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Cold Kill by Carol Kilgore (Originally published in Futures Magazine, December 2000/January 2001) Libby Nichols sat as straight as a nun’s ruler and stared at the old chest freezer against the kitchen wall. Everything appeared normal inside her father’s Lake Tahoe cabin, except for the swarm of police at work. A balding homicide detective lowered himself to the chair across the wooden table from her, facing away from the freezer containing the frozen body of Jacques LeBrault.
“Ms. Nichols, you say you knew this man?” he asked.
“Yes. I knew who he was,” Libby answered, her voice a monotone. The cabin had always been a place of fun and relaxation. Now busy forensics techs and uniformed police officers stripped away those memories one by one.
“Tell me about him. His name, anything you know.”
“I don’t know much. His name was Jacques LeBrault. He came into the Consulate last week.” LeBrault kept ruining her life--dead or alive. He had been an elderly Frenchman, from the Mediterranean area by his accent, irritable and impolite, and she had almost lost her job because she had yelled at him.
“Consulate? Which one?” He pulled out a little notebook and made notes as she talked.
“The French Consulate in San Francisco. I work there as an interpreter. Last week, Monsieur LeBrault came in to meet with the California Vintners Association.”
Libby hadn’t taken her eyes from the freezer, and now they grew wide. A team of officers lifted the body and almost had it clear when the corpse’s arm caught on the lid. A thud followed by a loud crash and mingled curses caused Libby to jump and the detective to turn his head. The frozen body of Jacques LeBrault lay on the floor.
“Imbeciles,” muttered the detective.
Angry voices arose outside, and the kitchen door slammed open. “Libby, honey, are you okay?” A tall man, graying at the temples, burst into the kitchen, his eyes wild with fear.
“Dad!” Libby flew into his arms, burying her face in the curve of his neck. When she stopped shaking, she pushed herself away and frowned. “Why are you here?”
The detective grunted as he stood. “Mr. Nichols, did you just arrive from San Francisco as well?”
“Yes, I did.”
“May I ask why?”
“I received a phone call saying I needed to come check on the cabin, that it appeared to have been vandalized. Libby had called earlier telling me she was coming up, and I was worried about her.”
“Dad--” Libby began, but the detective silenced her with a stern look and a raised index finger.
“Who called you, Mr. Nichols?”
“He hung up before I got his name.”
“Hmm. I’d like for you to have a look at something.” The detective stepped aside, allowing for a full view of the corpse. “Do you recognize this man?”
Lawrence Nichols stared at the frozen face. “No. I don’t know him.”
“Your daughter knew him.”
“What? Libby?” The color drained from his face, and his left eye twitched.
She repeated what she had told the detective.
“Did you see any sign of vandalism, Ms. Nichols?” he asked.
“No. That’s what I tried to tell you earlier.”
The detective scowled at her. “Why did you open the freezer as soon as you arrived?”
“Dad keeps steaks here.” She glanced at her father, who nodded. “I wanted one to thaw for dinner.”
Lawrence Nichols said, “Libby had nothing to do with this. What proof could you possibly have?”
“No one is accusing her of anything,” the detective said. “I’m merely trying to ascertain the facts. Don’t you find it strange this man--who your daughter met at the Consulate--turned up dead in your cabin?”
“I find it strange, but I don’t have an answer.”
“Ms. Nichols, is that the only time you saw this LeBrault--at the Consulate?” the detective asked.
“Yes.” She nodded. But no one had known she would be here. She hadn’t decided herself until this morning. She wondered who had called her father. And why.
“Did you speak?”
“Briefly. The Consul thought Monsieur LeBrault required an interpreter, but the winery owners spoke fluent French. I left immediately following the introductions.” Libby told the truth, just not all of it. She and LeBrault had clashed from the second they met, but that had no bearing on his murder. She hadn’t killed him, and she didn’t want to give the detective any reason to think she had.
“You spoke only briefly, yet you remember his face and his name?”
“I speak seven languages. I have a good memory.”
