Four Page 2

  My flight landed into Logan International mid-morning on Saturday, the sun dancing off the Atlantic on arrival. After deplaning I assimilated easily into the departing crowd, almost invisible as I obtained my rental car and eased away into traffic.

  This wasn’t my first time in Boston and it certainly wouldn’t be my last. Our history together went back almost a quarter century ago to my arriving as a bright eyed freshman at Harvard. For four solid years it was a pain in the ass, but as an alumnus it came in handy from time to time.

  In return for everything the school name had done for me, I still donated money on an annual basis and showed up every year for the Yale game. Even kept up with a fair number of classmates, regardless of how stuffy they could occasionally be.

  You never knew when you were going to need a few friends in high places for a favor, or more importantly an alibi.

  There was a familiarity with the city that bordered on déjà vu as I wound my way down Storrow Drive and followed the Charles River. Crew teams rowed by as the fall sun descended in front of me. Fat leaves of gold and crimson floated to the ground as I worked past Fenway, the hulking stadium sitting silent for the afternoon.

  The traffic thickened a bit as I passed into Cambridge, Harvard looming ahead. From the road I could see scores of students trekking across the Anderson Bridge, no doubt on their way down to the stadium.

  The football team was hosting Princeton, one of the few times students got to pretend they were living a normal college experience.

  At any state school in the country the traffic a block from the stadium would be so thick I’d be in gridlock for hours.

  In the Ivy League it barely cost me five minutes.

  Damn Ivies thought they were too good for something as barbaric as football. They’d rather traipse across the globe and fleece a third world country for their oil.

  Nothing barbaric in that.

  The next exit past the stadium shuffled me onto Route 2A towards the outskirts of Harvard Square and Fresh Pond. Coming up on the enclave of Alewife, I checked into the Western Tria and had lunch in the steakhouse downstairs.

  The thick t-bone was a bit tough and the beer a little warm, but it didn’t really matter. Oklahoma was beating up Notre Dame on the television and for a few minutes I was just another guy enjoying a fall Saturday the way they’re supposed to be.

  Some that do what I do might criticize my choice of location for the weekend. I was at least ten miles from any of my targets and staying in a hotel that I could buy and sell with what I was making on this hit.

  Both the hotel and the location were deliberate choices.

  Someone searching for me would never look in a generic joint in the suburbs. The advent of the television era meant most people had seen so much CSI they thought that’s how business was conducted.

  High rise penthouse suites, with deluxe meals and prostitutes hanging from the ceiling.

  In reality, there was safety in my choice of accommodations. I was Joe Nobody, having a steak and watching football, as faceless as the other half dozen chaps doing the same thing all along the bar.

  Perhaps even more important, I was nowhere near the scenes of the impending crimes. Most of the time, those that got caught did so because they stayed too close to the action. They loved to see the police arrive and scratch their heads, got off watching the media try to make sense of what happened.

  I knew when I left a scene that the job was done. That was all that mattered.

  I measured success in dollars and cents. Nothing more.

  Finally, and not to be undersold, I chose this spot because I liked it. I came to Harvard as a kid fresh off the farm in western Oregon, a place where there were always fresh boysenberries on the vine and the smell of dairy cattle hung in the air.

  I found this little oasis my freshman year and it grew on me. Fresh Pond reservoir was less than a hundred yards away and offered the only fishing in the area that wasn’t the river. Mount Auburn Cemetery had the best view of the city and Jose’s around the corner was my favorite hidden gem restaurant in all of Boston.

  Call me sentimental, but I didn’t get back often. I liked to make it count.

  After my second beer I switched to lemonade and watched the rest of the Oklahoma game. After they finished off the Irish, I left a fat tip for the barmaid and headed back to my room to stretch out for awhile.

  I’d just traveled across the country and it was going to be a late night.

  Placing my cell phone on vibrate I set the alarm on it for 9 pm. Still a little early for my schedule, but any later and somebody might find it odd should they overhear it.

  Nobody sets an alarm to wake up at ten o’clock at night. These were the little things you started to think about when you do what I do.

  Lying down, I kicked my shoes off and stretched my legs out over the bottom edge of the king size bed. Settling back on the fluffy pillows I closed my eyes and smiled, the pillow top mattress cocooning around me.

  It was going to be a good night.

  Chapter Three

  Most people will tell you they love a good deep sleep. Falling into an abyss of darkness, their entire being shutting down for hours at a time.

  Not me.

  I preferred light sleep, the kind where the body never really left the REM cycle, always just a few seconds away from rising fresh and alert.

  Maybe it was my good mood from the afternoon of red meat and football. Perhaps it was what I knew lay in the night ahead. It might have even been the thrill of being back on familiar turf. Either way, I enjoyed several hours of nice light sleep.

  The cell phone buzzed only a single time before I reached over and snapped it closed, swung my feet over the edge of the bed and went into the bathroom. In practiced movements I showered using generic shampoo and brushed my teeth with bland toothpaste.

  People remembered distinctive smells. Never did I want someone to step into an elevator after me and remember a particular scent. My goal was to be as invisible as possible.

