Christiane Heggan new contemporary suspense book: Scent of a Killer and book excerpt

SCENT OF A KILLER

In Stores January 2004

SCENT OF A KILLER

Mira Books, January 2004
ISBN 0-7783-2005-7
Order Amazon

Determined to solve the murder of a man she once loved, Jenna Mayerson enters a dangerous criminal underworld to find the SCENT OF A KILLER.

Manhattan photographer Jenna Mayerson is attending her first exhibit when her ex-husband suddenly shows up, claiming to need her help. A corporate attorney, Adam Lear suspects a high-profile rival company of having ties to a deadly group of international criminals--and Jenna may have the photographs to prove it.

Before she can agree to give them to him, Adam is found murdered in Central Park. With the police convinced the attorney's death was a random act of violence, Jenna seeks the help of Adam's former best friend, private investigator Frank Renaldi. When an attempt on Jenna's life sends her into hiding, Frank's only hope of keeping her alive is to stay one step ahead of a killer who will stop at nothing to get what he wants.

Scent of a Killer
E X C E R P T
CHAPTER ONE
Manhattan, New York
Monday, October 6, 2003
7:42 p.m.

In Times Square, where he lived and worked, Pincho Figueras was known as the Brazilian owner of Insomnia, a gourmet coffee shop that provided commuters with some of the best brew in town. To a chosen few, whose names he didn’t want to know, he was simply Kravitz. He wasn’t sure why he had chosen that alias. He didn’t know anyone named Kravitz, and he certainly had no ethnic connection to the name. He just liked the sound of it.

Pincho Figueras was a professional killer. One of the best. In the last ten years, he had accumulated enough money to buy a villa in the south of France, sleep with any woman he wanted and eat in the best restaurants in the world. Not bad for a kid who grew up in the slums of Rio de Janeiro, wondering if he’d ever be anything but a two-bit pickpocket.

Salvation had arrived in the form of a smooth-talking Norte Americano, a New Yorker with a booming voice and a pocket full of cash. Through the grapevine, Big Al, as he liked to be called, had learned about Pincho’s fast hands and even faster legs. When Al offered him five hundred American dollars for stealing a briefcase from a Bolivian salesman, Pincho thought he was dreaming. With that kind of money, he could finally have a place of his own, away from his abusive father and the rest of his miserable family. He might even be able to move to the United States, something he had dreamed of doing all his life.

The job, simple enough, took an unexpected turn. The Bolivian was asleep in his hotel room when Pincho let himself in. As he was about to steal the briefcase, the sleeping man woke up. Frozen in place, Pincho watched him reach under his pillow and pull out a .357 Magnum. Pincho only had a split second to react. And react he did. With remarkable sang froid and a dexterity he had perfected since the age of nine, he took his knife out of his back pants pocket, aimed, and let it go.

The blade sank into the man’s chest, puncturing his heart. He was dead before Pincho reached the door.

Far from being upset by this unexpected development, Big Al complimented his new young friend on his quick thinking and offered him a new assignment–the elimination of another salesman. It didn’t take long for Pincho to realize that Big Al was the middleman between a powerful South American cartel and drug lords in the United States, and that the “salesmen” Al ordered killed were competitors who diluted his profits.

Pincho loved his part-time job. Not only because of the money, but because Al respected and appreciated him. At the coffee factory where Pincho worked, he was just another low-paid slob on the assembly line. He deserved more than that. He was gutsy, he was smart and above all, he was creative. He loved tricking the cops, planting clues that led nowhere and watching those morons scratch their heads as they tried to figure out what the hell was going on.

In time, Pincho became proficient in all kinds of weaponry–hand guns, knives, ice picks, garottes. He also studied the effects of various poisons and learned how to build bombs. Whatever the situation called for, Pincho had an appropriate scenario and the guts to carry out the assignment to its successful completion. And better yet, he never got caught.

By the time he reached his twenty-first birthday three years later, his little sideline had made him a rich man–at least by Brazilian standards. Aware there was even more money to be made in the United States, where drug traffic had become big business, he applied for an immigrant visa. Three months later, he left his job at the coffee factory and bought himself a one-way ticket to New York.

From the moment Pincho set foot on American soil, he fell in love with the city New Yorkers called the Big Apple. He liked the noise, the crowds, the energy, the bright lights that reminded him of Rio. Unlike Rio, however, there was plenty of work for anyone who wanted it. The problem was, Pincho needed a job where he could come and go as he pleased, and where no one asked any questions. Using the money he had made working for Big Al, and what he had learned working at the coffee factory, he opened a coffee shop in Times Square.

