The Athena Factor (16 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear

BOOK: The Athena Factor
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“How do I get ahold of him tonight?”
“Got a pen?”
“Ten-four.”
She scribbled the number he gave her on the corner of her legal pad where it stuck out of her purse. “Thanks, Lymon.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“You're a funny man, boss. A stitch a minute. When would I have time for pleasure?”
“So what have you got?”
“Did you know that Sheela Marks got Manuel de Clerk bounced from
Blood Rage?
The guy was supposed to play the lead. Sheela insisted they find someone else.”
“Yeah.”
“She got him chopped out of a real juicy role.”
“And you're thinking Manny's been holding a grudge?”
“I want to talk to the guy. I figure Tony can open the door for me. Does he represent de Clerk?”
“Nope. But he knows who does. Give Tony a call. Keep me informed.”
“Right.”
“Christal?”
“Yeah?”
“About de Clerk. Do me a favor. Be discreet, huh? Don't piss the guy off. It would really upset my digestion if his lawyer started baying outside of my bedroom window over some silly slander suit.”
“Gotcha, boss.”
She hit the
end
button and dialed Tony.
He answered on the third ring. Music was blaring in the background.
“This is Tony.”
“Mr. Zell? I don't know if you remember me. I'm Christal Anaya, working for—”
“Cool! Christal! Hey, I've been thinking about you. You know, you promised me dinner, babe.”
She made a face. Babe? “I was hoping you could direct me to Manuel de Clerk. I need to speak with him concerning the events at the Beverly Wilshire the other night. Nothing important, just some questions. Strictly business for LBA.”
“Yeah. Glad to help. It'll cost you, though.”
“How's that?” she asked coolly.
He broke into hysterical laughter.
“Hey, Christal, you're too far out there! Chill out, babe. I don't need a bribe—at least not like that. Dinner. Tomorrow. Eight-thirty. You say yeah, I give you the number of Manny's digs and a phone call to let him know you're coming. Cool?”
“Cool.”
“Fucking A! And don't forget, you already said yeah at the reception just before you hammered that bitch that tried to snag Sheela.”
“I did?” Maybe he didn't remember who hammered whom?
“Hey, I shoulda got it on tape, huh?”
“I guess so.”
“Right! What's your number? Let me make a few calls. Maybe Manny can see you tonight. Just professional, huh? Don't make me jealous!”
She lifted her lip, but said in a sweet voice, “I wouldn't think of it.”
She hung up and waited. Within five minutes, her phone rang.
“Hey ya, Christal? Tony here. I got it worked out.”
“Okay. What, when, and where?”
“His digs, babe. Nine o'clock tonight. Ring one long, two short and one long. The gate will open. He'll be at the big house.”
“Thank you, Mr. Zell.”
“Hey, babe. It's Tony. No sweat. Dinner tomorrow, right?”
L
ymon's garage was a three-car affair. In one bay he kept a gray '92 Toyota Land Cruiser, in the next his personal car, a Jaguar S type, and finally his motorcycles. In the rear a pristine 1975 Moto Guzzi California Highway Patrol model rested on its center stand, the chrome fenders gleaming. His BMW stood closest to the door, the bodywork removed, the rocker boxes off to expose the oil-slicked valve assemblies. Finally a red-and-bronze 2003 Indian Chief Deluxe canted on its sidestand, the thick fenders waxed and shining. The leather saddle had a waxed look, and chromed diamonds glinted in the skirt. Two fringed leather saddlebags hung low at the rear.
A radio on a shelf in the back was set on KABC to make white noise as Lymon worked on the BMW. His red toolbox was open, several of the drawers at half-jut. He sat on an inverted bucket and used an Allen wrench to turn the BMW's crank to top dead center. Air sucked and puffed from the empty spark-plug holes as the valve springs compressed and then released. Lymon glanced in the inspection hole for the timing mark. As his fingers wiggled the rocker arms, he rolled the events of the last two weeks around inside his head. The thing that stuck with him was the look of terror in Sheela's eyes, the pulsing of the vein in her neck after the attack at the St. Regis. That was followed by her abject humiliation at the Wilshire. What in hell could he have done differently?
The soft whisper of an engine and the rasping of tires intruded. He looked up, seeing the long black nose of the limo rounding the curve of his drive and pulling to a stop.
He stood, grabbing a red rag and wiping his hands as he walked to the open door. Paul was giving him a worried look when he opened the driver's door and started around the front of the long vehicle.
“Paul? What the hell are you … ?” Lymon stopped short when the rear door opened and Sheela climbed out. She was carrying a canvas duffel bag with one hand, her purse hanging from her shoulder.
