The Athena Factor (11 page)

Read The Athena Factor Online

Authors: W. Michael Gear

BOOK: The Athena Factor
9.34Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
She nodded, smiled at him as she collected her things, and stood. “See you, boss.”
She was halfway out the door when she paused, reached into a pocket, and pulled out a bright green piece of paper. “Lymon? You ever heard of Genesis Athena?”
“Nope. Is it an escort service or a fitness spa?”
“It's neither. Sheela's site has a link, and there was a kid handing these out last night.” She rattled the paper. “After I thought about it, I ran the kid down. He was hired through a
temp agency. The temp agency gave him the flyers, paid him fifty bucks, and van-pooled the kids to the benefit.”
Lymon looked at the wild green page. “So, what did you do?”
“Like I said, it's on Sheela's Web site. I used the hot key and took the link.”
“What did you find?”
She gave him a perplexed look. “A questionnaire.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah, you know, the sort that you get when you take a personality profile. It didn't make much sense, so I didn't stick around. I thought maybe you might know what it was.”
“Ask Dot next time you see her. Meanwhile, get some sleep, huh?”
For long moments after she'd gone, he sat, staring absently at the computer. Then he thumbed through his Rolodex, punched a number into his phone, and waited. At the sleep-soggy voice on the end, he said, “I don't care what time it is. I need a name. Someone discreet who can write a killer computer virus.”
 
