Neighbors and Other Strangers Read online

  Monday, June 27th

  Trent and Darcey arrived at Heathrow airport at 9:05 a.m., London time. Though they had dozed in their adjoining first class cubicles, their body clocks were still set at 3:05 a.m., New Orleans time. They moved in a sleepy daze.

  They passed quickly through British customs and found the driver from the Ritz Hotel who had been sent to greet them. As they drove through London’s busy streets in the hotel’s Rolls Royce, Darcey enjoyed pointing out some of her old haunts from her days as a student at the London School of Design. She didn’t ride in a Rolls in those days.

  Finally shown to the elegant Trafalgar Suite that would serve as their quarters for the next few days, they showered and fell into bed for a nap.

  Darcey was awakened two hours later by voices in the suite’s large drawing room. Trent had ordered a room service breakfast for them. A British breakfast as he recalled from his one visit to London several years earlier.

  There were eggs baked in stoneware plates with slices of tomato, meaty bacon, a spiral of peppery Cumberland sausage, and grilled mushrooms. There was coffee and a selection of teas. Toast and muffins.

  “Welcome back, Darcey,”

  The next month went by quickly. They played tourist much of the time.

  In London, there was high tea at the Ritz with Champagne, finger sandwiches, scones with strawberry preserves, and clotted Devonshire cream.

  Darcey was alone only one day. Trent spent that day at the headquarters of London’s Metropolitan Police. Better known as Scotland Yard.

  Two weeks in Paris. The Louvre. The Eiffel Tower. Cabarets and bistros in Montmarte. Harry’s New York Bar where the French 75, that delightful concoction of gin, lemon juice, simple syrup, and Champagne, was born.

  They traveled to Versailles for Bastille Day, France’s own celebration of independence. An elaborate celebration featuring light shows erupting from the 50 fountains at the magnificent palace built by Louis XVI. The same palace where Louis signed the agreement that brought France officially into the American Revolution on the side of the American colonists.

  In Paris, as in London, Darcey was alone for one day. Trent spent that day at the Ile de la Cite’, headquarters of the Paris Police Prefecture. The director of Interpol drove in from his headquarters in Lyon for the meeting.

  From Paris they flew to Italy for a week in a Tuscan villa that once housed an olive press on a still working vineyard and olive grove. They drove into Florence one day to visit the Galleria Academia Firenze, the home of Michelangelo’s Statue of David. Trent had seen the statue and thought it the finest art ever created with stone and chisel. He still marveled at the artist’s ability to carve veins in the stone hands.

  He thought Darcey’s gaze lingered a bit long on David’s famous exposed genitals. He pointed out the political symbolism of the statue was in the eyes, casting their stern warning glare in the direction of Rome. Symbolic, he said, of the determination of 16th century Florence to remain independent. Darcey didn’t seem interested in politics. Or David’s eyes.

  As in London and Paris, Darcey spent one day alone while Trent drove back to Florence to meet with the Anti-Mafia Investigation Department, the Finance Police, and the Carabinieri, all of which had an interest in the Mafia and money laundering.

  Sunday, July 3rd

  Alexis met Burgess at the BART station as he had directed. Only a few days ago she had awakened each morning anxious to see what the day would bring. The rebirth of Alexis made her feel she was exonerated for the sins committed by the girl Piper who had occupied Alexis’ bodily shell for so long.

  She shuddered as she caught site of Burgess moving toward where she sat on the bench, his body moving in a haphazard fashion not usually associated with humans. He dropped onto the bench beside her.

  “I know Trent Marshall is here,” he said. “I know he’s staying with the Anderson woman. I want to know their schedule.”

  Alexis felt her new life slipping away. Ms. Anderson had been very nice to her. She didn’t want to betray her. She remained silent.

  Burgess turned his face to look at her, the folds of skin on his neck flapping with the movement. He opened his jacket slightly so she could see the butt of the semiautomatic handgun.

