Читать книгу The Last Daughter - Thomas Mahon - Страница 20

The 757 touched down at Oklahoma City’s Will Rogers Airport and taxied to the Delta-Southwest concourse, easing to a stop at gate C-6. The assassin exited, carrying a simple black case. He found the National Rental Counter and stood in line.

He quickly surveyed his immediate surroundings: the traffic buzzing outside the terminal, the police barking orders to loitering drivers and the weary passengers dragging bags through the automatic doors. To his far left, just outside the door to an airport security check-room, an FBI Most Wanted poster partially covered a patch of torn drywall. An intense, very serious face stared at passers-by—a composite sketched a dozen years ago in Oklahoma City homicide. The caption read:

MAESTRO: ASSASSIN. ACTUAL NAME OR WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN. RESPONSIBLE FOR AT LEAST 20 MURDERS NATIONWIDE. ARMED. EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.

Actually, he had no concerns. The sketch was far off the mark. In fact, he found the attempt rather comical. Very odd place for such a poster, he thought. Then again, this was Oklahoma City and many in law enforcement were convinced the assassin maintained strong ties to the state, which, of course, he did. Couple that with his two local hits in the past five years. Maybe the poster belonged in the airport after all.

“Ugly son of a bitch,” announced a voice directly behind him.

The assassin turned to find a short, stocky man gawking up at him. He nodded, then eyed the poster.

“I can’t argue with you there.”

“They all have those high cheek bones, you know? And those big-ass, creepy eyes. Hope they catch the mother and fry him.”

He nodded. “I think most people would agree with you.”

“I’m Jim, by the way. Sorry, didn’t catch your name.”

“Alex.”

“Where are you from? Wait. Don’t tell me. Tailor-made suit and carrying a leather briefcase. I’ll say attorney from Atlanta.”

“PrimeCo claims adjuster from Florida.”

“No shit. You’re up here because of this crazy ass weather, right?”

“I’ve got thirty-two storm claims to write up in the next four days,” he said.

“Next in line,” the clerk announced from behind the counter. “I SAID next in line.”

Alex found the silver Park Avenue in bay twelve. He popped the trunk with the key remote, and gazed in. A lone, brown case sat next to the tire jack. He undid the lock with the small key that had come in the mail three weeks before. Alex examined the contents. Nodding to himself, he grabbed the case and shut the trunk.

Fifteen minutes later, he eased the Park Avenue off the expressway and into the Quail Creek development. He idled down a tree-lined street, stopping across from 642. The smart-looking two-story colonial had a damaged brick façade, and he could see the ragged fascia and dozens of roofing shingles scattered across the lawn. The roof over the dining room was covered by a large, blue tarp. He cut the ignition. Ten minutes turned into fifteen and then twenty. At length, he picked up a set of approaching lights in the rear-view mirror. A silver Volvo SUV swung into the driveway as the garage door cranked opened. Alex grabbed his case and stepped out.

“Excuse me! Ma’am!” he shouted from the curb. “Mrs. Spagnola?”

He crossed the street. Mary Spagnola was now inside the garage, rooting around in her purse while grappling with a baby carrier and diaper bag. He could hear a baby’s cooing coming from the carrier. She glanced up but did not say a word. Alex moved up the driveway with long graceful strides, and stopped at the opening to the garage.

“I’m Alex, the adjuster from PrimeCo.”

She hesitated. Understandable and he’d expected as much.

“Oh. Hi. We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

We. He was told the husband would be out of town. There’d better not be a we.

“I flew in a day early to get a head start on my claims. I’ve got a pile of them.”

“I can imagine.” She paused, halfway turning toward the door. He sensed her loosening up just a bit. “I…”

“I can come back tomorrow. That’s not a problem. I wouldn’t mind getting started, but I don’t want to be a bother, either.”

She stepped to the middle of the garage. “May I see identification?”

“Not a problem,” he said, holding up his adjuster’s card. “You’re case number is PC443201. Drywall damage to the living and dining rooms. Partially collapsed ceiling in dining room. Mold in living room.”

