Veil. Part 19

Robert checked in on Fiona. Two detectives and an FBI agent sat in the den peppering her with questions. She calmly answered each, her left hand shaking, a gla.s.s of wine in the other, in a voice tired and raspy.

When they finished, Robert took her to see Jessica who lay safe in her room sound asleep. Tired from the day, and after taking the sedative her doctor prescribed, Fiona bedded down for the night. With Fiona safe, Robert and Thorne piled in the Range Rover, pulled out past a lone television truck and headed for the first mausoleum on their list.

Parklawn Cemetery. They exited Interstate 270, made a right at Veirs Mills Road, and parked two miles from the front gate. Heavy trees and brush stacked each side of the street, the air, cold and crisp, stood still. They crept alongside the road just beyond the woods. An owl hooted a warning.

You're not welcome here!

They reached Parklawn's driveway. The gate locked. The fence short.

At the top of a narrow winding road, towered an impressive white marble, gold trimmed mausoleum, with two oversized bronze lions guarding the entrance. A monument, out of place deep in woods.

Robert checked their rear. The wind whipped up harder. You're not welcome here!

"If the stuff's in here, you can't say Charlie didn't have taste," said Robert, admiring the edifice.

"He killed the President, who gives a f.u.c.k."

"Walked into that one," Robert mumbled under his breath.

Inside, a dim yellow mist clouded the marble cavern from low-watt lights hanging ten feet apart on the walls.

"I can barely see the names on the crypts," said Thorne, pulling a flashlight from her jacket. "I checked these tombs before as closely as I could, but there're so many I might've missed a few." Robert s.h.i.+ned his own light down the long corridor, keeping the beam away from the stained gla.s.s windows. "I'd say you could've missed a few." The crypts, stacked six in a row, floor to ceiling, seemed to stretch a mile. "If it's here, it's in one of the crypts lower to the ground," he continued. "Easy access."

Thorne flashed her light on the wall closest to her. "I'll buy that. I'll take this side. Think he did us a favor and used his real name?" with an I'm disgusted shake of her head.

"He knew we were coming," said Robert. "So it's something we'd recognize."

They walked to the farthest end of the row on opposite sides, and worked their way back. Robert made a mental snapshot of the rear exit, aimed his flashlight at the wall, and scanned from the top down.

Hardly naive about life's limits, it shook Robert how many people his age or younger lay resting behind the marble . Jonathan Mason-Loving Son-1959-1994, Alicia Vickers-Daughter-Wife-Mother-1962-1999, all not much younger or older than he or Thorne.

Soon, flickers of daylight bounced through the skylights and they put the flashlights away. Robert focused hard on each name, date, and epitaph, struggling to find a puzzle-piece that fit. Two hours later, two-thirds of the way finished, Thorne pulled off one of her shoes and ma.s.saged her foot. "I'm feeling more and more like we should just walk up to Rothschild and start shooting."

Robert opened his mouth...then heard the front door open. He felt for his gun.

"Excuse me," a feeble voice said. "Can I help you people with something?"

A thin, grandfatherly security guard stood in the doorway, in a Marine pressed uniform, creased and polished.

Robert stepped forward, hand extended. "I'm Robert Veil, and this is my partn...friend Nikki." Thorne's eyebrows flinted upward. He rarely used her first name.

"Tim Billingsly," the guard answered, a benevolent smile on his face.

"Can I offer you some a.s.sistance?"

Robert started to say no, but thought better of it. "Yes, we're trying to find the crypt of an old family friend. It's his birthday and we want to pay our respects. His name's Charlie, Charlie Ivory." Tim lowered his head in thought, took off his cap, and scratched his half-bald head. "Charlie Ivory," he muttered. "Can't say I remember a Charlie Ivory, but that don't mean much. Been here twenty years. So many people come in day to day you just can't keep up with'em."

"Do you think they might know at the office," asked Thorne. "I came in a few days ago, but maybe they missed it." Tim scratched his head again. "It wouldn't be the first time," he said.

"I'm on my way there now, but they've been a little testy lately about giving out information."

"Oh," Robert inquired.

"Yeah, we've had a few breakins over the last year or so. You know, kids, vandals, homeless looking for shelter."

"Homeless?"

"Yes sir, I've chased a few out myself. They don't mean no harm though, just looking for a warm place to sleep."

