Wicked Circle

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

In her suite at the Cleveland Renaissance Hotel, Aurelia emerged from the bathroom carrying an empty goblet. She wore a thick terry robe, and her towel-dried hair was combed straight. As she crossed the living room to the table, where an uncorked bottle of wine rested on a bed of ice, she paused to dig a small portable radio from her pocket and place it on the damask-covered fainting couch. She poured herself a second glass of wine and watched the city below.

Cleveland was nothing like her Bucuresti. Though the cities were nearly the same geographical size, there were far fewer people in Cleveland. Also, this city’s nickname, her research had revealed, was “Forest City”: A motto adopted in the 1830s, it made no sense in the present day. There was no forest here; not now, anyway. It irritated her that the phrase was utterly inaccurate. Continuing to pay homage to an outdated vision, she felt, highlighted the lack of forwardly mobile thinking that would be needed to make this city great and prestigious again.

Her home was known as “Little Paris,” and with its beautiful architecture, its universities and theaters, cafés, and museums it was, indeed, an eastern version of that grand city. The Dâmbovita River was far more beautiful than the Cuyahoga.

“What’s he like?” Johnny’s voice emitted from the little radio.

Aurelia left the window. “Finally.” Since the Domn Lup had fled Cleveland, he and the woman had spoken little. The woman he called Toni had said she needed a nap, and the silence had ensued. Hours of it.

“He’s all boy,” Toni answered. “He can’t sit still. . . .”

Setting her goblet on the table, Aurelia lifted the little radio, holding it tightly as she reclined on the fainting couch and listened via the bug she’d planted in the Maserati’s key fob.

Detective Kurt Miller knew when the Maserati hit I-90 north that the Domn Lup was escorting Toni back to Saranac Lake. His Crown Victoria couldn’t hope to keep up with a car like that, but he didn’t have to now. When he arrived in his hometown just after 2:00 a.m., he drove slowly past Toni’s house. The lights were out. There was no fancy car parked in the driveway, either. He cruised by the area hotels and spotted the sleek vehicle at Gauthier’s Saranac Lake Inn.

He called in a favor from his old friends at the village police department and had a cruiser sent to stake out the Maserati. The assigned officer was to call him if anyone used that car, then he was to nonchalantly tail it.

Kurt stretched. He was ready to go home and sleep in his own bed.

Johnny walked into the lobby area of the hotel. A man with a bushy moustache emerged from the back room. “Hello. Welcome to Gauthier’s. Would you like a queen or a king? I have a suite available.”

Johnny dropped the keys on the counter and readied his wallet. “Nothing fancy,” he said. “Just a room to sleep in.”

The man swiped the credit card and gave it back, then asked him about the make and license of his car, which brought an impressed whistle to the man’s lips. “Are they really all they’re cracked up to be, the Maseratis?” the man asked. “I mean, you can get more horsepower for less money in a Corvette Z06.” He slid the room key across the counter.

“I drove a Z06,” Johnny said, retrieving his keys and the room key. “I opted for the Quattroporte. I just . . . liked it more.”

“Ahh,” the man smiled. “You must be a family man, going for the four-door.”

Johnny’s chest swelled. “Yeah.”

“Your room’s on the second level, all the way down on the right.”

After showering, Johnny crawled into bed with the diary in his hand. He read entries about Frankie missing her dad, about how her mom cried at night, and about her mom struggling to pay the bills . . . but it was the entry about her hating her father for leaving them that struck him hardest.

Will Evan hate me for not being there?

He read about a fight Frankie had with one of her friends, about a crush on a boy who never acknowledged she existed, and about trials with a monster math teacher. Then she documented his “loser” appearance. Toni had glossed the story over, but after an hour of reading, he had a grasp of who Frankie thought him to be, and how that evolved as she grew to know him, love him. She’d drawn a whole page of hearts and written “Francine Rosalee Brown + John Curtis Hampton” inside them.

She mentioned that he said nothing of his home life except to mumble that he hated his mom’s boyfriend and couldn’t understand what she saw in him. There was no other insight to his family. Frankie said she pitied him, and she had been perceptive enough to understand she was pinning on him all the love she could no longer give her father.

He had the feeling they could have made it work, high school sweethearts, together forever, because each would fit perfectly into the hole in the other’s heart.

But Frankie was gone. Soon, the kid would be alone.

No. No, he won’t be alone.