She nodded her head. “Okay. Come on in. I just need to get the baby a bottle. It’s Alex, right?”

She led him through the utility room to the dining area, pointing out the damages, courtesy of the area’s worst storm in 50 years. He removed a clipboard and digital camera from his black case and began snapping pictures.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“Sure, that would be great.” He nodded upwards. “You lost quite a bit of your ceiling. Did you have help cleaning it up? I mean, with having to look after the baby…”

“I did what I could during her naps. My husband’s away on business.”

That’s exactly what he was told.

“When’s he coming back to see the good news?”

“Not until Tuesday. I emailed him a couple dozen photos. He’s thrilled, let me tell you.”

“I bet.”

Alex watched Mary shuffle into the kitchen with the baby, and open the refrigerator door. He grabbed his tape measure and started with the north wall.

“Drywall is a pain,” he said, his voice carrying across the house. “It’s really just glorified cardboard. There’s a big scandal in the industry right now.”

“That right?” she called from the kitchen.

“Apparently Florida contractors bought a slew of rotten drywall from the Chinese. It’s very poor quality, and emits sulfur-based gases that corrode air-conditioner coils, computer wiring and metal picture frames. Wonderful stuff.”

“Let me guess. They have to rip it all out,” she said.

“You got it.”

He finished the north wall. His tape measure recoiled and snapped back into its casing. Now he focused on the west wall. The Spagnola claim would be significant. That much he could see. Their $2,700 mortgage gave them very little wiggle room as far as expenses were concerned. He doubted they could afford to replace the drywall, fascia, carpet and tiles out of pocket.

“How well do you know your neighbors?” he asked. “Have they been any help?”

“We’re relatively new in the neighborhood. We don’t really know anybody. People around here pretty much keep to themselves.”

“I see.”

Mary emerged from the kitchen and handed him a glass of ice water. She glanced up at the jagged hole in the ceiling. “Please tell me the insurance will pay for this mess.”

He sipped the water and checked his notes.

“I think we can help you.” Alex looked about. “I’m finished in here. Just need to complete some paper work.”

He sensed a relieved look on her face.

“Come on. The kitchen’s this way.”

He fed the figures into his laptop. Mary stood on the opposite side of the counter, watching the baby resting peacefully. Its little chest rose and fell in a regular rhythm.

“Is she sleeping through the night yet?”

“She only wakes up once a night, if you can believe that. We’re very lucky.” She stepped away from the baby, and took a quick swig of soda. “Oh, before I forget. I printed some digital pictures of what the place looked like right after the twister.”

“I have them,” he said, flipping open his black case.

“That’s right, I forgot I sent them.” He watched her glance down at his case, to the latest issue of Vogue. A young woman sporting a sexy smile graced the front cover. She wore high-heels and a skimpy dress. An American flag was draped across her chest, concealing most of her cleavage. The cover read, Sexy First Daughter: The President’s Secret Weapon. “You’re a Vogue fan, huh?”

He grabbed the magazine and smiled dryly. “I picked it up in the airport for my wife.”

“I’m sure all the guys say that.”

“You caught me. I confess to having read most of it on the flight out here.”

“What did you think of the article on Caitlin Prescott?” Mary asked, nodding to the cover. “She’s so beautiful.”

“She is absolutely gorgeous. There’s a very interesting article on life in the White House. I sure would love to meet her. Who knows, we might have a thing or two in common. You should get yourself a copy. Good read.”

“Maybe the next time I’m in the grocery store. Let’s take a look at those pictures.”

He set a short stack of color printouts on the granite countertop. Mary settled into a narrating pose.

“You can see the trees scattered in every direction.”

“Looks like a bomb hit,” he said, flipping to the next photo.

“Here’s our dining room before I had the carpet pulled up. Ever seen anything like it? What am I saying? Of course you have. Duh.”

He flipped to the next photo.

She said, “That’s the north wall. And there’s the west wall, or at least what’s left of it.”

“You’re quite the photographer. Almost like a professional.”

