THE COLD FIRE- Page 10

  Nancy didn’t have time for this. “You know, we bake all our own…”

  But now the old lady lifted the napkin that lay over her basket to reveal an array of beautifully arranged dark chocolate brownies dripping with fudge sauce, golden cookies dusted with powdered sugar, and light fluffy meringues smelling sweetly of lemon and orange oil.

  “Oh,” was all Nancy could say, staring at the pile of homemade goodies.

  “Maybe you’d like to try something, dear?” asked the old lady kindly, handing Nancy a chocolate chip cookie.

  “Well, why…thank you,” said Nancy, accepting the cookie.

  The caterer took one bite and her eyes popped out of their sockets. Being in the gourmet food business, Nancy had had the opportunity to eat a lot of tasty desserts, but she had never in her life tasted such a perfectly scrumptious chocolate chip cookie.

  “Now try the brownie,” urged the old woman, eagerly shoving a rich fudge brownie at the caterer.

  Nancy swallowed her cookie and took a bite of brownie.

  Chocolate heaven!

  When Nancy had recovered from the divine experience, she grabbed the basket and said, “Wait one moment, would you please?” and whisked the goodies back to her kitchen staff.

  Everyone from the head chef to the dishwashers sampled the homemade yummies and it was unanimous—they were the best damn desserts anyone there had ever eaten.

  “Like my Nana used to make,” declared the sous chef with tears in his eyes as he crunched on a lemon cookie glazed with a light sugar coating.

  Nancy rushed back to the front of the store where the old lady waited patiently. “Did they like them?” she asked sweetly.

  “Your desserts are incredible,” declared the caterer. “Where did you learn to bake like that?”

  “Oh, from my own dear grandmother when I was a little girl on the farm,” said the old lady with a wistful smile.

  “Look,” said Nancy, unable to stop herself from snagging a sugar snap, “I think the good Lord sent you to me today. Our pastry chef is sick with a stomach flu and we’ve got a huge, I mean a really important event tomorrow night. Could you, I mean, I know this is ridiculously short notice, but is there any way you could make enough of these desserts for 350 people by tomorrow night?” Nancy knew she had desperation written all over her face.

  “Why, I’d be just thrilled to help you out,” said the old woman, clapping her hands in delight, but then a little frown formed a mass of wrinkles along her blue-veined forehead, “only…”

  “Only what?” Nancy began to panic. “We’ll do anything. Just please help us!”

  “Oh, it’s only that I’m very particular about how my sweets are arranged,” the old lady smiled modestly. “You see, I put so much love into the things I bake. I just like to personally make sure they get the showing they deserve.”

  “Oh, that’s fine!” said Nancy, relieved. “You can come to the event and lay everything out as you like.”

  The old lady beamed. “Oh now, isn’t that nice of you?”

  “Then you’ll do it?”

  “I’d be very pleased to help you; just tell me what time and where you need me.”

  After getting the information for the next evening, she left Fabulous Food with a smile on her face. Delores Pigeon, you did beautifully. Of course she did feel badly about spiking poor chef Armand’s tea. She just hated to think of how he must be feeling right now, but she consoled herself with the knowledge that his colon was getting a good thorough cleaning and that would keep him healthy for years to come. With a sigh, she pulled her plaid shawl a little closer around her and headed down Prospect Street.

  ****

  By the time lunch rolled around, John couldn’t take the suspense any longer. He headed for Veronica’s room. Maybe she’d want to get a bite to eat.

  As he rounded the corner, she was just stepping out. She wore a beautifully cut, pale blue suit with a short skirt that showed off her long legs. A white scarf was tied around her hair and the Jackie O’s were perched on her WASPy little nose. Diamonds shimmered at her throat and wrists.

  John was about to call out to her, when something in her manner made him pause and then duck back around the corner. He’d seen that body language before. It was stealthy and secretive. She was going somewhere she didn’t want it to be known she was going. He could feel it in his gut, the way you got to feeling things when you’d chased criminals around for most of your adult life. You learned to trust that inner radar because very often your life depended on it.