Insomnia was an instant success. And thanks to a referral from his former boss, it wasn’t long until the word got around that Kravitz was available for “specialized work.”

He was now twenty-nine, spoke English like a native and had elevated his craft to an art form. He wasn’t just a killer for hire. He was a thinker, who, when necessary provided the cops with a fall guy–as he was about to do now. The limp, the smeared dirt on his face, the stinky clothes, all were part of tonight’s act. Underneath, he was a handsome, clean-cut young man with light brown eyes and a smile that made the ladies cream their panties.

With his money, he could have lived anywhere, but there was the IRS to think of. Sure he would have liked a swanky apartment on the Upper East Side. And a chauffeured limo. And a forty-foot pleasure boat to sail up and down the Long Island sound, but how would he explain those luxuries to the IRS? Insomnia was doing well, but it hadn’t exactly made him a millionaire. So, in order to stay out of Big Brother’s scrutiny, he continued to live within his means, and reserved his lavish lifestyle for the two months of the year he spent in his villa in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. There he was known as Rachid Moulaya, a wealthy Egyptian with an affinity for privacy and the finer things in life. The villa, of course, had been paid for in cash, and bought under his assumed named. It was amazing how many identities a man could buy when money was no object.

For now, Times Square suited him just fine. Although the area had undergone a certain amount of clean-up in recent years, there was still enough of the old Hell’s Kitchen left to keep the neighborhood interesting. He didn’t mind the con men who roamed the streets all day, or the prostitutes and their pimps, as long as they kept their noses out of his business. So far they had.

Tonight, Pincho was getting ready for another assignment. Standing in front of his bathroom mirror, he adjusted the gray knit hat over his head and laughed. Although he was a pro when it came to changing appearances, he was amazed at the transformation from successful business owner to street bum. The three-day beard was a nice touch. It made him look even more scruffy. And the stench. He wrinkled his nose. How in hell could anyone live in those clothes for days on end?

His hand moved to his back where the knife was tucked in his waistband, wrapped in a clean cloth to preserve the fingerprints he had already collected. Under the loose, ragged jacket, the weapon was completely invisible.

To make sure he was truly into the skin of the man he was supposed to be, he started walking across the room, dragging his left leg behind him, the way he had seen Roy do it. He gave a nod of satisfaction. After only two days of practice, he had the limp down pat. Somebody should give him a fucking Oscar for that performance alone.

With only a few minutes to spare, he checked the address he had written down earlier–Siri’s art gallery on Fifth Avenue. A hop and a skip from Central Park.

The location couldn’t have been more perfect.

He patted his pockets to make sure his gloves were there. Satisfied he had thought of everything, he turned off the light and left. Once outside the building, he jammed his hands in his pants pockets, hunched his shoulders against the chilly air and started the long walk uptown.

He waited until he was several blocks away before putting the limp into action.

CHAPTER TWO

Her throat dry, her palms damp, Jenna Mayerson stood in the still empty gallery and gazed at the collection of black and white photographs artfully displayed on the walls. Not normally emotional about her work, she was suddenly overwhelmed at the sight of her accomplishment and all that it meant. This was her first exhibit–a moment she had dreamed of since she was fifteen years old. Yet, now that the dream had become a reality, the excitement she had experienced at first was beginning to wane, giving way to another bout of doubts and anxiety. Was she good enough to be displayed in one of Manhattan’s most prestigious galleries? Had she chosen the right photographs to showcase her talent? And the most important question of all, the one that had been nagging her all day. Would anyone bother to show up?

That’s what she had wondered when Letitia Vaughn, the owner of Siri’s Gallery had approached her two months earlier and offered to display her series, The Faces Of New York, in a three-week exhibit. Flattered and worried at the same time, Jenna had pinched herself, then, assured she wasn’t dreaming, she had quickly said yes.

For almost three hours, the two women had sat on the floor of Jenna’s studio,
sorting through dozens of black and white photographs. By seven o’clock that night, Leticia, whose eye for talent was legendary, had selected thirty photographs that best depicted urban life only as New Yorkers knew it.

The next eight weeks flew by at breakneck speed as Leticia wrote press releases, worked with caterers, and sent out dozens of invitations for Jenna’s opening night.