"Ever catch up to one of them?" Thorne asked, her charm and s.e.x appeal radiating. "Ever see what they look like?" Tim's back straightened up. "Can't say that I have," he said, chest out. "Not worth it to run them down, the police just let'em go. So I just chase'em away."

Thorne stepped a little closer to Tim. "Now you be careful," she told him, adjusting his tie. "It can get mighty dangerous out here." Tim beamed and slapped his cap like a chivalrous cowpoke donning a Stetson. "I'll check on the name of that fella for ya. What'd you say it was again?"

"Charlie Ivory," said Robert.

"Got it," said Tim, his eyes never leaving Thorne.

"Thanks sugga," she said, with pouty lips just short of blowing a kiss.

Robert watched Tim mount a s.h.i.+ny blue moped, and putter off toward the cemetery office.

"You don't play fair," he said, grinning, shaking his finger at Thorne.

"Just thought I'd make the old fart's day," she said. "Maybe get him to look a little harder and save us some time."

"You're a tease."

"Too bad I don't grind white boys anymore, or you might find out how real I can be."

"You've been talking that s.h.i.+t since elementary school," he said, remembering their feeble attempt at a schoolyard kiss. Thorne laughed and they went back to the search.

Robert heard the mausoleum door open again. This time, multiple footsteps clopped the tiled floor. Five men, guns drawn, stopped a few feet from them. One, lean and somewhat effeminate, wearing a well-tailored seersucker suit and bow tie, seemed vaguely familiar. The others, clean cut and mean, wore all the markings of mercenaries.

Thorne stationed herself a foot behind him.

"Well, you're obviously not here to pay respects to a loved one," said Robert, his guns budging under his arms.

"h.e.l.lo Mr. Veil," said Simon. "Nice day to visit the dead."

"Yes it is," said Robert, his mind racing. He'd seen this man before.

"So what of it?"

"I was just curious, that's all," Simon continued. "Curious why anyone would come to a cemetery when there are so many more important things to do. You two have been in here for some time. We were getting worried."

"You're pretty concerned for a rat-looking a.s.shole I don't even know."

"Now, now, Mr. Veil, no need for insults, or such language. I'm here on behalf of a mutual friend."

"Oh," said Robert.

"Yes. My name is...well, my name isn't important...you don't know me, well, there was that time we danced." Robert remembered. Thorne moved closer.

"Sorry I had to leave so quickly that day. I didn't get a chance to kill you then, but I'll try not to disappointment you today. But before all that unpleasantness, why don't you tell me where the Kennedy evidence is hidden. And please, while you're talking, you and Ms. Thorne slide your weapons across the floor."

Two of the men circled around behind them. Thorne stepped backward to keep them in sight. Robert locked in on Simon. They both removed their guns, and slid them across the floor.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," said Robert. "Even if I did, why the h.e.l.l would I tell you?"

Simon clapped his hands sarcastically. "Very good, Mr. Veil, very good indeed. Tough and testosterone filled, but I'm afraid it won't be enough. You see, normally I wouldn't care about you, Kennedy, or anybody else, well, there is that little blond-haired surfer in Newport Beach, but I digress. It's just that, well, I'm being paid a king's treasury to find those items our dear departed Mr. Ivory gave to you, and for that I'd screw and kill my mother." He smiled. "I did by the way." Robert raised an eyebrow.

"Screw and kill my mother. Now please, tell me where I can find Charlie Ivory's collectibles." He waved towards his men. "Put your guns away, we need them alive. At the moment."

"I told you, I have no idea what you're talking about, and who is Charlie Ivory?"

Simon stepped toward Robert. "Mr. Veil..." Robert spun his body in a whirlwind, smashed a roundhouse kick into Simon's chest and sent him cras.h.i.+ng to the floor. The two men closest to Thorne rushed her. A hard, fast blow to the nose, and she sent the biggest to the floor, blinded by blood and watery eyes.

A hard tackle jarred Robert to the floor, fists pounding his face and body. He punched and kicked upward, desperate to get back on his feet.

A pile-driving kick to the groin, and one of the men s.h.i.+rked like a haunting spirit.

Robert heard bones break and men cry out. Thorne's taking care of business.

He wiggled free and scrambled to his feet. He glanced back at his partner. One man lay on the floor, his kneecap several inches from where G.o.d intended, his right arm mangled and twisted like an old, bent coat hanger. Thorne, pinned down on her back, a large guerilla on top, struggled to break free, punching his face like a middleweight. Smiling, the giant grabbed her throat and choked. Robert took a step toward them. A hockey check dropped him to the floor.