“And you, Mr. Nichols. You say you don’t recognize this man?”
“No.”
“Yet someone lured you here today. You were on your way before your daughter found the body.”
“Detective, I don’t know what’s going on any more than you do,” Lawrence Nichols said.
“Hmm. We’ll need to talk again tomorrow. You’ll enjoy the mountains for another day, eh?”
***
After the officers left, Libby’s father retrieved her jacket. “Let’s go for a walk. A little fresh air will do you a world of good.”
They took a familiar path through the woods that overlooked the deep blue waters of the lake, then sat on a large flat boulder. A breeze soughed through the tall Ponderosa pines, and Libby pulled on her jacket. Clouds were building to the west and moving toward the lake.
She fidgeted, unable to stay still. Her father stared at the water.
Finally, he said, “There’s something I need to tell you, Libby. I don’t know where to begin, except at the beginning.” His voice shook, and he took her hand. “Promise me, you’ll hear me out.”
Libby’s heart pounded. “Dad? Please don’t tell me you had anything to do with--”
“I didn’t kill him, honey.”
Her body relaxed, and she sighed. “I-I didn’t really think--”
“That’s okay. I understand.” He patted her hand, then released it. “When I was about your age, I worked as an accountant for a construction business in New York.”
“You never told me you’d lived in New York.” For the first time she saw him as a man instead of just her father.
He shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts. “That’s part of the story. I found out the firm fronted for organized crime--an arm of the Malfitino Family. Besides a lot of other ugly things, they also provided a cover to move large sums of money so it couldn’t be traced.”
“They were into money laundering,” Libby said.
“Exactly. I decided I couldn’t be a part of that.” He turned to face her.
“What did you do?” Her father was an honorable man. It didn’t surprise her that he wanted nothing to do with such a scheme.
“I came up with a plan. I stashed copies and bits of information in a safety deposit box. When I thought I had enough, I called the FBI from a pay phone at Coney Island on the weekend. We scheduled a meeting for the following Saturday. But on Monday, the owner of the firm came to my office. Somehow--I don’t know how--he knew what I planned to do. He told me if I went through with the meeting, I would never make it home.”
“My God! What happened?” She couldn’t tear her eyes from his face.
“I was petrified, confused--too scared to quit, afraid to go to the police.” He stared across the lake a few moments before continuing. Libby’s respect for him grew.
“Every day I took the subway to and from work. It was always crowded. On Thursday, a woman approached me between stops. She told me the FBI had been checking me out and knew that my life had been threatened. She said if I got off at the next stop with her, they would protect me if I testified.”
“So...did you testify?”
“Yes, I did. We’ve been in the Witness Protection Program ever since.” He took Libby’s hand. “The woman on the subway became your mother.”
“Mom? Why didn’t you and Mom tell me this? Mom was a florist, not an FBI agent. Why did you keep this from me?”
She pulled her hand from his. Memories of her mother humming while she arranged a bouquet brought tears to her eyes, but she brushed them away. Her mother died last year of an acute untreatable pneumonia. She loved her father, and it hurt that he had not shared this with her after she became an adult. Surely the danger had passed after all this time. And she could keep a secret as well as anyone. She saw and heard confidential information every day at the Consulate.
“There’s too much to go into now, Libby.” He ran his fingers through his hair.
Libby slid off the boulder and paced, pine and fir needles crunching beneath her boots. Their pungent smells filled the air. She struggled to come to grips with this madness.
“Is this why I could never have my picture in the paper or why you didn’t run for the Board of Supervisors when everyone encouraged you to? Or why I have no relatives?”
“That’s all part of it.”
“What was your name, Dad? And Mom’s? How could you leave your families?”
“My name was Nicholas Pasi. That’s where the Nichols came from. Your mother was Elizabeth Larkin. That’s the Lawrence. We fell in love immediately. Our parents had died. I was an only child, and your mother had a much older sister she rarely saw. It wasn’t difficult to leave.”
