Authors: W. Michael Gear

The Athena Factor (19 page)

BOOK: The Athena Factor

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She studied him, apparently noting his swollen eyes and the lethargy that three hours of nodding to Amtrack's version of comfort had left imprinted in his face. “Come on. You'll want to see the lab results, too.”

She led him back the way he'd come, down a flight of stairs, and along a hallway lined with examining rooms. They stopped in a small lunchroom with a table, chairs, a snack and pop machine, a microwave, and a stained coffeepot from which she withdrew a cup of something that looked like crankcase drippings.

Lifting the paper cup, she inspected it, peering down her nose through her glasses. “I don't know how fresh this is.” She handed it to him with a shrug. “Creamer and sugar are there. While it's not necessary, any donation to the cause would be appreciated.” She indicated a large coffee can marked DONATIONS with a slit in the plastic lid.

Sid fished out a dollar and slipped it through the slot. He sipped the coffee, struggled to keep his face straight, and went for creamer and sugar after all.

As he sipped cautiously he followed Dr. Lambout through double doors and into one of the forensic labs. He'd been in similar rooms before, but each time the surroundings sent a chill up his spine. The autopsy table with its lights, hoses, and drains always lurked like some ghost of the Inquisition. Light boards on the walls were for viewing X-rays. This room had a counter that sported a covered microscope, a small centrifuge, and glass-fronted cabinets full of test
tubes, pipettes, beakers, boxes of rubber gloves, plastic specimen bags, and the other accouterments of necropsy. Even the air seemed chillier.

Helen Lambout led him to the counter, where a manila folder had the letters FBI marked prominently in black felt pen. She propped herself on one of the stools and flipped the cover open, asking, “Do you want to see the body, or are the photos sufficient?”

“The photos will do.” He bent to peer at the glossy eight-by-tens. A naked woman lay on the table, eyes half-slitted in death. She looked incredibly pale, the whiteness a result of demise. Outside of being a floater, she appeared to be a typical Caucasoid woman of moderate build. He could see no immediate sign of trauma, no indication of any abnormality except that she was obviously dead. “Got a cause of death?”

“She drowned. Preliminary samples test positive for seawater. When we opened her up, we found no evidence of foul play. We're still looking for the more obscure pharmacology, but we came up negative on the usual: alcohol, marijuana, cocaine, heroin, and so forth. Internal organs look healthy.”

“Stomach contents?” he asked.

“She had steakâbeef, we thinkâat the last meal. Potato and broccoli were ingested about four hours before death. Again, the stomach contents tested negative for alcohol. Her lungs were fine, but deoxygenated from the salt water. We found no lesions on the skin, no evidence of injections or injuries. Vaginal swabs came back negative for semen or spermatozoa.”

“Any scars?”

Lambout nodded. “A couple of faint scars around the hands.” She flipped back to a diagram that reproduced them. “And one longitudinal scar on the right thigh.”

“From the time she had her femur pinned after a car wreck when she was twelve,” Sid finished. “Did the pins match?”

Lambout shuffled through the photos to a photocopy of an X-ray. “This is the shot we took. Attached to it with a paper
clip is the fax her physician in California sent to us last night. That, along with the dental records, are pretty conclusive. We won't know on the DNA until next week at the earliest. Dermatoglyphics will be in sometime this afternoon.”

“Where did you get a reference sample of her DNA?”

“She left a lot of it. All curated at the California lab.” She tapped the folder with a narrow finger. “You want my opinion? I'm ninety-nine point nine percent positive that this is Nancy Hartlee's body.”

Sid frowned as he flipped the pages back to show a photocopy of a nautical chart. “So, tell me, Doctor, where has Nancy Hartlee been for the last five years? And just why do you think her body was found floating ten miles out from the beach off Long Island?”

M
y God, have I ever been this tired?
The question rolled around in Christal's head as Lymon walked back and opened the limo door for Sheela. The crowd exploded in applause and whistles as Sheela took Lymon's hand and stepped out into the New York night. Lymon wore a black tux, and Sheela was resplendent in a powder-blue Ungaro gown, her metallic red hair up, with ringlets falling about her pale shoulders.

Flashes of white lit the night, popping in the crowd like bottled lightning let loose. Christal could hear the frantic click of the shutters as she ducked out on Sheela's heels. Christal had outfitted herself in an off-the-rack black Ralph Lauren she'd found on sale during a last-minute panic trip to Bloomingdale's.

Reporters were calling out in a cacophony. “Sheela!” “Ms. Marks!” “Have they found your tampon?” “Sheela! Look this way!” “Sheela! How do you feel about the recent publicity?” “Sheela! Is it true that someone cut off Manuel
de Clerk's penis?” “How do the recent assaults affect your shooting schedule?” “Sheela! Who are you seeing these days?”

“Remember.” Lymon bent close, shouting into Christal's ear. “You have her left. Stay close behind her and keep your eyes open.”