 
Hank Abrams pulled into the drive of his Fairfax, Virginia, home and sighed. Marsha's red Honda Pilot SUV gleamed in its spot, looking freshly washed and waxed. On the other hand, he depended on the occasional rainstorm to keep his white '97 Buick clean. As to the car wash option, well, he'd had other priorities over the last couple of years.
He killed the ignition, listened to the engine diesel a couple of times, and sat for a moment, looking at the high-peaked roof of his gray-sided house. The freshly watered lawn sparkled in the hot afternoon sun. Marsha insisted on perfectly manicured grass. A timed sprinkler system and an expensive lawn service kept it looking immaculate.
Hank took a deep breath, feeling the heat begin to overtake the air-conditioning. What was it? Ninety-five out there? Not nearly as hot as it was going to be in the house when he told Marsha about his transfer and demotion. Pete
Wirthing had given him the news just after lunch. He'd lose a pay grade, and they were sending him to El Paso. West Texas.
Where the hell was El Paso? He'd had to look on a map. How could you get so far from anything and still be anywhere?
He opened the car door, grabbed up his briefcase, and stepped out into the sunshine. He could feel warm heat swirling around him. Clammy moisture stuck his shirt to his armpits. Was that the humidity or fear?
A month ago he'd been a hot new star in charge of his own investigation. Christal, with her uncanny ways, had broken Gonzales wide open. All the pieces of the puzzle had started to fall into place.
He hated the sinking sensation in his gut. Every nerve in his body had turned to rubber. God, how was he going to explain this to Marsha?
You don't mention Christal, you fool. No matter what.
He wet his lips. “Honey, I blew the investigation. It was my fault. I let a piece of information slide by.” To his ear, it sounded good. Hell, she knew something was wrong. She'd asked him about it before bed last night.
He watched his black shoes rising and falling on the hot white cement and stepped up to the front door. On the second try he stabbed his key into the hole. The heavy door clicked and swung open. He slipped into the cool dimness of his house and closed the door behind him. It shut with a finality that sent a shiver through his guts.
“Marsha? I'm home.”
Silence.
He found her in the dining room, sitting across the table where she could see him walk through the arched entry. Her back was straight, her black hair pulled back and clipped at the nape of her neck. She wore a sleeveless black pullover. A white pearl necklace that she'd bought in Paris duplicated the curve of the blouse top against her smooth chest. Her large brown eyes were smoldering, her mouth tight. He could see the muscles in her jaws, bunched and hard.
“Hank?” she asked in that silky voice of rage. “Good of you to come home again.”
“Huh?” He glanced at the papers on the dark walnut tabletop in front of her. His heart stopped, seemed to stutter, and began to pound against his chest wall. He could feel the blood draining from his face.
“Who is she?” Marsha asked in absolutely precise terms. He'd heard her use that tone when she deposed hostile witnesses. As an attorney she had few peers and was already well on the way to a partnership at her prestigious firm.
He felt his guts sliding down inside him, ready to drop right out the bottom but for the thin wall of his abdomen. With a shaking hand, he pulled out a chair and lowered himself into it before his legs gave out.
“How … ?” He swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice from quavering. “Where did you get those?”
“Manila envelope,” she said softly, lifting it for him to see. “Taped to the door. My name is printed on the outside with black ink.” A short silence. “You didn't answer my question. Who is she?”
“No one.” At her look, he amended, “An agent. Someone under me.”
“Yes.” A twitch at the corner of her lips betrayed her iron control.”Very much under you, as the photos so clearly demonstrate. I'm glad to see that you are so on top of your duty.”
“Marsha, don't. You have no idea how hard it's been.”
“Apparently she knows how
hard
it's been, Hank.” Marsha slapped the photos on the table. “So, come on, spill it. Got anything to say? Perhaps starting with the reason you decided to end our life together this way?”
He lowered his eyes and rubbed his sweaty hands together between his knees. “What do you want me to do?”
As the long silence passed, he stared miserably at his hands. They looked white and weak. He couldn't nerve himself to look her in the eyes. Wouldn't be able to stand what he'd see there.
Her voice was cool. “I've taken the liberty of making a
reservation for you at the Best Western. You know the one. Just before you get on the Belt Loop. I'll have your things packed by the end of the week. That allows you time to determine where to have them sent.”
“El Paso,” he muttered. “Send them to El Paso.”
“Hank?”
“Yes.”
“One last word of advice. Hire a very good lawyer.”
C
hristal cranked an eye open, cursing the damn fool who wouldn't answer the knock at his door. The pounding came again, and she realized, to her chagrin, that it was her own door.
She flipped the covers off, fumbled for an extralong T-shirt, and pulled it over her shoulders. She pressed a hand against her full bladder, promising that it wouldn't be long.
She walked down the stairs in the half-light and squinted as she put her eye to the door peephole. She could see Lymon's face peering back, the nose distorted out of proportion by the small lens.
As he began another spate of knocking, she pulled the door open, squinting against the bright sunlight.
“Yeah?”
“Got a moment?” He stepped past her, a serious Dot McGuire walking behind. The woman's face was a study of upset and irritation.
“Do be my guest and come on in,” she said to their backs, and took one last glance out at the day. From the angle of the sun, it had to be late afternoon. Closing the door, she walked over and cranked the curtains open. Lymon had walked straight into the kitchen, checked the coffee machine, and pushed the button.
“Good work, Christal,” he called. “We thought we ought to have a meeting.”
“It's …” She frowned at her wrist, realizing her watch was on the bedside table upstairs. “What time is it?”
“It's Hollywood, darling,” Dot drawled as she pulled off her shoes and flopped into the easy chair. She tucked her nylon-clad legs under the knee-length skirt she was wearing.
“Can I get dressed?”
“Go for it. We're burning daylight,” Lymon called from the kitchen.
Christal headed for the stairs. “Burning daylight? God, do people really say that?”
His shout interrupted her reverie. “Christal, dress formal. Black is preferred. Sequins acceptable. You're working tonight.”
“Formal, right.” She made her way back up the stairs, locked herself in the bathroom, and made peace with her bladder. By the time she had washed her face, found her best dress, and gotten most of herself together, she could smell coffee wafting up the stairs.