And now her big moment was finally here and she was scared to death.

Jenna glanced at her watch, growing more nervous with each passing second. It was a few minutes after eight and there wasn’t a single art aficionado in sight. Why in God’s name had they chosen a Monday night, the one night of the week when New Yorkers stayed home.

“Stop worrying,” a familiar voice whispered in Jenna’s ear. “You’re going to be a smash.”

Jenna turned to look into the smiling face of Letitia Vaughn. At the admitted age of sixty-two, the owner of Siri’s looked at least twenty years younger. Her short, pixie-styled black hair, slender figure and fashionable clothes contributed to her youthful appearance. But it was her passion for the work of the artists she sponsored and her bubbly personality that made her the powerhouse she had become in the art world.

Jenna’s gaze followed one of the caterers as he walked in, carrying another tray of hors-d’œuvres into the back room. “And I’ll owe it all to you, and to what you’ve done to make tonight a success.”

Letitia made a dismissing wave. “Oh, that’s just window dressing. Art patrons don’t come here to sip champagne or nibble on fancy canapés. They come to meet the artist. New Yorkers love discovering new talent. And this, my sweet,” Letitia made a sweeping gesture across the room, “is talent at its finest.”

Her spirits lifted by her mentor’s enthusiasm, Jenna once again let her gaze drift along the wall. The Faces of New York belonged to men and women Jenna had photographed either doing their jobs, participating in a favorite activity, or simply enjoying a moment of total relaxation.

One of the most dramatic shots in the collection was the photograph of an exhausted woman firefighter taken at Ground Zero three weeks after the September Eleven tragedy. As the woman sat against a pile of rubble for a few minutes’ rest, the despair, frustration and wariness etched on her smoke-smeared face had driven straight through Jenna’s heart. She’d had a chance to talk to the firefighter briefly and had been moved beyond words by the woman’s spirit and her dedication to the job.

There were other equally compelling shots–a Radio City Rockette in a wood soldier costume listening to her choreographer’s instruction, a sweaty construction worker driving a jackhammer through the concrete, a business executive running to catch a cab, a uniformed doorman at the Plaza Hotel opening the door of a stretch limo, a harried waitress at Carnegie Deli during the lunch hour, a cop making a bust. Jenna had purposely shunned the rich and famous, the easily recognized faces one could see in the papers on any given day, and concentrated solely on the people she called the backbone of New York.

Letitia leaned toward Jenna and directed her attention toward the door, where a small group had just walked in. “Smile, darling. It’s showtime.”

The next three hours surpassed even Letitia’s lofty expectations. More than four hundred people, ranging from art buffs to serious buyers, and even a couple of snooty critics, passed through Siri’s doors. Unaccustomed to being the center of attention, Jenna quickly became acclimated to the jostling as people pressed around her, anxious to know all about her and her work. Friends, former college roommates and even distant relatives had come as well, eager to share Jenna’s big night. Even Marcie Hollander, Manhattan’s busy district attorney, and an old friend of the family, had stopped by to congratulate her.

But it was her dad, who arrived a few minutes after ten, who made the evening truly special. The moment he entered, all heads turned to look at the tall, still attractive widower with the dark green eyes and graying temples. A former district attorney and Manhattan Supreme Court justice, Samuel Meyerson was well-known to New Yorkers. Even now that he was retired, several people greeted him by name. Always gracious, Sam stopped to shake hands with acquaintances and exchange a few pleasantries.

After a few minutes, he was finally able to detach himself from an overly friendly redhead, and make his way across the room. “Sorry, honey,” he said, kissing Jenna on the cheek. “ I couldn’t get away.”

“So I noticed.” Unable to resist a little teasing, she added, “That redhead in the low-cut Bill Blass is throwing me dagger looks. Do you suppose she thinks I’m competition?”

“If she does, she wouldn’t be far from the truth, would she?” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You’ve always been my best girl.” Then, turning toward the display on the nearest wall, he gave a slow shake of his head. “I’m so proud of you, Jenna. I know your mother would be too.”

Jenna nodded. Her late mother had been on her mind all day. “She’s the one who got me started, remember? When she gave me my first camera?”

“How can I forget? From that moment on, you photographed everything in sight.”

“Mostly you and Mom.”