Robert hit the ground hard and kicked upward, landing back on his feet.

"My eyes! My eyes! You b.i.t.c.h! My eyes!" Two gunshots ricocheted off the marble, sending everyone, except Simon, to the floor.

Tim, the security guard, stood just inside the front door, the barrel of his thirty-eight revolver pointing at Simon.

Everybody raised their hands, except the large guerilla. He sat against the wall bawling like a newborn, both eye sockets mushy and covered in blood. Thorne's chest heaved deep and heavy, both thumbs soaked in blood.

"Good job Tim," said Robert, breathing hard, his hands now on his knees.

"Good job my a.s.s," said Tim, quivering. " Stay where you are. I've already called the police. They're on their way."

"But sugga," said Thorne, "Let us explain."

"That ain't gonna fly hot stuff. Both you and your boyfriend just stay where you are." In the distance, Robert heard the faint whine of sirens. "Tim, listen to me," said Robert.

"Yes, Tim," said Simon. "Listen."

A mosquito whisper cut through the air, splattering blood and brain on the crypts. Tim's lifeless body hit the floor like a sack, his nose bubbling foamy red.

Robert looked back, and saw the silencer pointed at him.

"Stop, you idiot," shouted Simon. "I told you we need them alive!

Let's go! Now!"

Mangled and twisted, Simon's men hustled to their feet. The giant, blind and whimpering, a.s.sisted by two of the others. Thorne took a step forward, her face sculpted in anger. She picked up her gun.

"Thorne," shouted Robert, pulling her back. "We can't get caught in here! Let's go!"

Thorne s.n.a.t.c.hed away and looked down at Tim. His mouth was open, his eyes wide with shock.

Robert put a hand on her shoulder. "Let's go, Thorne. He's gone.

Let's go."

They hit the back door and jumped a fence fifty feet from the mausoleum as tires screeched to a halt, and police rushed inside. More sirens cried in the distance. Thorne's Rover hit Interstate 270 and sped back towards Fiona's estate. Thirty minutes later, a red pond surrounded Tim Billingsley like a putrid moat.

"What a mess," said one of the paramedics, to detectives organizing the scene. "I knew he was gone as soon as we hit the door, and I saw the back of his head."

"Must've been quite a fight. There's splatters of blood all over the place," said the detective. "Who the h.e.l.l would want to kill a security guard in a cemetery?"

More detectives and officers showed up with the regular team of investigators and forensic a.n.a.lysts. Among them, Marilyn London.

She twice gave the place a once-over, making sure nothing could lead back to Simon or the others. Satisfied, she asked for samples of the blood and fingerprints.

"Make sure you get a sample of the blood on this crypt over here," she told one of the detectives.

"Which one?" he asked, sounding annoyed.

"Over here," said Marilyn, unconcerned with his att.i.tude. "It's on the third tomb from the right, second from the bottom. It reads Julie Rice, A Friend Worth More Than Gold."

26.

Every muscle in Robert's body ached, but he ignored it. Thorne, silent, showed no sign of stress, strain, or anger. Through schoolyard fights and wars, Robert knew her easy calm meant one thing. h.e.l.l lurked just around the corner.

"We better hit the office," she said, her eyes searching, checking the rearview mirror. "I know the place is probably wired for sound, but the Georgia State Police will be calling about Julie Rice, and we better make sure Evelyn's okay."

Robert pulled out his cell phone and dialed. No answer. Not even the machine. He checked his watch. Too early for lunch. " Drive to the alley across the street," he said. "We can cut across and enter from the parking deck."

Thorne sliced through the city like a pro, pulled into the alley a block from Dupont Circle, and parked alongside the Dupont Hotel. They ran down the alley to the street and looked up, mouths agape.

Smoke and flames raged from their office window. Black flakes of ash snowed down on everything, and everyone, with not a fire truck in sight. Thorne started for the building. Robert pulled her back. "It's way past too late. See if you can spot Evelyn." They searched the growing mob for several minutes. Nothing.

"There she is," Thorne said, pointing, breathing a sigh of relief.

Evelyn, surrounded by six other frantic tenants, sprinted from the building and disappeared inside the hotel. Robert's cell phone rang.