“He's doing what he's supposed to,” she called, striding toward him. “Thank you, Paul. Please take the car home. Lymon can bring me when I'm finished.”
“Hey,” Lymon protested. “Sheela, are you nuts?”
She made a shooing gesture. “Bye, Paul. And thank you.”
Paul looked back and forth, confused, and muttered, “Yes, ma'am” before walking back and slipping into the driver's seat. He put the long black car into reverse and backed slowly around the curve of the drive.
“This is my home,” Lymon protested. “Sheela, what are you doing here?”
She was dressed in form-fitting jeans that hugged her round hips and long legs. Thick-soled black boots covered her feet. A gray long-sleeved blouse was tucked into her pants and did little to disguise her famous bustline. She had her red-gold hair in the French braid again. Wary blue eyes met his as she stepped past, frowning at the BMW with its sundry pieces scattered around the cement floor.
“What's wrong with your Beemer?”
“Nothing. It's just that you have to set the valve clearance every six thousand miles. While I was at it, I changed the oil. That's in that pan over there. I was just setting the intake side.”
“So, it's not really broken.”
“What are you doing here?”
She took a deep breath and turned. “I'm escaping, Lymon.”
Her expression told him everything. The look she gave him melted his heart and overwhelmed his good sense. “Okay. So, you've escaped.” He chuckled, wiping his hands. “Now what?”
She made a halfhearted gesture toward the disassembled RT. “Well, I was thinking of another soda up at that place on the other side of the Angeles Crest.” She turned, frowning at the Indian. “What about that one?”
He glanced at the canvas war bag in her hand. “Let me guess, that's the helmet and leather jacket, right?”
She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “Could you do it for me, Lymon? Set me free again for a couple of hours?”
“It's not smart, you know.”
She stepped closer to him, a desperate soul behind her searching blue eyes. “Hell, I know that. It's probably going to end in a wreck one way or another, Lymon, but God, if I don't do something I'm going to lose my mind.”
“Yeah, well, when you get into trouble, it seems like there's always a motorcycle at the bottom of it.” He indicated the sleek steel-blue Jaguar. “Sure you wouldn't rather save my heart a little wear and tear and take the Jag?”
She bent, unzipping the bag to pull out her helmet. “If I'm headed to hell, Lymon, I say go all the way.”
“Can I at least finish the valves?”
His heart skipped at the joy reflected in her smile. “Sure. I can even help.” She held up her long delicate fingers, manicured to perfection. “You'd be surprised. These have actually been oil stained. And I helped rebuild the injectors on a Massey Ferguson once.”
“I'm all atwitter.” Lymon smiled and returned to his bucket. God, this wasn't smart. But when he looked at Sheela, glowing with relief as she bent down to help him with the lock nuts and feeler gauges, he couldn't help himself.
Shit. I'm completely, totally, helplessly in love with her.
“Just like every other red-blooded male in the world.”
“What was that?” Sheela was sorting through the feeler gauges like dealing cards.
“Nothing that couldn't be cured by a bullet to the brain.”
 
 
Christal wound her Chrysler through Brentwood's curving streets and slowed before a wooded lot. Behind a high wrought-iron fence, and through the trees, she could just glimpse an imposing Tudor-style house. She checked her watch: 8:32.
She pulled up at the curb and slipped the car into park. The last of sunset's glow was fading in the reddened west. Streetlights were flickering on. Rolling the driver's window down, she could hear insects and distant traffic on the evening air.
So, what was the right strategy? Drive up to the tall, spike-topped gate and ring the buzzer? Or wait until the designated time and act like a real professional?
She wasn't sure what the smart move was yet. This was different than working for the Bureau. Here, she had to operate with people's forbearance.
Her patience wore out at a quarter to nine when she turned the key, brought the Chrysler to life, and drove up to the gate. The metal box perched on a pole on the driver's side had a speaker, camera, and buzzer. She rolled her window down the rest of the way and reached out to ring long, short, short, long.
Like magic, the gate rolled back on its wheels, and Christal drove up the curving drive toward the imposing house. The tree-shrouded drive ended in a loop that surrounded flower gardens and a central cement fountain. Floodlights cast it all in a yellow sodium glow. A Porsche, a stretch Mercedes, and an Audi were parked at the side of the curve in front. The yards were manicured, and the dark grass looked recently mowed.
Christal grabbed her purse and notebook with its list of names and stepped out into the evening. The house lights blazed as she walked up the steps to the door. She was just about to stab the buzzer when a car door opened behind her. She turned, surprised to see a woman stepping out of the Audi's driver's door. She was small-framed, dark-haired, with a narrow face.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked, her voice thin. She was standing with her arms crossed tightly under her small breasts. She wore a white shirt and dark slacks. She might have weighed a full one hundred pounds, provided she'd had a big meal and had been hosed down.
