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Authors: W. Michael Gear

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BOOK: The Athena Factor
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“Why bring that up?”
“Because I finally understand way down in my bones why they do it. Not the counters, but the suicides.” She sipped her tea, looking down into the brown liquid. “It caught me right out of left field, the biggest surprise of all.”
“What's that?”
“I never anticipated the incredible loneliness that comes
with success. They're all standing in line, thousands of them, all wanting something from Sheela Marks. Since the Oscar, they've been hammering down Rex's door. It seems like the entire world wants me to give, but I, on the other hand, can't even share my only friend's company for a night.”
“I'm not your only friend.”
Amusement filled her. “Aren't you? Who else will give me a motorcycle ride? Do you have
any
idea how precious that day was to me? Damn, Lymon, for those few marvelous hours we were free, you and me. I was just a woman and you were just a man, and we were having fun.”
“It was fun.”
“When I'm harried, frustrated, scared, or angry, I take that memory out and play it from start to finish. From the moment you walked out by the pool, to the expression on your face when I came out with that helmet, to the gleam in your eyes when we stopped for soda.” She paused. “The miracle is that there are people out there who can do that every day if they want.”
“All right, some morning, when traffic's light, we'll sneak out and do it again.”
“I want a life to go with my career, Lymon.”
“Hey, that's pushing your luck.”
“Yeah, well, instead of a life, I've got people humiliating me for all the world to see. Why would they take a tampon? It was soaked in urine. Hell, for that matter, how could they know I was having my period? Jeez, what are these people? Psychic freaks?”
“As far as I can tell, yeah. Look, we've got the whole team spread around the house. Paul is spelling John on the security cameras. The press is driving past in a constant caravan since the police have a patrol car parked out front to keep them moving. You're as secure as you can get short of pillboxes, sandbags, and a mine field.”
“I'm feeling alone and violated, Lymon.” She stared at him with weary eyes. “Cut me a deal. Just stay with me. You sit there. I'll sit here. We'll talk. About anything and everything. Watch movies all night … read books … hell, I don't
care. Call for coffee every thirty minutes so that you know that the staff knows that you're being professional. Whatever you feel comfortable with.” Her control began to collapse.
“I just need a friend. Is that too much to ask?”
C
hristal blinked and glared at the computer screen. She was sitting on an uncomfortable chair at the kitchen table in her Residence Inn suite. After too many hours of bright Internet screens, a person started having visions. Her
curandera
grandmother would have approved. The effect was something akin to peyote but without the bitter taste and having to repeatedly throw up.
She yawned, shifting to get blood back into her butt. When she reached for her coffee cup, the last swallow was cold and bitter. Stains had dried around the rim, and rings marked the interior. How many hours had she been here, working so hard to find nothing?
The news stories abounded with accounts of the curious theft of Sheela's tampon. The press was titillated and the tabloids ecstatic. Public commentary was sporadic and, so far, found only in editorials. A lot of celebrity memorabilia was for sale on eBay and the other sites, but no one offered a used Sheela Marks' tampon.
Having exhausted everything else, she went back to Sheela's Web site and monitored the chat rooms. There, too, she found lots of conversations asking why their idol had been so publicly scorched. Christal monitored a couple of people who wished they could emulate the deed and wrote down their addresses.
In the end, she found herself back at the main menu, staring mindlessly at the screen. On impulse she linked to Genesis Athena and inspected their questionnaire. What was her name, her age, her sex? Was Sheela Marks her favorite actress? How many times a week did she watch Sheela Marks?
How many times a month? What was her salary? Her net financial worth? State her highest educational level. Had she ever written a fan letter? What were her views on adoption? On government regulation of biotech firms? Did she fear travel abroad? And so forth.
She was tired of questions—most notably of the question, “Why?”
Signing off, she stood and arched her back, trying to get the kinks out. The refrigerator hummed, and the TV in the living room flashed images from Headline News, the sound barely audible.
A vigorous knock came at her door.
“Lymon, if that's you, I'm going to kill you.” She glanced at her watch. He might be paying her very well, but she'd been up all the previous night. That morning she'd done a turn with the LAPD forensic artist before returning to her apartment, where she'd spent five hours on the computer looking for clues. She had to sleep sometime.