Lymon was perched on the sofa, a cup of steaming coffee on the low table in front of him. The television across the room was on CNN. Dot's eyes were fixed on it.
Christal poured a cup of coffee and strode in, seating herself at the end of the sofa, the cup cradled in her hand. “I take it this isn't a social call?”
Dot had raised a hand, then looked her way as a commercial aired. “Someone hit Sandra Bullock last night.”
“Is she okay?” Christal asked. “Did they get the guy who assaulted her?”
“Not hit as in hit,” Lymon explained. “Hit as in invaded her privacy and stole her toothbrush and hankies.”
“Hankies? Toothbrush?” Christal realized she was still sleep-deprived.
“All that's left is Nicole Kidman,” Dot said summarily. “The last of the big four.”
“I'll right, I'll bite,” Christal looked back and forth between them. “What's the big four?”
“The twenty-million club,” Lymon supplied. “Only four actresses can demand over twenty million per film. Three of them: Julia Roberts, Sheela Marks, and Sandra Bullock have
been … What? Attacked? Robbed? What do we call this, and why's it happening? Like Mel Gibson's razor. What's the point?”
“Tell me about the hankies.” Christal leaned back, frowning.
“Sandy has a cold,” Dot explained. “I talked to her publicity department. She was taking a long weekend at her house in Jackson Hole. Someone came in through the bathroom window in the middle of the night. Neutralized the security system and was actually in the room with her! Scared her to death. A voice called ‘Good night' out of the darkness, and woke her up.”
“Teton County sheriff's office was there within twenty minutes,” Lymon added. “They found nothing.”
“They won't,” Christal answered, not quite realizing why she said it.
“Why?” Lymon leaned forward.
“Just a hunch,” she muttered, covering.
“Like the computer stuff?” Dot asked. “Lymon called first thing this morning. My people have been all over that Web site. We had no idea it could take you so many places.”
“Did you find the ‘hump-a-Sheela' site?” She glanced cautiously at Lymon. God, the guy really had a case for his client. Was that good, given his position?
Lymon grinned unpleasantly. “It's being taken care of. It took a couple of phone calls, but by this evening we should be instituting countermeasures.”
“I don't want to know about it,” Dot said, sticking her fingers into her ears. But she went right on, saying, “We were shocked that someone could do that.”
“If it was done once,” Christal reminded, “it can pop up again at any time.”
“I've got one of my staff detailed to spend a half day a week on the site, just following the traffic, you might say. Our Web master has been given the go-ahead to do a more thorough breakdown of who accesses the site, where they're from, and all the other statistics.”
“How about the links?”
“Legit. As you know, most are studio links that take you to film information, and the others are charities.” Dot clapped her hands.
“What's Genesis Athena?” Christal asked.
“We don't know.” Dot frowned. “They actually paid us for the link, can you imagine? We get a thousand a month. I looked at their site. All I found was a questionnaire. I assume they're some sort of marketing research company.”
“But you don't know?” Christal sipped her coffee.
“Well, for a thousand a month, they couldn't be too shady.” Dot shrugged. “I checked. They're linked to other stars, too. We're not the only ones.”
“Like who?”
“Manuel de Clerk, for one. Julia Roberts, Sandra Bullock, Mel Gibson, Denzel Washington, most of the A-list.” Dot ignored the news as it came on again. A story about airport security.
“But nobody knows what Genesis Athena is?”
“It's a questionnaire,” Dot repeated.
Lymon was watching Christal, a slight frown marring his forehead. “Is this another of your famous hunches?”
She tapped her coffee cup with a fingernail. “I'd just find out who was using my Web site, that's all.”
“Right.” Lymon nodded to Dot, as if to say, “Do it.”
Dot missed it, musing, “Why would they take Sandy's toothbrush and used Kleenex tissues?”
“Always something personal. Like a
brujo
would take.” Christal murmured to herself.
“A what? What's a brew-ho?” Lymon asked.
She smiled sheepishly. “It's superstition.
Un brujo
is a witch. Where I grew up, the older people still believed in witches. Hell, people even suspected my grandmother. Said she had powers. That she could see into men's souls.”
“Right, like the Shadow? With the ability to cloud men's minds?” Dot asked, raising an eyebrow. “I remember the movie with Alec Baldwin.”
Lymon's hazel eyes probed again.
“It's nothing.” Christal tried to wave it off. “Have you had time to talk to—”
“No,” Lymon interrupted. “I want to hear this. How did she see into souls?”
Christal winced. “Look, it's just old superstition, huh? Backcountry New Mexico is full of it. Grandma wasn't a witch anyway, she was a healer, a
curandera.”
Dot obviously wasn't buying any of it, but Lymon had leaned forward. “What about the personal items? You said what, that a witch would take things like that?”
Trapped, she admitted, “Well, yeah. If you're going to hurt someone, you need to possess a piece of them. A lock of hair, a fingernail clipping. Menstrual cloths were really big. So was a man's semen, assuming you could get it.”
She stopped, feeling something nibbling at the edges of her consciousness.
“What?” Lymon asked.
Christal shook her head. “I don't know. It's as if some thing's just out there; something I can't quite grasp.”
“About witches? You think Bullock, Gibson, and the rest were witched?”
“No.” She tried to grasp the idea that lay just beyond her thoughts. “But that's on the right track. It's got something to do with possession.”
“Bullshit!” Dot exploded. “You're not suggesting that we go to Madame Toulouse for a reading, are you?”
“God, no,” Christal shot back. “I don't believe in that crap either. No, this is something that will make perfect sense when the right pieces fall into place.”
Dot was building up to say something when Lymon waved her down. “Go with it, Christal. Hell, you've been here for twenty-four hours, and we've already got results.”
“What?” Dot asked. “We'd have found that shit on the Web site eventually.”
Lymon wondered, “But would we have dealt with it as effectively?”
“Hey!” Christal straightened. “You didn't take my advice, did you? I was dead tired. Not thinking.”
Lymon gave her a soldier's grin. “Hey, Chris, this is the private sector. You're not a fed anymore. You get paid for results here. It would have been such a pain in the ass to travel
all the way to Kuala Lumpur to bust the guy's legs and then have to speak politely to him. It would have hurt my facial muscles.”
“Right. Glad to be of service, but the laws that control—”
“Come on, Christal.” Lymon headed for the door. “We don't have time to chat. We're almost late as it is.”
 