She did, forcing herself to concentrate, eyes on the crowd as she and Lymon followed a half pace behind Sheela. She wore an earpiece along with a throat mike at her collar. Somehow the fragile-looking velvet ropes held the mob at bay. Ahead of them, Sheela walked up the red carpet to the theater entrance. She was waving, nourishing the feeding horde with her famous smile.

“How does she do it?” Christal wondered as she squinted against the lights, searching for any sign of threat in the press of bodies behind the ropes. She kept the mantra in her head: Attacks always come from the third row back. It seemed like a sea of shining faces and glittering eyes. To her, they all looked like predators.

“Sheela's a pro,” Lymon answered, his voice barely audible. How the hell had he heard her over the raucous babble?

Once they were checked through the theater's security, the lobby was crowded with black-tie-clad men in sharp tuxedos, women in exotic, expensive, and often revealing evening gowns, and liveried caterers passing through the throng like fish in seaweed with trays of champagne, caviar-heaped crackers, and other goodies. Every wall was covered with huge posters hawking
Night Stalker
and its stars.

Christal picked out faces: Gwyneth Paltrow, Jack Nicholson, Robert De Niro, and someone she thought might be Barbra Streisand beneath a garish hat. Halle Berry, clad in something that looked like cellophane, was surrounded by smiling men, some of whom pointed microphones toward her mouth.

The not-so-well-dressed carried pads of paper and tape recorders. Christal assumed these were the dreaded critics come to pass judgment on the final product. They seemed to move from star to star, talking, occasionally taking notes.

Then Christal fixed on the elegantly dressed men in the rear and off to the side. None of them looked distinctive, but each had a following. The moguls, perhaps?

“Sheela,
darling!”
an elderly woman in silver sequins cried; she flowed forward with an outstretched hand. “How perfectly
ghastly
that someone would do these things!” A throng rushed in on her wake, washing around Sheela.

Taking Lymon's cue, Christal followed him as he split off and walked toward the side of the room.

“From here on out,” Lymon told her as they took a position under one of the huge posters that showed a hard-eyed Halle Berry staring down the sights of a huge silver semiautomatic pistol, “we just try to be unobtrusive.”

Christal nodded, aware of the other wallflowersâmostly men, professionally dressedâwho stood, watching alertly at the fringes. When their gazes crossed Lymon's, they would give a slight nod, then move on. Some spared Christal a great deal more than just a second glance. She could feel herself being sized up. The rest of the Brethren, she decided.

“How do you determine who's who?” she asked, indicating the people in the center of the room. Some were obvious sycophants; others seemed to be movers and shakers. Photographers slipped about like coyotes around a flock of sheep.

“Watch how much a person moves,” Lymon answered. “The closer a person is to the top of the heap, the less he moves through the crowd. Those guys”âhe pointed to a knot off to one sideâ“are the Fox bigwigs. They've got nothing to prove to anyone. They won't move until the curtain call. Watch Sheela. She'll drift her way over to them without seeming to. Power meeting power.”

Christal studied Sheela, having seen her at the Wilshire reception but unaware of the social dynamics. A collection of people had gathered around her, laughing and smiling. Others worked their way through the press to take her hand, give her a slight hug, or that faint kiss of the cheeks. New Mexico-raised Christal still found that custom a little peculiar.

She was considering that when she saw the dark man; he didn't fit. Instead he stood to one side, his black eyes fixed,
gleaming, and focused on Sheela Marks. He remained oblivious to everyone else in the roomâeven though Robert De Niro stood no more than two paces to his right. He was dressed immaculately in a black silk tuxedo that shimmered in the light like an insect's shell. She pegged him for a rich Arab by his facial features, complexion, and the regal way he held himself.

“Lymon?”

“Hmm?”

“Check out the guy. He's alone, standing five feet to Sheela's right. He's all by himself, detached, and if my instincts are right, he's not a movie type.”

Lymon fixed on the man. “You're right. Not a movie type at all. I've never seen him before. He looks like oil money. A lot of rich oil Arabs invest in films. Hell, give me ten or twenty million worth of discretionary cash and I might, too.” A pause. “He's sure holding a bead on Sheela, isn't he?”

“Trouble?”

Lymon gave a faint shake of the head, frowning as he watched the guy watching Sheela. “Probably not. At least, not that kind. You don't get in the door without an invitation.” He paused. “Still, I don't like him, Christal. That expression on his face isn't right. Hell, he's not even blinking. Just keep an eye on him, okay? He can drool all he wants, just so he doesn't touch.”

Christal's gaze kept going back to the hawkish Arab. In her grandmother's quaint vernacular, he made her whiskers vibrate. What was that look in his eyes? An almost obsessive gleam. She had seen men at livestock auctions stare at prize animals with that same careful appraisal.

