“Could he be just out for coffee?”
“Clothes are gone.”
Hudson opened the small refrigerator. There was a solitary milk carton. “Whew. This has gone.” He emptied it into the small sink and started to run the water. Something fell out, something wrapped in cellophane. He picked it up, inside was a piece of cardboard. He unrolled the thin wrapping. “He left you a note.” With the cardboard smoothed on the counter, they read:
Might as well live in a cave as here with my angst.
Try to turn things around. Going back to Mass.
Thanks for your help.
Preston
“Angst,” said Wally.
“Apprehension, insecurity. He probably had all that.”
“Yes. But an odd word for Preston.”
“A note at the bottom of the milk so you’d find it? Others might not?” Hudson gazed about the cabin. “Let’s go back to my place.”
Neither spoke a word until they were taking off coats at the Rogers’ house. “Good riddance. The man was…” He was stopped by the look on Hudson’s face.
“Sit down, Wally. There’s more to this. Our house was invaded by a couple of thugs a while ago. John Krestinski feels there’s a good chance they’re part of a drug ring.”
“Jesus.” He stared at Hudson. “You said `invaded’. You mean robbery? You were there at the time? Why didn’t I hear about it?”
“I came home in the middle of it. It looked like they wanted to take Cilla with them.”
“Kidnap her?”
Hudson nodded. “We had no idea why. But now…”
“You think it has to do with Sturgis?”
“Drug people are after him.”
Carver pursed his lips. “Hudson, I’ve made an error in judgment. I should have left Sturgis in the snow.”
“I think John should know about this.” Hudson brought the kitchen phone to the table and dialed. Krestinski was in the building, they’d page him. Hudson pictured the FBI offices in City Hall Plaza; his friend wouldn’t be happy to hear more problems from him so soon. He came on the line.
“John, does the name Preston Sturgis mean anything to you?”
“Should it?” The FBI man sounded tired.
“Maybe not. He’s someone in drugs.”
“Hold on.” He was back in over a minute, the exhaustion gone from his voice. “What’s happened?”
“He was a client of Wally Carver’s a few years ago when he went through bankruptcy. He appeared at Wally’s door a couple of weeks ago, saying both his car and his Boston apartment had been bombed and asking Wally to hide him. Wally did…”
“Like a damn fool,” muttered Carver to a table lamp.
“…without telling anyone. This morning he’s gone; left a note saying he was going back to Massachusetts. Is he wanted?”
There was silence for long enough that Hudson thought the connection had been broken “I’m coming up. Can you book two rooms someplace?”
“Yes.”
“You and Wally both be there this afternoon?”
“Sure. You sound serious.”
“At three o’clock.” The call disconnected.
Chapter 14
Frances Ingalls was in her late thirties, Hudson guessed, and carried herself like an athlete. She had the soft bounce to her stride of one of the big cats that roam the African plains, her calf muscles well-packed sausages under her suit skirt, firm and rippling with each step. Curly brown hair was close-cropped around a round face. She was an FBI agent, and sat with Hudson, Wally and John Krestinski in the Carver living room. Wally wouldn’t hear of them staying at a motel.
“Frances has been working on the Sturgis case,” John began, “along with the Boston Police. He is indeed into drugs; he’s not one of the top players; they’re trying to find out who is.”
Ingalls took up the story. “One reason we’re interested is we’re not the only ones looking for Preston Sturgis. Some others who play pretty rough have been asking questions. The part about his car being bombed isn’t common knowledge. His daughter had it not him. She wasn’t in the car when it went off, so she’s OK, at least physically. But she saw it happen and is scared. She knows what her father’s been doing and wanted to get away from him. We agreed to help, and she is now in a secure place.”
She looked at Krestinski. He gave a slight nod.
“The ones looking for Sturgis are members of the mob he worked for. A Russian mob.”
There was silence for a moment. Then Hudson asked quietly, “So the ones at my house were only after Sturgis?”
“What do you mean `only’?” barked Wally. He turned to Krestinski. “If they suspected Preston would come to me, what were they doing at his place?”
A knock at the back door. “That’s Cilla.” Hudson went through the kitchen to the door. Frances Ingalls took the break to refill her coffee cup.
Cilla stomped snow off her boots. “Found your note to come over here. What’s going on?”
“Hello, love. John Krestinski is here with another agent from his Boston office. We’re in the living room.” Hudson smiled into gray eyes as he bent to kiss her. There was a crash behind him. He turned quickly.
“Jesus Christ!” Frances was frozen, with coffee running down her skirt, the cup in pieces on the floor.
“Frances, what’s wrong?”
The FBI woman was reaching for words. “This… this is Mrs. Rogers?”
“Sure is,” said Cilla with a puzzled smile. “You the FBI agent?”
“Yes. Yes I am.” Frances offered a hand, then dropped to her knees to pick up pieces of broken china. “I’m so sorry.” Wally and John Krestinski came from the living room. “It’s just that….” She stood up and looked intently at Cilla. “God! You’re a dead ringer for her.”
“For who?”
“Alexandra. Alexandra Sturgis, Preston Sturgis’ daughter. We’re supposed to have her safely tucked away. And you… you could be her twin.”
Cilla looked at her husband. Then back to Frances, “Who’s this Sturgis?”
“A crook,” growled Wally.
The FBI man was studying the Rogers. “I saw that. This isn’t the first time you’ve heard of Alexandra.”
“A man named Andre Adams, who was staying with us,” said Hudson. “He said the same thing about Cilla having a double.”
“Andre Adams is Alexandra’s fiancé,” exclaimed Frances. She lowered her voice. “He’s here?”
“Not any more. He moved back to Bob Gold’s house.”
“Adams doesn’t know what happened. We wouldn’t let Alexandra tell anyone we were hiding her. Tough on him; he’s probably pretty worried.”
“No, he thinks she dumped him. But he was talking about someone named Loni.”
“Same person,” said Krestinski. “Let’s go sit down.” In the living room he continued. “A few months ago she came into our Boston office, saying someone was trying to kill her father, Preston Sturgis. I wasn’t personally involved and didn’t get up to speed until this morning. She had seen his car blown up and was frightened. We had a file on him that linked him with a drug group. Nothing definite and nothing he could have been charged with in any case. But we knew enough to take her story seriously.” He leaned forward, putting his hands on his knees. “We suggested she indeed might be in danger and to stay away from him. She was living with a man in North Andover, this fellow Adams. On our advice she moved out to a safe place.”
“If you want to know what she looks like, stand in front of a mirror, Cilla,” said Frances.
“Sturgis was a client of mine,” said Wally, “who turned up on my doorstep two weeks ago asking me to hide him. I did until this morning. He’s skipped.”