  I dressed in the most boring ensemble I could find, a pair of plain tan slacks and a white oxford shirt. My hair I shoved to the side in a basic part and across my face I wore thin rimmed glasses.

  That’s all. No watch, no jewelry, nothing that could catch a glint of light or somebody’s attention.

  The last task before leaving was to scroll through the local phonebook and pick out the number for the SkyLine luxury apartment complex. Using my cell phone with a scrambler I dialed, waiting out three long rings before it was picked up.

  “Good evening, SkyLine apartment homes. How may I help you?” answered a thin female voice with a slight nasal hint.

  “Good evening. I was visiting a friend this afternoon at your complex and seem to have misplaced my wallet sometime between then and now. Has anybody turned one in?”

  There was a moment of rustling on the other end of the line before she responded, “No sir, I am sorry, nothing’s come through here.”

  Using my faux concerned voice I said, “I remember taking it out in the elevator to check a phone number. Perhaps I dropped it in there? Is there any way you can check?”

  “Certainly sir, I’ll have to put you on hold while I go have a look.”

  I pushed a long sigh out before responding, “Oh you don’t have to do all that, ma’am. I was just thinking that if there was a camera there, you could look right quick and tell me if you noticed anything.”

  “I am sorry, sir; we don’t use cameras here at SkyLine. We rent to only the highest quality of people and we don’t believe in intruding on their privacy.”

  Just like that, Thin & Nasal told me everything I needed to know.

  “Would you like me to check the elevators for you?” she followed up.

  “Yes please, I am sorry to be a bother but my boarding pass for a flight in the morning is in there.”

  “Okay sir, one moment please.”

  After she put me on hold I waited a moment or two to ensure she’d stepped
away from the desk before hanging up. I’d already gotten everything I need from her, no need to keep up with the charade any longer.

  If she tried to call me back she’d get nothing but an automated response anyway.

  Using the back stairwell I descended two flights of stairs and exited into the fall evening. The ambient sounds of the city filled my ears as I walked through the parking lot and up Alewife Parkway, my rental car in plain camera view the entire time.

  Every little piece only made an alibi that much stronger.

  The walk to the T station took less than ten minutes, the transaction to purchase tokens another two. When I enrolled in college twenty-five years before it was fifty cents a ride, the times accounting for a one hundred and fifty percent increase in fares.

  Given that everything around me looked exactly the same as it did back then, my only guess was there must have been some happy politicians somewhere in Boston tonight.

  The T ride took fifteen minutes along the semi-familiar route, past Davis, Porter and Harvard Squares, past Central and on into Kendall, home of MIT. Falling in behind a gaggle of college students out for the evening, or as is more likely given my location, returning home, I emerged from the station into the night air.

  Three leisurely blocks along the river took me close to my destination, hooking a left back into the city for the last two. At five minutes after eleven I strolled into the lobby of the SkyLine as natural as if I owned the top-floor penthouse.

  Removing my cell phone from my pocket I pressed it to my ear with my left hand, concealing most of my face from the front desk as I walked by. I glanced over to see a frail young woman with red hair flipping through a newspaper, barely looking up as I walked by.

  Definitely Thin & Nasal.

  Entering into the elevators, I used the phone as a pointer and pressed the button for the top floor. In some buildings, with cameras or full-time bellmen, I might have had to take the stairs or be creative.

  These guys made it almost too easy.

  When the doors opened on the top floor, I paused a moment and listened. Hearing nothing, I emerged into one of the most generic hallways I had ever seen.

  White walls. Beige carpeting. Long cylindrical lights overhead.

  My footfalls were silent as I exited into the hallway and headed for the only door on the entire floor.

  The first person on my list was Dr. Ambrosia Brockler, a chemist that split her time floating between Harvard and MIT. She earned her PhD from Stanford and her fame working with botanical growth hormones in the eighties and early nineties. In the time since she’d ridden her reputation to a tenured teaching position and a lot of time as visiting consultant or expert witness.

  Hence the entire top floor at the SkyLine.

  What she could have done to deserve a visit from me, I can only feign to guess.

  Odds were it didn’t have anything to do with plants though.

  Making sure I was in direct line of the peephole, I knocked three times and took a step back. I stood with my hands clasped in front of me, my entire body pulled in as small and unassuming as possible.

  A few moments passed before the sound of bare feet on wooden floors grew closer. There was a pause as she stopped to see who was knocking, shadows dancing beneath the door.

  The door swung open to reveal a striking woman in her late forties with glossy black hair and reading glasses perched on her nose. A black silk nightgown conformed to her lithe body, a white linen robe over it, open and hanging by her sides.

  “May I help you?” she asked, her visage devoid of concern.

  “I am sorry,” I replied, my shoulders still hunched inward. “I am looking for a Faith Heathrow. Do you know where I can find her?”

  Shaking her head slightly, Ambrosia said, “No, I am sorry. I don’t know anybody by that name and I live here alone.”

  Forcing a flush of blood to my face, I stammered a moment as if to appear embarrassed. “I am very sorry to have disturbed you, Miss...”

  As the words leave my mouth, I extended my right hand towards her, a simple and unobtrusive gesture.