“This has to do with the body in the freezer, doesn’t it?”
Her father joined her on the ground, and they walked. “His name wasn’t Jacques LeBrault.”
“What?” Libby stopped.
“His name was Dominic Ragazzo. He was the man I worked for in New York.”
“But you told the police you didn’t know him.”
“Of course. I couldn’t tell them I did. There would have been too many questions.”
Libby’s heart ached. He looked sad, and suddenly so old. “But you’re in danger. Someone wanted you here.”
“It wasn’t meant for you to find the body, but me. You got in the killer’s way.”
“Are you saying I’m in danger, too?” Libby watched his pain-filled eyes.
“Yes. Whoever had this done is very cunning. He set Ragazzo up, and we were the bait. After Ragazzo got out of prison, he rose to the head of the family. I’ve kept track.”
“So this Mr. X wanted LeBrault--I mean Ragazzo--dead so that he could assume control?” Libby tried to follow.
Her father nodded. “I believe the man who had Ragazzo murdered is the person who found us. He provided the information to Ragazzo, who came here seeking revenge. Mr. X, as you called him, planned to kill Ragazzo, then me. And now you, too.”
The puzzle pieces clicked into place, but Libby didn't want to look at the picture. “Ragazzo wanted you to know he had seen me, knew who and where I was. That’s why he was so rude to me. He hated me because I was your daughter.”
“How was he rude to you?” His voice hardened. Libby thought if Ragazzo hadn’t already been dead, her father would have killed him on the spot with his bare hands.
“I spilled a glass of water, and it splashed at his feet. He acted as if I’d committed a mortal sin. This all fits now!” She paced in a tight circle.
“Go on.”
“He called me a string of names in Italian, not French. It puzzled me, but only a little because I thought he must know both languages. Anyway, I answered in Italian and made sure he knew I understood him.”
Her father stroked her hair. Nearby an owl hooted, making her tremble. “Do you think this unknown man will still try to kill us, now that Ragazzo is dead?”
He squeezed her shoulders before holding her away from him. She looked into his eyes and knew the truth before he spoke. “Yes, except he’ll pay someone to do it, like he did here. Now that Ragazzo’s dead, he will try to become the new head of the family. We’re still in the way.”
“I don’t understand. It’s been years, and Ragazzo is dead.”
“It’s too dangerous for you if you know details. There was more to my testimony than convicting Ragazzo. I provided names and information that the Justice Department still uses today, nearly thirty years later. And through someone unconnected, I’ve been able to learn even more. I think I know who the man is who wants us dead.”
The day’s events had almost maxed out Libby’s stress level. “What should we do?”
“Emergencies are prepared for in advance. I’ve always had a number to call in the event something happened.”
“Like an escape key.”
“Yes. I knew after receiving the call that now was the time to use it. The police or neighbors would have identified themselves. The Marshals will be here by five o’clock. Until then, we’re not to return to the cabin.”
“Marshals?”
“The U.S. Marshals. They’ll provide us with new identities and take us to a new place to live. We leave first thing in the morning.”
“What about my job?”
“They’ll take care of that, too. Trust me, Libby.”
“I don’t know what to do, Dad. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
He took her in his arms. “It’s the only way. I’ve tried to protect you, but now they know who you are. They have too much at stake to risk. If they find us again, they’ll stop at nothing.”
She stood back to see his face. “Not if I can help it.”
***
That night, a noise like a loud bump woke Libby, although she hadn’t thought herself asleep. The clock read 2:47, and the cabin rested under a mantle of darkness. She donned her robe, then padded to the top of the stairs in her bare feet.
The central heat thudded off, and Libby decided the noise it made when it came on must have been what awakened her. She started down for a drink of water and maybe a game of gin with one of the nameless marshals. It was strange they wouldn’t reveal their names. Just Marshal. A darker shadow moved through the black living room. Windows rattled in the wind.