  He heard the soft sound of expensive shoe leather crinkling as she quickly made her way down the hall. When he felt the moment was right, he stepped out just in time to see her disappear into the stairwell. He hurried to the door and, quietly pushing it open, listened to her footsteps echo on the cement stairs. She went down two stories and then swung open the door to enter the second floor.

  John took off his shoes and bolted down the stairs after her. When he reached the second floor, he pushed the door ajar, just enough to see Veronica slip into room 211.

  John went down to the first floor, slipping his shoes back on before he entered the elegant lobby. He made his way to the polished wood concierge desk. An older gentleman in a neat gray uniform with a good-natured fat face smiled at John as he approached.

  “Can I help you, sir?” asked the concierge.

  “Yes,” said John. “I wonder if you could tell me if a Nicholas Bezuhov is staying here? I thought I saw him in the lobby last night and I didn’t get a chance to say hi.” John flashed a bright smile.

  “Oh, do you mean the prince?” asked the concierge.

  John suppressed a smirk. “Yes, that’s him.”

  “We’re not supposed to give out room numbers, but…” The concierge stood waiting expectantly.

  John shook his head. Could the guy be any more obvious? He pulled out his wallet and slid a twenty dollar bill across the front desk

  The concierge’s chubby fingers closed around the cash. “The prince is in room…let me see,” he punched a few buttons on his computer, “room 211. Would you like me to call up and let him know you’re here?”

  “No, that’s all right,” said John, “I’ll stop and see him later. Thank you.”

  The concierge smiled. “You’re welcome, sir.”

  Now what? John headed toward the elevator bank. Elaborate schemes of commandeering the room above the White Russian’s and bugging his suite, or a dozen other crazy things he might have done if he were still in the FBI danced in John’s head. But he wasn’t in the FBI anymore and Veronica Rossmore wasn’t a criminal. At least, he didn’t think she was.

  He decided to go back to his room, pick up his sunglasses, and go for a walk. But when he got on the elevator, his finger pushed two as if it had a will of its own. When the doors slid open on the second floor, he stepped out and walked to room 211.

  He put his ear to the door and listened.

  All he could hear were Veronica’s cries of pleasure.

  Chapter Nine

  The warm, honey tones of Veronica’s thrilled gasp were a familiar sound. John had heard it the night before when he’d traced her throbbing flesh with the tip of his tongue.

  His face flushed and he had to squeeze his hand into a fist to keep from grabbing the doorknob and busting in on them. He exhaled long and deep, and before he did something stupid, bolted up the stairs to his own room.

  As soon as the door closed behind him, he went straight for the phone and dialed. He paced the room as the phone rang. It seemed to ring on into eternity until at last Simon picked up.

  “Hello?” John could hear the ball game on TV in the background.

  “It’s John.”

  “Well, good to hear from you, John,” said his sponsor, turning down the television.

  “I’m fucking furious, Simon, and I don’t know what to do.”

  Simon chuckled. “Congratulations, you’re an alcoholic.”

  Smug old bastard. “Listen, I�
��m in a situation and I don’t know how to handle it. I got a job as a bodyguard for this rich woman. She has a lot of expensive jewels and I’m supposed to be watching out for them. We’re down in DC for this big charity ball. Anyway, I slept with her last night…”

  “That was your first mistake.”

  Here we go.

  “Never ever shit where you eat, John.”

  “I know it’s not a good idea,” John admitted. “But I’m only working for her for a few days and she came onto me…”

  “I see, so you had no choice in the matter. She tied you to the bed and forced you.”

  John just shook his head. “Can I tell you the part that’s screwing me up?”

  “Go ahead.”

  John took a deep breath and tried to calm down. “The part I’m having trouble dealing with is…well, you remember how I used to track jewel thieves?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, well one of the thieves, this jerk called the White Russian, is staying here in the same hotel and I caught him trying to get into Veronica’s room this morning…”

  “He was breaking in?” asked the old man.