  “Brockler. Ambrosia Brockler,” she replied, returning the handshake, never knowing it would be the last thing she ever did.

  I pressed the transparent patch flat palmed in my hand against hers, holding it a full moment to make sure it was absorbed.

  “Harold Spires, pleasure to meet you. Have a good evening.”

  She mumbled something close to the same back to me, already the strength seeping from her voice. Without another word I turned to leave, her door closing behind me. Using the cell phone both as a pointer and a disguise again, I called the elevator and rode it down, pressed the phone to my face and exited the building.

  On the way out I scanned the wall of mailboxes in the foyer and saw “C. Mecklin” in apartment 6C, the apartment I guessed to be right under Brockler’s.

  Despite the hour, there was still a fair bit of life out in the city as I departed the SkyLine. The sound of the subway could be heard rumbling nearby as I turned right and strolled three blocks, careful to control my pace.

  I tossed a glance over my shoulder, nothing more than a quick check, and seeing nobody I pulled up beside a corner trash can. The thin and permeable wax lining peeled clean away from my palms, coming lose in two full pieces. Both of them went right to the middle of the can, instantly becoming unrecognizable amongst the heap of garbage inside.

  Five minutes had passed since leaving Brockler, the patch no doubt finished with what it was designed to do.

  I knew this for a fact, because I designed it.

  When doing what I do for a living, it’s impossible not to develop a deep understanding of chemicals. After months of trial and error, I was able to develop a solid state patch from a mixture of compounds I liked to refer to as the Baer.

  Some may think the spelling incorrect, but the name had nothing to do with the animal. Rather, it was homage to 1920’s heavyweight champion Max Baer, a man whose punch was so fierce it had been known to kill with a single punch.

  That’s what my concoction did, killed with a single punch.

  Formulated to pass through the skin without resistance, my victims never saw it coming.

  From something as simple as a handshake, I could deliver a fatal punch and be miles away before they knew what happened. The mixture entered the bloodstream within seconds. A few minutes later the neurotransmitters in the brain began to deaden, causing the person to feel sleepy and start to nod off.

  Shortly thereafter, they fall asleep for good.

  By that point not only was I miles away, but enough time had passed to allow for a person to lie down. Once they were found, they appear to have just fallen asleep, no signs of struggle at all.

  I caught a cab to Davis Square and hopped out in front of the old Somerville Theater, the overhead marquee advertising a second run movie above me. A short walk took me over to the T, where I caught a ride back to Alewife. On my way out of the station I grabbed a couple of sandwiches I never intended to eat from Burger King and walked back to the Tria in the dark.

  Again, an alibi is always made in the details.

  Using the lobby entrance I slid into the Tria without using my keycard, waved the bag at the prepubescent kid with heavy eyelids at the front counter and walked to my room. Once there I tossed the bag into the trash, peeled the Oxford shirt off and went to the bathroom.

  From my pants pocket I removed the pages of notes on Brockler and burned them in the shower, running water over them and rinsing the ashes down the drain.

  Without thinking twice of the beautiful woman whose life I just ended I went to my bag and pulled out my next stack of notes.

  Keller Wilbanks. First time United States Congressman for the state of Massachusetts.

  Middle aged family man with perfect teeth, good hair, and charisma bred from a life in front of the cameras.

  Christ I hated politicians. This one might even be fun.

  Chapter Four
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  “It is days like this that make me wonder why the hell I ever became a cop,” Dern Beckett said as he climbed from the passenger seat of the standard police issue Crown Victoria. He placed his coffee on the hood and reached back inside, extracting a rumpled brown blazer. In practiced movement he shrugged it back on, hiding the shoulder holster he was wearing.

  Swinging the door shut, he picked the coffee back up and took a long pull.

  “Don’t give me that horseshit. You love this stuff,” Devin Meeks said as he pulled himself out from behind the wheel. “You’re a cowboy through and through. If this was the old days, you’d be out on a damn horse chasing down Geronimo or some shit.”

  Beckett paused a moment, considering the statement. “Point being?”

  “You live for this. Don’t tell me otherwise.”

  Beckett smirked at his partner’s candor, unable to disagree. He was a bit of a cowboy, at least in the conventional manner of thinking. He wore jeans and cowboy boots everywhere he went. Always had a five o’clock shadow and spoke with a bit of a drawl.

  Most of the men on the force called him Lockjaw for the way he set his mouth when he was deep in an investigation, a face that gave him an omnipresent snarl.

  “Jesus, what a mess,” Beckett muttered as he and Meeks walked from the car to the swarm of people surrounding the SkyLine luxury apartment complex.

  A team of police clad in black had barricaded off a large swath of ground outside the front doors, the entire area crisscrossed with yellow police tape. A large throng of cameras and reporters had gathered around them.

  This in turn had attracted an even larger crowd of onlookers.

  Beckett forced his way through and flashed his shield to the cop working the gate. The cop, a rookie that looked like he was barely old enough to shave, swung back a corner of a barricade, his jaw agape.

  “Come right on in Mr. Beckett, they’re expecting you upstairs.”