“Thanks. I’m a rank amateur, actually.”

He moved on to another photo.

“Are you sure? I see definite expertise in these shots.”

“Thanks.”

Alex tossed the stack back in the briefcase, then handed her a manila envelope. “This is our initial proposal. Very rough, but it’ll give you an idea how we’re going to help. Take a quick look at that as soon as possible. I’ll be back in touch tomorrow or the day after tomorrow at the latest.” He shut the briefcase, and placed the Vogue on the countertop. “It’s yours. Enjoy.”

“That’s very sweet! Thank you.”

“I’m done here. Just need to get a few shots of the front.”

Mary set the envelope on the kitchen counter, and escorted Alex to the door. “You are a savior. I’m glad you came out early.”

“Glad I could help. You’ll be hearing from me very soon.”

She shut and bolted the front door. Through the front bay windows, she watched Alex step over fallen branches and debris while he snapped several pictures of the mess outside. Back in the kitchen, Mary checked on the baby still sleeping peacefully in its car carrier.

She spotted the manila envelope lying on the far counter.

Mary sat at the bar and reviewed the numbers. They looked decent. Direct. And fair. To be honest, they were probably more-than-fair. There was a small arrow drawn at the bottom, so she flipped to the next page. It wasn’t a piece of paper, but an 8x10 black and white glossy of a building with a truck parked out front. Mary blinked. What the hell… That’s the...What’s this doing—

A frigid wave shot down her trunk. Her breaths came quickly.

She again focused on the picture. There was something scribbled at the bottom edge.

Look behind you.

Mary spun around in her chair but saw nothing but the dining room wall ten feet ahead and the sun room through the rounded archway. She inhaled and shivered.

“I think that’s your best shot,” said the voice from behind her.

She shrieked, dropping the insurance proposal and photo. Alex stood across the spacious kitchen, and he had the sleeping baby cradled in the crux of his left arm. Mary gasped.

“The Murrah Building. Outstanding work.”

He moved toward her.

“Please give me my baby!”

She could see that in his right hand he gripped a gun with a very long barrel. It was capped by a silencer.

“Oh my God. No.”

He stroked the baby’s cheek with the barrel.

“Shhh. Don’t wake her.” He came around the granite bar. “Let’s talk about that photo.”

Mary edged back. “How did you get that?”

“You took it,” he said.

“I did not! I don’t know why you think—“

Alex dug the tip of the gun into the baby’s neck, and wrapped his finger around the trigger.

“Okay! Okay! I took it,” she blubbered between sobs. “Why are you here? Who are you? Oh my god!”

He pulled back the gun, repositioning the baby in his arm. For a moment, it stirred but settled in and went back to sleep.

“There. You are capable of telling the truth.”

“What are you doing with that picture?” Her lips began to quiver. Mary edged back to the dining room wall. “You’re one of them.”

“Step away from the wall,” he ordered.

“Don’t hurt my baby. I’ll scream.”

He cocked the gun once again.

“Please. What do you want? Who gave you that pic—”

“You didn’t really think we would overlook your part in this, did you?”

“Don’t,” she cried. “I didn’t even realize what I was doing. How was I supposed to know who was going to be in that picture? I didn’t…How…”

He motioned with the gun. “Step toward me.”

She hesitated then took two tentative steps. Eyes glued on the reposing child.

“I didn’t know what I was doing!”

“That isn’t good enough.”

“I was just doing my job. I worked for the city! Ask them!”

He frowned. “And then this pitiful attempt at witness protection. You thought we wouldn’t find you?”

She was now gasping for air. “Not my baby. Anything but my baby.”

Grabbing the Vogue off the counter, he held it up. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she? And you, my friend, are going to do your part in bringing us together.”

“What do you mean?”

He dropped the magazine, clenched his jaws and jammed the gun back into the baby’s neck. The child stirred and began to wail.

“This is going to be bloody. How I hate messes.”

“NO.”

He again wrapped his finger around the trigger.

“And you made this mess possible. I just want you to know that.”

“GOD. NO.”