopping center. Christie’s hands were actively waving, giving directions. Eventually Richard pulled into the parking lot at the Nordstrom end of the mall. Dickey-boy was going to splash out, it seemed. Stony River? California Pizza Kitchen? I parked a few spaces over and waited until the couple was safely inside the Cheesecake Factory. A thought struck me… I strolled casually over to Richard’s rental car and tried the trunk.

To my astonishment, Richard had neglected to lock the car. The trunk popped open revealing a carry-on suitcase, two paperback books, a black jacket and, underneath the jacket, a balaclava.

Gotcha, Balaclava Man!

It was a gorgeous day so I sat down outside the Cheesecake Factory at a table for two, snagged a passing server and ordered iced tea and a sandwich. While I waited for my drink I called Detective Powers and left a message about Richard and the balaclava, then swapped texts with Angie.

At mall. CCFactory.

OMFG.

Srsly.

Pix?

I figured there wasn’t any way I could take a picture of the happy pair without calling unwanted attention to myself, but I thought I could give it a try, so I texted back IAM and headed into the restaurant. If I were going to drink that tall glass of iced tea I desperately needed to find a restroom, anyway.

As I came out of the ladies’ room I spotted them, sitting in a booth across from one another, sharing a platter of Thai chicken lettuce wraps and toasting each other with cosmopolitans served in oversized martini glasses. Christie was gazing at Richard with the same look of adoration that the three kings had bestowed upon the Christ child. World War Three could have broken out around her and she wouldn’t have noticed. I hauled out my iPhone, aimed and took the shot.

Back at my table I sent the picture to Angie with no comment, dawdled over my chicken parmesan sandwich, ordered a refill on the tea then finally paid the bill and moved back to my car. Fifteen minutes later the couple emerged, arm in arm, laughing. Once again I followed the car around the perimeter road and into the parking lot of the Wells Fargo bank on Jennifer Road, next to Fuddruckers.

While Richard kept the engine running, Christie climbed out of the car, toodled over to the ATM and slotted in her card.

The next stop was the liquor store in the Festival mall at Riva. From a parking spot in front of Petco, I watched Richard enter the store alone, then emerge carrying something wrapped in a brown paper bag. After a discussion inside the car, Christie strolled over to the ATM next to the grocery store and made another withdrawal.

As they proceeded eastward on Forest Drive, stopping at two more ATMs along the way, Richard drove with the exaggerated caution of the professional drinker, sticking to the far right lane, never exceeding twenty-five miles an hour. I loafed along on their tail, wondering who was going to give out first – Christie’s money or me.