 
With fingertips, Hank Abrams drew designs in the moist surface of the glass. The bar's soft lighting cast amber tones through the bourbon. The tremble had left his hands. He still hated them.
Self-loathing was a terrible thing. He didn't understand it. Ever since Marsha had thrown him out of the house, he'd wanted to hurt himself. To take something jagged and sharp—a broken bottle, twisted rusty tin—and rake his arms and chest. He wanted to sting and bleed.
God, we're fucked-up creatures!
He stared at his fingers as they traced figure eights on the sweating tumbler and tried to ignore the sounds of the bar. Patrons were talking in low tones, laughing. A table of men no more than two steps away were talking football. He fumed at the easy jocularity in their voices. They still had lives. Homes, wives, jobs to return to.
His eyes narrowed, remembering Christal. Her eyes were looking into his, smoky and challenging. He could remember the light in her ink-black hair, the set of her sharp cheeks. Narrow at the waist, she filled a pair of jeans perfectly. God, he'd wanted her from the moment he'd first seen her.
Enough to totally fuck up your life?
It shouldn't have happened that way. Hell, it had just been the two of them in the surveillance van. How had anyone been able to get pictures? Who would have known they'd fuck that night? It had been the first time—the only time. Nothing planned, really—it had just happened. As if the moon and stars had been in the right alignment.
In his misery he'd remained unaware of the man. Surprised, he looked up to see a thin dark-complected face, thick black eyebrows, a narrow nose, and terse mouth. The
guy wore a fedora and a dark suit coat. His eyes looked like black marbles.
“Yeah?” Hank asked.
“May I sit?” The guy indicated the other chair.
“Uh, I'd appreciate it if you took one of those tables over there.” He pointed across the bar. “Got someone coming, you know?”
The man's eyes never left Hank's as he pulled out a chair and sat. “You look like a man looking for a job.”
On the verge of telling Fedora to fuck off, Hank hesitated. “And just what makes you think that?”
Fedora shrugged.
Hank flicked a finger to indicate the hat. “That's a little dated, isn't it? If you're trying to look like a 1930s gangster, you've got the part down pat. But for the twenty-first century it makes you look a little hokey.”
“I am Salim, Mr. Abrams.”
Hank's alarm bells began going off. He straightened. “Just how the hell would you know my name?”
“A mutual friend.” Salim smiled. “For the moment his name need not concern us. Let us just say that he thinks you got a bum rap. He contacted me about your situation.”
“And when I find out who, I'm going to bust his ass,” Hank muttered darkly. “I
don't
need any son of a bitch fucking with my life just now. And I sure as hell don't need you and whatever your scheme is. I've got enough trouble.”

Other books

Up to Me by M. Leighton
The Flying Troutmans by Miriam Toews
Angel of Skye by May McGoldrick
Photo, Snap, Shot by Joanna Campbell Slan
Public Enemies by Bryan Burrough
Her Dear and Loving Husband by Meredith Allard