At the peephole, she was surprised to see Rex Gerber standing with his hands in his expensive trouser pockets. Sunlight was shining on the scalp beneath his thinning black hair. His eyes were gleaming behind his fleshy nose. A tan jacket covered a light blue shirt.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Gerber,” she said as she opened the door. “What's wrong?”
“Wrong? Nothing.” He gave her a quizzical look as he stepped in. “You feeling okay?”
She nodded, leading him into the small living room. “Let me guess, my eyes look like Pennsylvania road maps, and I could bring groceries home in the bags under my eyes.”
He looked around. “This is nice. I've never been in one before. Kitchen, couch, all the comforts of home.”
“Have a seat. What can I do for you?”
Rex flopped back in the couch and bounced, evidently trying it out for comfort. Then he turned his attention to Christal. “I thought maybe we'd go out for a drink.”
“Let me rain check. It's been too long since I caught a full eight hours. Lymon didn't let me off the night patrol until well after sunup. And then the day really started.”
“So, what have you been doing?”
She indicated the computer at the kitchen table. “Research that had to be done immediately. The Web.” She settled on the arm of the chair across from him. “If someone was making a point, something should have cropped up somewhere. Every search I've run has come up empty.”
His fleshy face screwed up. “You're kidding? It's the talk of the town. My people have worn calluses on their ears answering the phones. Everyone wants to know what's going on.”
“Oh, yeah, I found a lot of talk, Mr. Gerber. Lots of discussion of who, why, and what's next, but nothing from anybody who's saying, ‘I got it! What am I bid?'”
He frowned. “I haven't mentioned this to Sheela, but the gals that did this might be really kinky, you know? Golden showers with Sheela's piss? And the tampon? What? Paint themselves? Flagellation? I don't wanna shock you, but sometimes people get really sick.”
She clasped her hands together. “I suspect, Mr. Gerber, that I know more about deviant criminal behavior than you do. We have entire courses at the Bureau dedicated to it, but I don't think so. Not this time.”
“Why not?”
“It's the second try at Sheela. The guy in New York didn't get the job done.”
“Come on, that was clear across the country. He was a guy. This was two girls. You're saying there's three of them?”
“At least. Maybe more when you factor in the other celeb hits. All of them are taking something really personal. Sheets and toothbrushes, razor scuzz, and tampons are all pretty intimate. And with at least three people involved and striking from here to Australia, it's not just kinky sexual behavior.”
“So what is it, Christal?”
“Mr. Gerber, I can't tell you yet. But it's going to be something really sensational.”
“You know, I've been in this business for a long time. The lengths that some people will go to is astounding. There was a guy once who had himself shipped to one of my client's houses. Had himself nailed into a crate and delivered. Can you imagine? All that just so he could get inside the house.
Turns out the client was in England shooting a picture. The household staff got curious when the box started to smell like piss and shit, so they opened it. Good thing, too—the guy was half-dead from dehydration.”
“Some people live for their obsessions, Mr. Gerber.”
He gave her a penetrating look. “Can we get past this Mr. Gerber thing?”
Weary as she was, it took a moment to comprehend the interest in his brown eyes.
Crap. So that's why he's here.
“Sure, Rex. Look, I'm sorry to be a spoilsport, but I've got to kick you out and get some shut-eye.”
He hadn't moved, deporting himself as an alpha male, with his arm thrown back on the couch. “Yeah, Lymon's a slave driver.”
“Scuttlebutt says you wanted Sheela to fire him.”
He shrugged. “Someone got to my client. What can I say? I overreact sometimes. I know Lymon's the best, but I really care about Sheela. If it hadn't been for you, we'd have never known she'd even been tapped.” He was giving her “the look” again.
“Come on,” she told him as she stood. “Up and at 'em. I'll have that drink with you, but only after I figure this thing out.”
He smiled, then eased onto his feet. “You know, I like you, Christal. You've got chops. I think you're going to go far in this business.”
She smiled as she opened the door, a big hint that he was sharp enough to get. “I haven't proven myself yet.”
“You have to me.” He gave her a broad smile. “I'll be seeing you later.”
“Good night, Rex.”
“Yeah, you get some sleep, huh?”
She closed the door and slumped against it. Men. He had to have twenty-five years on her. He was older than her father would have been.
“Christ,” she muttered as she locked the door.
 
 
Sid Harness searched the crowd as he cleared LAX security. A throng of people were waiting, some waving as they joined the effluvium of arriving passengers on their way to the baggage claim.