They had been so happy in those days–spending long weekends on the Jersey shore, where Jenna’s maternal grandparents had a summer home, traveling throughout the U.S. and to Europe, or simply spending quiet times in their house in Katonah, New York. Then, four years ago, while Jenna was busy trying to save her own marriage, her parents had fallen out of love. Or rather her mother had fallen out of love. In spite of Jenna’s repeated demands for an explanation, Elaine Meyerson had refused to discuss the matter further, and moved out of the house. To this day, it still remained a mystery to Jenna as to what had truly caused her parents’ breakup.

Aware her somber thoughts were threatening to ruin the evening, she took her father’s hand. “Come on, Daddy, I want to introduce you to Letitia.”

They spent the next hour moving from group to group, accepting compliments, Jenna with a certain amount of modesty, Sam with a great deal of pride. At about ten-thirty, as the last guests were saying their good-byes, a late-comer walked in. Startled, Jenna watched as her ex-husband, Adam Lear, stood a few feet from her.

He looked just as he had three years ago, when they had left the courtroom
together before going their separate ways–handsome, fit and confident. Except for a phone call after Nine Eleven to make sure she was all right, they hadn’t had any contact with each other, which made tonight’s visit all the more surprising.

Excusing herself to Letitia, she walked over to him. Before she could decide on an appropriate greeting, Adam embraced her.

“Jenna.” He held her against him for a long second, then released her and held her at arms’ length. “You look wonderful. Success becomes you.”

“Thank you.” His gaze traveled from one end of the gallery to the other. “You’ve done it, haven’t you? You’ve made your dream come true.”

“I had help.”

“Still modest I see.”

Uncomfortable with the compliment, she changed the subject. “How did you find out about the exhibit?”

“From my secretary. She thought I might want to stop by, and she was right.:

“You’re the last person I expected to see here tonight.”

“Why?” He looked genuinely surprised. “Don’t you think I’d want to share in your success? Wasn’t I always one of your staunchest supporters?”

The answer to both questions was a resounding yes. Even when their marriage had begun to turn sour, Adam had been there for her, encouraging her, supporting her, pushing her beyond what she felt capable of.

He jammed his hands in his pants pockets. “All right if I take a look around?”

“Go ahead.” While Letitia was busy writing a check to the caterers, Jenna played hostess, walking beside Adam and explaining what had drawn her to each subject, the difficulties she had encountered with those who hadn’t wanted to be photographed and how she had changed their mind.

“How’s your dad?” he asked.

“Great. He was here earlier.”

“A proud papa, I’m sure.”

“Disgustingly so.”

His hands now behind his back, Adam resumed his stroll. “This is awesome, Jenna. You’ve totally captured New York’s heart and soul.”

“That was the idea.”

He turned to her. “You look happy.”

“I am happy.” Then, because she caught something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, she asked, “And you? Are you happy?” He ought to be. His company, a world-wide provider of computers and related accessories, had recently merged with Small Solutions, the second largest manufacturer of handheld computing devices. The merger, regarded by many, as a giant step for Global Access, had been negotiated by Adam, one of the company’s most talented attorneys. His success hadn’t stopped with his professional accomplishments. A year ago this month, he had married a former beauty queen, and although she was almost half his age, they made a dashing couple.

“Oh, you know me,” he replied. “I make do.”

Jenna laughed. “Make do? You have a gorgeous wife, you live in a house that once belonged to the Vanderbilts, and you’re one of the most successful corporate attorneys in the city. In fact, weren’t you made chief counsel for Global Access as a result of the merger with Small Solutions?”

His answer surprised her. “Success isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. You bust your ass getting to the top only to realize that staying at the top is even more difficult than getting there.”

This wasn’t the Adam she knew, Jenna reflected. He seemed much more jaded and disillusioned than he used to be.

“Look,” he said suddenly, “I know it’s late, but... Could we go somewhere and talk?”

“Now?”

“That’s really why I came,” he said with disarming honesty. “To talk to you.” As she started to ask what about, he shook his head. “Not here.”

She hesitated. It had been a long day and if she had to make a choice between a conversation with her ex-husband and her comfortable bed, the bed would win, hands down. On the other hand, there was an urgency in Adams’ voice she couldn’t ignore. Here was a man who had it all–fame, fortune and happiness. So why did he look so troubled? And why had he come to her?

“I guess it wouldn’t be rude for me to leave now,” she said, her mind made up. “Just give me a minute to say good night to Letitia.”

2003 by Christiane Heggan