She took another step, and the riser creaked. The clouds cleared the moon for an instant, and the shadow spun, faced her. When he did, Libby saw it wasn’t one of the marshals she’d met earlier, but a man dressed in black from head to toe, with blackened face, neck, and hands. She wasn’t thirsty anymore. She found it hard to breathe.
He raised his right arm and pointed at her. She tried to back up the stairs, but someone grabbed her around the waist and yanked her to the floor. Her head banged on the baseboard, and a whizzing noise passed overhead. A silenced bullet. Libby had seen plenty of movies. Another shot exploded--this one loud and near her head.
The house blazed with light from everywhere, and a half-dozen marshals materialized. The black-clothed man lay on the floor in a pool of dark red blood, and the sharp bite of gunpowder hung in the air. Libby crouched on the stairs, frozen to the spot.
Her father, holding a gun in his hand, helped her to her feet. She’d never seen that steely look in his eyes before.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Libby nodded, eyes wide, trying to comprehend what had occurred. Together, they went down the few remaining steps.
A U.S. Marshal who had stood guard on the deck had been shot in the head. One of the other marshals recognized the interloper as Felix Santiago, a well-known hit man. By sunrise the mountain cabin was devoid of humanity--living or dead.
***
Two years later, Colette DuPre walked alone in Montreal’s Carre St. Louis. Her father had loved walking here, especially by the fountain. He liked to close his eyes and listen to the water. It reminded him of the bubbling mountain streams in the Sierras.
Today was cold, the fountain not operating. That was fitting, somehow, as she had just come from burying her father.
For all of his adult life, he had fought to keep himself and his family safe. In the end, he died from a senseless accident. Friday evening they had been walking home from the Place des Arts and enjoying the crisp air of late autumn when an ambulance dodging a traffic jam bumped up on the sidewalk and struck her father.
She would never forget the scene on the sidewalk--the swirling emergency lights obscenely highlighting her father’s broken body. The ambulance driver had been apologetic and had done everything he could before another ambulance arrived to carry her father away to Hopital D’Universite. He remained in a coma for four days, and she never had a chance to say goodbye. He died of a massive heart attack while she slept in the ICU waiting room. Now she was alone, except for the escape key and her little Smith & Wesson revolver. Since arriving in Montreal, she’d spent hours at the firing range making it her friend.
She sat on an empty bench and pulled a damp handkerchief from her coat pocket. Tears filled her eyes, and as she wiped at them, a shadow fell over her.
“Pardon, may I sit?” a man asked in French.
“Yes, go ahead.” She replied in his language and gestured toward the empty end of the bench, not looking at him. She dabbed again at her eyes.
Instead of choosing the far end, the man sat immediately next to her. His thigh brushed against her down-filled coat.
The square was empty, except for the two of them. She told herself that he just wanted to talk, that everything was all right, but a chill raced up her spine when dry leaves rattled along the walkway in a macabre dance. She returned the handkerchief to her pocket, her gloved fingers brushing the hard barrel of the shiny little revolver she kept filled with hollow-point bullets.
“I know who killed your father,” said the stranger.
Her world caved in. Again. She forced herself to take a deep, steadying breath. Her instincts screamed at her to run, but she turned her head and stared into the hard, ice-blue eyes of the ambulance driver, eyes she had once thought caring and sympathetic. She wrapped her finger around the trigger.
He repeated, “I know who killed your father, Libby. He wants to meet you.” A cruel smile played at the corners of his mouth.
She turned slightly, so that the weapon in her pocket pointed at him. His hand held an ugly, black pistol, and he motioned with it for her to stand.
Instead she squeezed the trigger...twice...then stared into his dead eyes. “I don’t think so,” she said.
Libby turned and walked away, in search of a telephone.
THE END Carol Kilgore © 2006 |
Carol Kilgore’s short
crime fiction stories have been published online, in print, and included in
anthologies. “Just a Man on the Sidewalk,” her first published short story,
received the Derringer Award for best short-short mystery of 1999. She is a
member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and the Short Mystery
Fiction Society. Learn more about Carol and her work by visiting her website--