  “In case you’re thinking of not cooperating, Piper, keep in your mind the picture of yourself covered with your friend Abby’s brains.”

  Alexis hung her head. She would try to protect Abby and avoid betraying others as best she could.

  “They’re out of town.”

  “Where are they, Piper? Don’t play games with me,” Burgess snarled.

  “They got married,” Alexis said, her voice barely audible. “They’re in Europe on their honeymoon.”

  Burgess laughed.

  “Married?” he said. “Now that presents some possibilities. I’ll have to give that some thought. This could get to be fun.”

  Alexis stared at the floor beneath her feet.

  “When will they be back?”

  “They get back on July 24th,” she said.

  “Good to know,” Burgess said. “OK. You can go.”

  Alexis stood quickly. She started to walk away.

  “Oh, and Piper…”

  She stopped.

  “Happy Fourth of July,” Burgess laughed. His revolting laughter followed her as she hurried away.

  Saturday, July 16th

  Burgess had immediately reported the information regarding Trent and Darcey’s schedule to his San Francisco contact. Rossi called on Saturday morning.

  “You’ll receive instructions on where and when to pick up a package on July 22nd. Specific instructions on how to use the contents of the package will be included. Arrange entry into the Anderson woman’s condo on that day. It must be that day.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “You’d better be,” Rossi said. “Don’t mess this up, Burgess. You’ll regret it if you do.”

  Rossi ended the call. He tossed the prepaid mobile phone to the closest security guard. It would be destroyed.

  Wednesday, July 20th

  Alexis trudged up the short sidewalk to Abby’s house. She wasn’t skipping up the walk. She didn’t feel like skipping since Steve Burgess reappeared in her life. July had been miserable. When she opened the door, she realized her misery was just beginning. It would also soon be over.

  Abby was on her knees in front of Burgess who sat in the old woman’s favorite chair. The barrel of Burgess’ semiautomatic was in her mouth.

  “I need your keys, Piper,” Burgess said, not bothering to greet her.

  She held out her hand, which still held her house key.

  “Not that key, stupid,” Burgess said. “You have key cards that will let me take the elevator to the 15th floor and into the Anderson woman’s condo. I want those keys.”

  “No,” Alexis cried. “No, I won’t give you those.”

  “Your choice, Piper. Say goodbye to your friend.”

  “Wait. Don’t kill her. She never hurt anybody

  “The keys.”

  Her shoulders slumped. She reached into her handbag for the two key cards linked with a small chain. She handed them to Burgess.

  “Which is which?”

  “The gray one lets you access the secure floors,” she mumbled. “The white one opens any of the unit doors.”

  “Good girl, Piper,” he flashed his evil smile as he pulled the trigger. As he had threatened, the .40 caliber bullet took off the back of Abby’s head. Her brains flew across the room, some of which landed on Alexis.

  Alexis’ shriek of horror was short-lived. The second bullet Burgess fired struck her squarely in the forehead.

  Piper died months earlier. Alexis joined her today. Her friend Abby was waiting for her. They would not be going to Napa.

  Friday, July 22nd

  Burgess’ phone rang at seven o’clock in the morning. He was more hungover than usual. But he was at least alert enough to remember that this was an important day. A day with se
rious consequences if he failed.

  He fumbled for the phone, managing to locate it before the call was directed to voice mail. He didn’t recognize the voice. The caller gave no name. He gave Burgess an address where he was to pick up the package. He told Burgess to take no longer than an hour to get there.

  The address turned out to be a Thai restaurant on Larkin Street in the Tenderloin. The neighborhood now known as Little Saigon. It was only a few blocks from the cheap residential hotel near Market Street where Burgess lived.

  Burgess stopped across the street from the restaurant. He watched for a few minutes. It was an old habit. A matter of survival. He had no intention of walking into a trap. He didn’t trust anyone. And he was unarmed.

  He knew the cops would find Piper and her friend soon. He wasn’t concerned about finger prints as he had worn surgical gloves. But he didn’t want to hold on to any evidence linking him to the murders.

