Joey Beretta worked late finalizing details of her plans for Anne Fitch’s security and reviewing the specifications of monitoring equipment installed in her condo. After some thought she decided to assign two freelance agents from LA to Dr. Fitch. Joey trusted the pair implicitly and would run them herself at least until the woman settled into her new home and established work patterns. Perhaps the move was overkill, though something about this assignment made her nervous and, as Frank taught her, "Your gut's the smartest person you know. Listen."
Joey left the office tired, but still enjoyed pushing Frank’s Cobra hard, trying to beat her time on the way to work. She pulled into the drive and smiled at the sight of Billy Sawyer’s Honda Pilot silhouetted against the garage by the dim the landscape lighting. She'd been hoping she wouldn't be alone at the house that night, but didn't check the dock to look for Une Belle Femme.
A physically courageous woman capable of defending herself, Joey feared being alone far less than a possible return of the damn nightmare. That thought terrified her. "Enough!" she said aloud. Get on with packing, have a nice drink and a little dinner, and before you know you’ll be off to the airport. It’s just one night. She thought perhaps the time had come to get the dog she always wanted.
At the touch of a button the house lit up and one of three garage doors opened. She carefully eased Frank’s favorite car into the bay between her beloved Porsche and the regal old Rolls Royce. The big convertible dwarfed the two sports cars and seeing the Rolls reminded her of the drive home from dinner less than a week ago. How much longer would it be until he came back to her? She wondered. At least she had gotten word he was safe, but her desire to have him there and in bed with her went undiminished. The thought of Frank ‘in bed’ put a smirk on her face and she strolled into the house with plans for his homecoming on her mind.
One habit she’d developed during her years with Frank was to keep a couple of travel bags packed at all times, a silver one for cold weather and a dark red one for mild or warm climates. She pulled the red leather bag out of her closet, inspected its contents, and tossed some extra odds and ends in for good measure. Done. She headed to the kitchen and mixed a martini according to her own recipe consisting of one cocktail shaker, three large ice cubes and as much Smirnoff Blue Label as she felt like pouring in. Shake until frosty, pour into an appropriate glass, and drop in a blue cheese stuffed olive. Perfect. She turned on a little music and headed for a needed soak in the Jacuzzi.
A hot bath and two martinis left Joey relaxed and enjoying a mild buzz so she skipped dinner in favor of turning in. She sat naked on the edge of the bed while setting her alarm for six AM, then casually removed the 9mm automatic from her bedside table and concealed it under the mattress. Joey checked behind the nightstand and found some comfort by wrapping her fingers around her trusted aluminum bat. She shut off the lights and slid between the sheets still thinking of Frank. What the hell? I’m alone here. Feeling like a teenager she put a hand gently between her thighs and thought about the old stud until her physical relief quickly gave way to sleep. Whatever gets you through the night!
The time on the opposite side of the Atlantic approached five AM and Frank was returning to his modest hotel having spent most of the night checking out Malroff’s villa. Even stealing deftly around in the shadows he’d found the ancient house both beautiful and impeccably restored. The structure climbed three stories above the lake with two levels of terraces plus a large balcony on the top floor, which Frank assumed flowed from the master suite. Obviously Malroff lived a grand life on his viciously won fortune. Frank regretted that so fine a piece of architecture would become a casualty of his final duel with its owner, but sometimes collateral damage could not be avoided.
He’d thought about postponing his surveillance mission until daylight, but his arrival an hour after dark proved fortuitous. Lights blazed from most windows on the ground and third floors and Frank’s first view of the front of the house was of Serge strutting out the grand main entry and into his Maybach. The big silver car rolled through the elegant old gates and sped off. Less than fifteen minutes later an older Mercedes GLK arrived. A man appearing to be in his mid-fifties alighted and walked quickly up the steps. He carried what looked like a medical bag and was met at the front door by someone who appeared to be the major domo. Frank recognized the doctor to be Farouk Farnazzi, Serge's old drug dealer. He stifled the desire to put a bullet in the back of Farnazzi's head and held his position in the lower branches of a tall tree.
Less than a half hour later Dr. Farnazzi, aided by Duccio, carried a woman to the vehicle. Wrapped in a blanket her form was limp and seemed badly hurt as they gingerly placed her on the rear seat. Both men got in and drove away. The sad vision of another woman broken at the hands of Serge Malroff steeled Frank’s resolve. Poor girl. Serge is apparently unreformed and, most assuredly, unrepentant.
Emboldened by seeing both Serge and one of his staff members gone, Frank took the opportunity to reconnoiter. The ex-marine heard no dogs on the property and saw no sign of other employees inside, at least not near the main entrance. He found the same at the back of the house where a breeze off the lake sent a light chop lapping against the hull of an elegant wood hulled speedboat moored at Serge’s dock. Never pictured him as the nautical type.
As he advanced around the southwest side of the building he saw two people in the kitchen. A pretty woman in a starched chef’s jacket and a young man in a plain white shirt sat at a table near a stone fireplace having a meal. He made a mental note of their location and labeled the staff as “friendlies”. When the time came he wanted to minimize the number of casualties.
Frank seized the moment and walked boldly up onto the terrace. From what he could see of the elegantly furnished rooms, the house was empty on the first level. He ascended a curved stone staircase to the second terrace level and found all of the rooms to be dark. Still uncertain when Serge or his houseman might return he pressed on to investigate the third floor. Access to the balcony above came by climbing the heavy copper downspout fastened to the side of the building. Frank worried about the sturdiness of the spouting with every inch of his fifteen foot ascent.
Once on the balcony he stayed close to the wall until he found a safe vantage point affording a line of sight directly into the master suite. The bed looked trashed and a man's and woman’s clothing littered the floor. The tall French doors stood open and Beretta tentatively approached. The only audible sound came from a gentle breeze ruffling the trees so he poked his head into Serge Malroff’s private quarters. The decor established by gilt and ornate furniture bore Serge's self inflated signature. An enormous mirrored wall reflected an expansive view of the opposite lakeshore. The presence of warm damp air indicated recent use and conjured an unpleasant vision of Serge showering before going out for the evening. Frank walked quietly to the bedroom’s main entry and cautiously opened the door just enough to get a sense of the villa's center gallery. Large and open all the way down to the ground floor, the space was imposing. A jump to the first level would not be an option. Beretta left the house by the same route he had taken in and slipped quietly through the trees to his car about a half kilometer away. He retrieved a small canvas satchel from the trunk and returned to the villa for one last walk around the property. Satisfied that he would be ready for his encounter with Serge he drove back to his hotel to get some rest. All he needed to do now was to wait for Malroff to return.