Christal turned, stepping down the stone stairs. “Yes, I'm here for an appointment with Manuel de Clerk.”
“He didn't have an appointment.” The woman looked wary, suddenly nervous, tightening her crossed arms. She was squinting, and Christal realized the light was behind her.
“Excuse me, do you work for Mr. de Clerk?” Christal could feel her instincts begin to prickle. In that instant, she knew that face, had seen it when this same mousy-looking woman had stepped out of a toilet stall at the Wilshire but days past.
“Who are you?” Christal's tone sharpened. “Do you have any identification?”
The woman's eyes enlarged, and her thin mouth twisted into a faint smile. “I know you.” Even as she was speaking she unfolded her arms and pointed a small silver revolver at Christal's midsection. “Just stand very still.”
Christal experienced that electric lightness of the guts as she focused on the dark muzzle of the little snub-nosed revolver. Her skin crawled at the expectation of a bullet.
“Hey,” she whispered, trying to get her breath. “Relax. I'm no threat.”
“Who are you?” the mousy woman asked, her voice turning shrill.
“I'm Christal Anaya. I work for Sheela Marks.” She swallowed hard. Shit, this little short-haired
vaina
wouldn't really shoot her, would she?
“What are you doing here?” Mouse's dark eyes were like stones in her pale face.
“I told you, I've got an appointment with Manuel de Clerk.”
“Why?”
“Things for Sheela,” she made up. “They're shooting
Jagged Cat.
Look, it's not worth me getting shot over. I'll leave.” She took a step back, her arms half-raised.
“Stay where you are. You don't move.” Mouse held eye contact as she leaned into the Audi, felt about with her other hand, and retrieved something off the dashboard. A little black box that looked like the remote for an automobile's door lock and security system. When Mouse thumbed the button, Christal heard nothing.
Christal made a gesture of surrender. “Look, this isn't my concern. If you're robbing the guy, I don't want any part of it.”
Mouse smiled faintly. “Just stand still.” She glanced past Christal toward the house, as if expecting someone. Who? Copperhead?
“So, what is it this time?” Christal asked. “I'd almost bet you're not getting a used tampon from Manny.”
Mouse's expression reflected amusement, but she said nothing.
“Can I go?” Christal took another step back. “You've made your point.”
“I said, don't move.”
Christal nodded as she took another step back. Her brain was starting to work again, her training asserting itself. She was a good four steps from the front of her Chrysler. Two steps and a leap and she could be at the door. Did that give her time to pull it open and dive inside?
Was that even a smart option? The silver pistol looked like a .38, but it could just as easily be a .357. Maybe one of the compact Taurus or Smith and Wessons. They were building incredibly powerful pistols into small and lightweight packages. A .357 could make chowder out of auto glass.
Think!
She studied the woman, seeing how the tendons stood out on Mouse's hand. She was gripping the pistol like she was squeezing a rubber ball. Christal could see it wiggling in the woman's overstressed grip.
So, what were the odds? Could the woman really shoot? Or was she the kind who had once emptied a box at the range?
God, what a thing to have to bet on!
Christal was running options through her head when she heard the door open behind her. She turned, seeing Copperhead as she came striding out of the house. The woman was tucking a blouse into the top of her skirt as her pumps tapped the stone steps. Her familiar purse hung from one shoulder.
“What's the … . ?” Her eyes fixed on Christal; a momentary puzzlement was replaced by a knowing smile.
“Ah? I know you. I think we're going to have a long chat, you and I.”
Mouse had her gaze fixed on Copperhead. Christal bet the farm, spun on her heel, and ran. Feet pounding, arms pumping, she sprinted for the corner of the house, where shadows pooled under a weeping willow.
“Stop her!” Copperhead cried.
Christal couldn't separate the supersonic crack of a bullet from the report of the gun. She jinked right, took two steps, and jinked right again. She lost count of the cracking shots that split the air around her. Then she was in the shadows, darting from side to side. She pitched herself behind the bole of the tree, gasping for breath, heart hammering.
“What the hell are you doing!”
Copperhead was screaming, her face contorted with rage.
“You said, ‘Stop her!'” Mouse cried as she picked at the open cylinder of her gun.
“Damn! We don't need a murder! You
little fool!”
“She's the same woman from the hotel! She followed us!”
“Come on!” Copperhead cried. “It's too late. The police will be here any second!” She was climbing into the driver's side.
“I think I hit her!” Mouse cried plaintively. “I've got to make sure!” She was slipping bullets into the cylinder, glancing back and forth from the gun to the shadows where Christal hunched behind the willow.

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