  “Well, no,” said John. “He was just walking in. He said he was a friend of hers.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, later on today, I caught her sneaking into his room and then I heard her having sex with him.”

  “You want to tell me what’s wrong with what you just told me?” asked the old man like he was talking to a five-year-old.

  “Yeah, she’s running around with a notorious jewel thief behind my back. She’s not being honest, she’s…”

  “I’m not interested in what she’s doing,” interrupted Simon. “Let’s take a look at what you’re doing. First, you sleep with your employer. Then you stalk her and listen at the door. What’s this woman’s name again?”

  “Veronica.”

  “Okay, I want you to get this and get it good. Veronica is an adult and she gets to do what she wants. You were hired to do a job and you need to start showing up for it like a professional person. What Veronica does is Veronica’s business and nobody else’s.”

  “No, but seriously, Simon,” objected John. “Last night she’s coming onto me and today she’s sleeping with this jerk.”

  “I don’t care if she screws every inmate in Sing Sing, she’s not the one trying to stay sober. You are. Now, listen to me,” ordered Simon. “Tell me what Step Two is.”

  John sighed heavily. “Came to believe a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.”

  “Right! You get that you are insane right now?”

  John hesitated. “You know, I don’t know that, I mean anyone…”

  “I see.” Simon was amused. “You’re a serene picture of contentment and balanced thinking.”

  “Fine, I get your point,” John conceded.

  “The good news is that we can be restored to sanity if we’re willing to ask God for help and take a few right actions.”

  Here come the instructions.

  “I want you to go to a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous and find the most hopeless-looking case in the room. Take him out for coffee and try to help him. Then when you see this Veronica, you are to be polite and professional.”

  “Okay,” John bounced his fist against his thigh, “okay, Simon.”

  “Call me tomorrow and let me know how it goes,” advised the old man.

  “I will,” said John. “Thanks.”

  After hanging up, but before he could think himself out of it, John picked up the phone again and called the central office for Alcoholics Anonymous. He got the location of a meeting starting in half an hour and dashed out the door.

  ****

  Dornal Zagen slid a little lower in the seat of the stolen BMW as he watched John Monroe enter St. Peter’s Cathedral. He glanced over at the UMP submachine gun lying on the floor next to him. He was tempted to pick the ex-fed off right there on the steps of the church, but Dornal prided himself on doing things just right. Even though his gun had a silencer and he had a fast getaway car, the conditions were not quite perfect.

  With the Hope in sight he didn’t want to make a single mistake. Before the weekend was through, he’d have his revenge and the most coveted jewel in the world. It was worth the wait. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the glove compartment and settled in.

  ****

  As John entered the meeting, which was held in the vestry room of St. Peter’s, the fluorescent lights and circle of chatting people seated on metal folding chairs informed him he was in the right place. It was the usual crowd. Bankers in suits on lunch break, crack whores in tube tops with wild hair and wilder eyes, trust fund babies in their designer duds, tattooed convicts in jeans and wife-beaters, punk rockers with dyed hair and clothes pinned together with safety pins, wholesome-looking blonde trophy wives with perfect bodies encased in expensive casual clothing all sharing the same space. The speaker was a frail-looking woman with long, black hair and pale skin, who spoke passionately about her relationship with God and how AA had changed her life.

  God came easily to some alcoholics once they made the decision to open themselves up to divine intervention, but John still had his doubts. He believed this fiery young woman had all kinds of guardian angels watching over her at any given moment, leading her to the right career, the right man, the most primo parking spot. But he couldn’t quite believe he was getting the same treatment from the Almighty.

  When the meeting ended, John scanned the room for the most messed-up-looking newcomer he could find. He saw a kid in faded jeans and a dirty Linkin Park T-shirt with limp hair hanging in his face and dark, haunted eyes. He had chipped black nail polish and a skull ring on his index finger. He was two sizes too thin and his skin had a yellowish cast to it. He would have been a good-looking guy if it weren’t for the inner decay that had worked its way out to the surface.