“Sid!” He heard Christal's voice at the same time he saw her wave. His bag in one hand, his coat over the other, he could only nod and smile as she worked through the press.
God, she looked good. He could see the fatigue around her eyes, but her posture was straight. Her hair was done up in an attractive style. Time had tricked his imagination; her perfect body was better than he remembered. She even looked a little tanned.
“Hey, Christal!” He gave her a partial hug, as much as his bag would allow. “So, how's LA?”
She laughed as she stepped in beside him. “I'm sick. In need of psychological counseling.”
“Why's that?”
“Because I love it here. Oh, not the traffic and the crowds, but hey, that's a city anywhere, huh?”
“Yep.” He glanced at her. “You're looking happy, Chris. I can't tell you how glad that makes me.”
“Thanks to you. ‘Fall on your sword,' you said. ‘There's life after death.' So, yeah, I'm alive. But, by God, I'm going to get you for saddling me with that workaholic son of a bitch.”
“That's my old buddy, Lymon, you're talking about.”
She gave him a wry smile. “I gotta tell you, this private sector is a ball buster. Unlike the Bureau, when I mention overtime, Lymon just raises an eyebrow and asks, ‘How much are we paying you?'”
Sid grinned, waving her off when she pointed questioningly at the baggage carousel. “I've got everything in the bag. Where are your wheels?”
“This way. I'm in short term. It's a bit of a walk. I couldn't get Lymon's Lincoln with the park-for-free-anywhere permit.” She led the way out through the doors and across the pedestrian crossing. “How long are you in town?”
“Three days. I booked early so we could have some time.
First thing tomorrow I'm due in the LA Field Office. Unless something comes up, I'm out of here at oh-dark-thirty Wednesday morning.”
“Where are you staying?”
“After tonight, I'm at the Hotel El-Cheapo just down the street from the FO. I've got the address here someplace. Lymon talked me into bunking with him tonight. Said he'd drop me off downtown
mañana.”
“You've known him a long time?”
“Yeah.
Semper fi.”
He smiled. “I owe the guy my life.”
“What was he like back then? Intense?”
“That's a mild word for it.” Sid glanced at her. “He had one speed: full throttle. And that last year he was headed straight for the proverbial brick wall.” He paused. “So, tell me. What about it? Did I do right sending you here?”
She gave him that sloe-eyed glance that always teased his masculinity. “Yeah, Sid. I think. To tell you the truth, I've been running from the moment I got here.” She paused. “As to Lymon, well, he's different. Right now he's got us all pushing. I'm supposed to be tracking down Sheela Marks' assailants, but I'm spending half my time at the principal's. She's a little freaked at having her personal waste lifted.”
“I heard you took a couple of belts to the gut.”
Her lip lifted, eyes hardening. “It won't happen again.”
“I gotta know, what's Sheela Marks really like?”
“I like her.” She glanced at Sid. “She's a lot like the roles she plays in her films. Tough and vulnerable. I'm worried about her.”
“Why?”
“She's living in a pressure cooker. What happened on Friday doesn't help any. I think she'd like to take a week off to indulge in a nice emotional breakdown. Her manager won't schedule it for her.”
“She's got a manager?”
“You bet. A real zirconium jewel. He wants to take me out for a drink and dinner. You know, get acquainted before he adds me to his list of conquests.”
“Yeah?”
“He's in his fifties. And kind of an asshole. I've got better taste than that.” She looked suddenly chastened. “Or, maybe come to think of it, I don't, huh?” After she took a breath, she asked, “So, speaking of assholes, how's Hank doing? Happy in his new assignment?”
“He's gone.”
“What?”
“Resigned.” Sid chuckled. “Would you believe it, he's working for an outfit called Verele Security out of New York. Who knows, you two might bump into each other on some movie set somewhere.”
“That ought to be interesting. Do you think our clients will have the sense to get out of the way while I try to cut his balls off?”
“Marsha filed for divorce. Someone—probably Gonzales—sent her the photos. On top of that, Hank got dropped a pay grade and was being reassigned to El Paso.”
“I like El Paso.”
“Of course you'd like El Paso. You're from New Mexico. He's from Massachusetts.”
“So, am I to assume he's coming here?”
“Nope. New York last I heard.”
BOOK: The Athena Factor
12.96Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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