  He had dropped the magazine in his pocket along with the expended shell and the bullet already chambered. He had wiped the gun down and dropped it on the floor. No prints. Serial number filed off. He would get rid of the magazine, individual bullets, empty cartridge casing, and gloves in multiple trash receptacles on his journey back to the city.

  There was no way to connect him to the murder of the two women. But now he wished he had the gun back.

  It was early. There were few people in the restaurant. He wasn’t sure it was open. There was an alley running along one side of the restaurant. It was dark. He could see no movement.

  After five minutes he was satisfied. He crossed the street. As he approached the front door there was movement to his left. Someone was in the alley. Burgess reached under his coat. There was no weapon there but whoever was in the alley wouldn’t know that.

  A young Asian man stepped from the alley. He wore a hoody, which prevented Burgess from seeing his face.

  “You Burgess?” he questioned.

  “What if I am?”

  The young man held out a small box. A box about the size a watch would come in.

  Burgess took the box with his left hand. He kept his right hand on the imaginary gun.

  As soon as Burgess took the box, the young man disappeared into the dark.

  Burgess took the box back to his room to open it. Whatever was in the box had cost Burgess most of what remained of the money the man in New Orleans had given him. He had been living on the small jobs Rossi had assigned him

  Inside the box was a vial. Droplets of condensation clung to the glass. It looked something like the vials that nurses use to take blood. It didn’t contain blood. It contained something far worse. So horrible Burgess almost dropped the vial. He laid it carefully on the bed. He didn’t trust the table. He feared it would roll off and break. He didn’t want the contents of the vial to escape.

  The creature was larger than a tick. Smaller than a spider. It looked like something that might result from a mating of the two. Or something created by a mad scientist.

  It was black with small, angry streaks of red. It had several short legs. Burgess couldn’t remember how many legs a spider had. Was it eight? Six? He thought the small monster in the vial might have eight legs.

  It had two pincer-like protrusions where its mouth should be. Burgess couldn’t tell if it had eyes. Its head, at least what Burgess assumed was its head because of the pincers, moved from side to side. The pincers seemed to be searching for something. Maybe they were sensors. Burgess didn’t want to find out.

  The box contained a piece of paper with specific printed instructions, which he read carefully. Then read again. He was sweating. He had not expected this. He reached for a half empty bottle of cheap red wine. Filling the glass he had used the night before, he drained it. His eyes never left the small, ugly little creature constantly moving inside the vial.

  Burgess worked out a plan. He shaved. He even washed his hair. He put on his one suit, white shirt and tie. He hoped the wrinkled condition of his clothes wouldn’t be noticed.

  He spent most of the day at a bar next door to his hotel. He ate a sandwich and fries for lunch. In the afternoon he nursed his drinks carefully. He only ordered another when the bartender began to scowl at him. The thought of the caged nightmare in his pocket was reason enough to stay sober.

  Sobriety, temporary though it may be, was also required when the time came to put his plan into action. He didn’t want to appear drunk on the streets of San Francisco.

  Not that he cared about San Francisco one way or another. It was a puzzle to him. The street on which he lived was one of the most dangerous in the city. Yet only seven blocks away was the Art Moderne Rincon Center, a famous building that started as a post office built by Franklin Roosevelt’s Works Projects Administration in 1940. He read that in a brochure a former tenant left in the apartment he was renting.

  At five o’clock he paid his tab and started the walk through the Tenderloin and Chinatown up to Nob Hill. He had waited until the offices closed for the day. The sidewalks would be crowded. Workers would be anxious to get home or to their favorite after work hangouts to start the weekend. Hopefully there would be people entering the Anderson woman’s building. Burgess wanted to blend with those people. He thought that was his best chance to get by the security guards and the concierge. Just another working man tired after a long day.

  By the time he reached the building, the hoped-for crowds of workers had been released from their cubicles. The sidewalks were jammed with mobs of rushing people. A block down from his target building, Burgess pushed his way into the middle of the moving human raft. He was winded from keeping pace with the younger people around him. He managed to keep up.