  John headed the kid’s way and smiled. “Hey, I’m John. Are you new?”

  “Yeah,” mumbled the kid shyly. “I have two days.”

  “Congratulations,” said John, trying to sound encouraging.

  “It’s not much,” said the kid to his scuffed-up sneakers.

  “Hey, this is where it starts,” said John. “I remember when I had two days. I never thought I could make it to one year.”

  “Yeah?” The boy looked up, hope, despair, and a world of doubt in his dark eyes. “How did you do it?”

  “If you want to go get a cup of coffee, I could tell you about it,” offered John.

  But the kid shook his greasy head and looked down again. “No thanks, man. I gotta be somewhere.”

  “Okay,” said John unperturbed, “but if you need someone to talk to, here’s my number.” He fished a pen out of his pocket and scribbled awkwardly on a receipt from the Monticello drug store where he had stopped to pick up a pack of gum before his date with Veronica.

  The kid took the number without even looking at it and slipped it into his jeans’ pocket. “Thanks, man.”

  “Seriously, call me if you need me.”

  “I will,” said the kid, looking antsy.

  John knew he wouldn’t. As he walked out of the vestry, his heart sank. Before the day was out, the kid would probably drink or light up a pipe, snort something or shoot up—whatever it was he was into. That was the sad fact of the disease they shared.

  John left the church feeling almost as discouraged as when he had entered. The sun was beginning to set, sending warm rays over the charming street with its Revolutionary War townhouses and the bright little gardens packed with blooming, spring perennials.

  Slowly he walked along the cobblestones until he reached the church garden halfway down the block. It was enclosed in black wrought-iron gates. At the garden’s center stood a stone statue of Mary wearing a crown, with the baby Jesus cradled in her arms. She looked disappointed and downhearted, too, but behind her stood a beautiful weeping willow. Its bows arched protectively over the Virgin’s head, it
s strong trunk at her back and the setting sun shone through, silhouetting her. At her feet bloomed lavender, white roses, orange day lilies, and deep magenta hydrangeas.

  John shuffled to a stop and turned to face Mary in her serene garden. Unexpectedly, he felt a gentle wave of peace warm him as he gazed at the statue. Maybe things weren’t as bad as he thought.

  Though he felt slightly foolish there on the public street, he bowed his head to offer up a silent prayer.

  It took less than a second for John’s adrenaline to surge as he heard the bullet whistle over his shoulder and knick the black iron gate where his head had been only a moment before. He was flat on the ground as a second bullet whizzed over him. He had his hand on his Glock 27 before he could think about it. He spotted the BMW across the street with a man sporting dark glasses and shocking, white-blond hair behind the wheel. John pulled the trigger, sending a loud popping noise echoing off the cobblestones. It had been a long time since he’d fired a gun, but like riding a bike, all his training came back in a flash and he fired again, shattering the rearview mirror on the Beemer before it took off with a squeal of tires down the street.

  John’s brain started to work now, along with his adrenaline-hopped reflexes. He knew it was Dornal Zagen speeding away.

  Mad as hell, John ran hard after the car. He knew he didn’t stand a chance of catching the Austrian thief, but he would damn well try anyway. Pausing for a moment to aim his gun, he shot out the back left tire of the sports car as it swung around the corner.

  Behind him, John could hear the doors of the sedate townhouses opening and feel the glare of worried eyes upon his retreating figure as he flew down the street. He hit Pennsylvania Avenue and discovered he was in luck. The BMW was stuck in the gridlocked mess created by an accident between a small sports car and a motorcycle, fortunately harming no one, but creating the traffic jam from hell. Vehicles had almost come to a complete standstill as everyone waited for a traffic cop to wave cars past the accident one at a time.

  As John advanced on the BMW, Dornal jumped out and took off running into a nearby alley. John was on his tail as they raced down the pavement.