“Any other trips?”
“I got to go to Seattle.”
“When was that?”
“In the middle of July. Apparently old Helene wasn’t feeling up to par, and Alvin needed a driver.”
“A driver?”
“That was another weird thing about Alvin,” Carol said. “He couldn’t drive. He said he’d never learned and never would.”
Jason recalled the police commenting the night he died that Hayes had no driver’s license.
“What happened in Seattle?”
“Not a lot. We were only in the city a couple of days. We did visit the University of Washington. Then we headed up into the Cascades. Now, that’s beautiful country, but if you think it rains a lot in Boston, wait until you visit the Pacific Northwest. Have you?”
“No,” Jason said absently. He tried to imagine a discovery that would involve trips to Seattle and Australia.
“How long were you away?”
“Which time?”
“You went more than once?”
“Twice,” Carol said. “The first trip was for five days. We visited the University of Washington and saw the sights. On the second trip, which was several weeks later, we only stayed two nights.”
“Did you do the same things both times?”
Carol shook her head. “The second trip we bypassed Seattle and went directly into the Cascades.”
“What on earth did you do?”
“I just hung out, relaxed. We went to a lodge. It was gorgeous.”
“What about Alvin? What did he do?”
“About the same. But he was interested in the ecology and all that stuff. You know, always the scientist.”
“So it was like a vacation?” Jason asked, thoroughly perplexed.
“I suppose.” She tossed another stone.
“What did Alvin do at the University of Washington?” Jason asked.
“He saw an old friend, Can’t think of his name. Someone he trained with at Columbia.”
“A molecular geneticist like Alvin?”
“I believe so. But we weren’t there very long. I visited the Psychology Department while they were talking.”
“That must have been interesting.” Jason smiled, thinking the Psychology Department would have enjoyed getting their academic hands on the likes of Carol Donner.
“Damn,” she said, suddenly checking her watch. “I’ve got to run. I have another appointment.”
Jason stood up, taking her hand. He was impressed by the delicacy with which Carol described her work. “An appointment” sounded so professional. They walked to the edge of the park.
Refusing a ride, Carol said good-bye and started up Beacon Street. Jason watched as her figure receded in the distance. She seemed so carefree and happy. What a tragedy, he thought. Time, which seems boundless to her youthful mind, will soon catch
up with her. What kind of life was topless dancing and dates with men? He didn’t like to think about it. Turning in the opposite direction, Jason walked to De Luca’s Market and bought the makings for a simple supper: barbecued chicken and salad greens. All the while he went over his conversation with Carol. He had a lot more information, but it provided more questions than conclusions. Still, he was now sure of two things. One, Hayes had definitely made a discovery, and two, the key was Helene Brennquivist.
In less than twenty-four hours, Juan had the whole scenario planned out. Since this was not supposed to look like a traditional hit, it required more thought. The usual ploy was to nail the victim in a crowd, putting a low-caliber pistol to the head, and pow, it was all over. That kind of operation needed little planning, only the right circumstances. The whole performance relied on the peculiar mentality of crowds. After any shocking event, everyone was so intent on the victim that the perpetrator could melt away unnoticed, even pretending to be one of the curious onlookers. All he had to do was drop the gun.
But the instructions on this job were different. The hit was to be staged as a rape, Juan’s specialty. He smiled to himself, amazed that he could get paid for something he used to do as a sport. The United States was a strange and wonderful place, where the law often gave the felon more consideration than the victim.
This time Juan realized he’d have to get his victim alone. That was what made it a challenge. It was also what made it fun, because without witnesses he could do what he liked with the woman, as long as when he left she was dead.
Juan decided to follow the victim and accost her in the foyer of her building. The threat of immediate bodily injury made in a soft, reasonable voice should be enough to persuade her to take him up to her apartment. Once inside, it would be all fun and games.
He followed the mark on a short shopping excursion in Harvard Square. She bought a magazine at a corner kiosk, then headed for a grocery store called Sages. Juan lingered across the street, examining the window of a bookstore, surprised the place was open on Sunday. The mark came out of the grocery store with a plastic shopping bag, cut diagonally across the street, and disappeared into a bakery café, Juan followed — coffee sounded good, even if it was the American kind. He preferred Cuban coffee: thick, sweet, and rich.
While he sipped the watery brew, he stared at his. victim. He was astounded at his good luck. The woman was beautiful. He guessed mid-twenties. What a deal, he thought. He could already feel himself getting hard. He wouldn’t have to fake this one.
Half an hour later, the mark finished, paid, and walked out of the café. Juan tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table. He felt generous. After all, he’d be five thousand richer when he got back to Miami.
To his delight, the woman continued up Brattle Street. Juan slowed his pace, content to just keep her in view. When she turned onto Concord, he speeded up, knowing she was almost home. When she reached Craigie Arms Apartment Complex, Juan was right behind her. A quick glance up and down Concord Avenue suggested the timing was perfect. Now it depended on what was happening inside the building.
Juan paused long enough to be sure the inner door had been opened. With split-second timing he was in the foyer and had one foot over the threshold of the inner door. It was then that he spoke.
“Miss Brennquivist?”
Momentarily startled, Helene looked into Juan’s darkly handsome Hispanic face.
“Ja,” she said with her Scandinavian accent, thinking he must be a fellow tenant.
“I’ve been dying to meet you. My name is Carlos.”
Helene paused fatally, her keys still in her hand. “Do you live here?” she asked.
“Sure do,” Juan said with practiced ease. “Second floor. How about you?”
“Third,” Helene said. She stepped through the door, Juan directly behind her.
“Nice to meet you,” she added. She debated using the stairs or the elevator. Juan’s presence made her feel uncomfortable.
“I was hoping we could talk,” Juan said, coming alongside her. “How about inviting me up for a drink?”
“I don’t think that…” Helene saw the gun and gasped.
“Please don’t make me angry, miss,” Juan said in a soothing voice. “I do things I regret when I’m angry.” He hit the elevator button. The doors opened. He motioned for Helene to enter and stepped in behind her. Everything was working perfectly.
As the elevator clanked and thumped upward, Juan smiled warmly. It was best to keep everything calm.
Helene was paralyzed by panic. Not knowing what to do, she did nothing. The man terrified her, yet he seemed reasonable, and he was very well dressed. He looked like a successful businessman. Maybe he was associated with Gene, Inc., and they wanted to search her apartment. She thought briefly about screaming or trying to run, but then she remembered the gun.