  As they came abreast of the target building, Burgess was relieved to see a small group turn into the lobby. Two of them stopped to talk to the concierge. He saw no sign of a security guard.

  Burgess used the temporary distraction of the concierge to move quickly to the elevator. Four others were already in the car when he entered. They all punched in the numbers of their floors. Only Burgess had a key allowing him to access one of the secure floors. No one noticed when he used it.

  Alone in the elevator as it moved upward the last few feet to the 15th floor, Burgess pulled on a pair of leather gloves. Not only did he wish to leave no fingerprints, he didn’t want to be bitten when he released the monster in his pocket.

  Piper’s pass key gave him easy access into the condo. He took a minute to look around. It was far different from the dump in which he lived. That made him angry. The anger made him even more determined to press ahead with his plan. He went down the hall to the bedrooms.

  His instructions were to find folded clothing that Trent wore next to his body. Tee shirts. Shorts. Pajamas. He was careful as he went through the drawers and closets. He didn’t want to leave signs that someone had been there. When he opened the drawer containing the Anderson woman’s underwear, his resistance slipped. He couldn’t help rubbing a thong over his face. His eyes closed and he let out a low moan as he did so. He tried to carefully put them back as he found them.

  The next drawer was the one he sought. It held the soft black pajama pants and black, long-sleeved tee shirts in which Trent slept. He had been told the creature could live for up to four days with only a little water. Eventually it would have to feed on blood or die. There was time.

  In the bathroom he ran water onto a dirty handkerchief he had brought with him. He used the wet cloth to slightly dampen a small area inside one of the folded shirts Trent slept in. Very carefully he removed the glass vial from his pocket. Aiming the opening directly into the dampened fold of the shirt, he removed the stopper and gave the vial a light tap. The creature moved slowly out of the vial. It sensed moisture and quickly lost itself within the folded cloth.

  Dropping the now empty vial in his pocket Burgess closed the drawer, relieved to be rid of the potential torment. His lips twisted into a repugnant smile as he thought about Trent pulling that shirt over his head.

>   Monday, July 25th

  It was an eighteen-hour flight from Rome to San Francisco, including a layover in Philadelphia. The taxi stopped in front of their building after ten o’clock Sunday night. In Rome it was already eight o’clock Monday morning. Neither of the weary travelers wanted to even think about Monday morning.

  The concierge, a new man Trent didn’t recall seeing before, helped them with their luggage. Darcey and Trent were both exhausted. Neither bothered to shower. Darcey found her favorite gown; Trent grabbed the first long-sleeved tee shirt and black pants in his drawer. He was too tired to notice the slightly damp spot on his shirt.

  He fell into bed with Darcey. Both fell asleep immediately.

  Trent awakened before Darcey. He went first to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Then to shower. To wash away eighteen hours of travel from the day before.

  He had shaved and was standing naked in front of the mirror in the bedroom brushing his hair when Darcey woke up.

  “Mmmmmmm…now there’s a view that makes waking up worthwhile,” she said.

  “After seeing this sight every day for a month, I figured you would be getting tired of it,” he replied, mugging for her in the mirror.

  Darcey laughed.

  “You’re not getting away that easy, Mr. Marshall. I’m not one of those take’em-to-London-Paris-and-Tuscany-for-a-month-and-then-dump’em kind of girls.”

  “I have to call Christopher Booth or I’d make you pay for that remark,” Trent said, pulling on his boxer shorts.

  “Yeah, yeah. You’re all talk.”

  Darcey suddenly looked serious. Puzzled.

  “I never noticed that mole under your arm,” she said.

  “I don’t have a mole under my arm.”

  Darcey jumped out of bed and quickly crossed the room.

  “Oh, no!” she exclaimed.

  “What?”

  “Oh, no!” Darcey repeated.

  “It isn’t a great comfort to have you standing behind me saying ‘Oh no’ over and over,” Trent said. “What is it?”