“It's hardly a livestock auction,” she muttered, forcing herself to turn her attention elsewhere.

“Pardon?” Lymon asked.

“Nothing.”

“A livestock auction? Is that what I heard you say?”

“Yeah. Silly, huh?”

Sheela had managed to drift her cluster of admirers to within several feet of the Fox executives. Then, most artfully, she turned on her heel, seemed surprised, and rushed
to greet the first of them. She kissed the man on the cheek, and over the babble of conversation, Christal heard “ â¦ So
glad
to see you!”

The photographers, like hunters from a blind, seemed to pop up from the very carpet, their cameras clicking. Sheela gave a little cry and skipped to her second target.

Christal gaped, even knowing it was an act. Sheela seemed to radiate joy at being in their presence.

“She's good, isn't she?” Lymon asked.

Sheela melted against another of the men, her posture a balance of restraint and provocation. Was that another of her arts? The ability to be both tasteful tease and provocative temptress in the same breath? Was that part of the A-list portfolio?

“So the trip's a success?” Christal asked.

“She'll work them all night.” Was that weariness in Lymon's voice? “After the preem, Sheela will attend the Fox party. By the time she leaves, she'll have dates with each of those guys.”

“No way!”

“Yeah, but none of them will happen. There are shooting schedules, conflicting business meetings, and last-minute cancellations, and what do you know? After a month has gone by, it's all forgotten but the goodwill.”

Christal shot Lymon a sidelong look, aware of the hardness in his eyes and the muted tones of his voice. Puzzling at it, she was on the verge of revelation when her sixth sense made her glance back at the Arab. A second man had walked up to stand just out of sight behind the Arab's right elbow. Christal couldn't see his face, but he spoke in a confidential voice. The Arab leaned his head slightly to hear better, then nodded, a slight smile on his thin lips.

Christal craned her neck, trying to see the newcomer's face. Something about him haunted her: the way he moved, the set of his shoulders, and the gestures he made.

“Just a minute, Lymon.” Christal moved out from the wall and angled behind the group that surrounded De Niro. The Arab and his shadow were moving now, heading toward the door. That walk! Damn it, yes. She
knew
him.

Christal hurried along the wall, paralleling the Arab's course, trying to thread her way through the packed bodies with as much decorum as she could.

The man was still on the Arab's off side. Christal had closed the distance, angling up on the right. She could smell the Arab: a perfumed scent, not unpleasant, but not attractive, either. He was tall, aloof, and walked with a liquid grace. A look of deep satisfaction, as if someone had just used oiled fingers to massage his soul, was betrayed by his lingering smile.

They were nearing the door, the Arab still blocking the view. “Excuse me,” Christal called, stepping close.

The tall Arab turned rapturous black eyes on her, unfocused as if she had just interrupted a reverie.

“Oh, sorry,” she said with a smile. “I thought you were Antonio Banderas.” But her gaze went to the shorter man, who stepped past the Arab to see her. In that instant, their eyes locked and the world stopped.

Christal's heart skipped, then began to pound. He looked just as shocked as she did, those familiar eyes wide and disbelieving. An instant later a rush of loathing rose to replace the surprise in his face.

“Chris?” he stumbled. “What the hell â¦ ?”

“Sorry, Hank,” she managed through tight jaws. “Your friend here
isn't
the guy I'm looking for.”

The Arab had turned confused eyes on Hank, then glanced back at Christal. He smiled then, saying in a whisper-accented voice, “She is a beautiful woman. Spirited. You know her?”

A feather of fear tickled her as a growing appreciation filled the Arab's eyes. He studied her face, bending slightly to stare at her breasts and the way her dress rode the curve of her waist and hips.

Shit! Mistake! Get the hell out of here!
“Sorry to bother you, Hank. Have a nice night.”

She spun on her heel and kept her back straight as she turned, walking back toward the side of the room. She could feel the Arab's hungry eyes; a creepy shiver crossed her skin, and a terrible sickness was spreading in her gut.

For some reason she couldn't comprehend, she joined the
periphery of De Niro's group. Maybe it was some primal urgeâa search for safety in numbers. The muscles in her legs had gone rubbery. She clamped her jaw tight to keep it from trembling.

De Niro was saying, “What? Sure, I'm typecast. What do I care? If it's a good script â¦”

Taking a quick glance, she could see Hank Abrams talking rapidly, gesturing with his hands as he walked with the Arab out past the guards at the door. In that last instant, Hank shot a quick look over his shoulder, meeting Christal's gaze. A smothered rage burned there, seething and coiled.

“What's up?” Lymon seemed to appear like magic at her shoulder.

“I haven't got the foggiest idea.” She glanced hesitantly at Lymon as she stepped away from De Niro's audience.

“You want to tell me who that guy is?”

“No.” She could see the irritation growing behind Lymon's flinty expression. “But I guess I'm going to have to, huh?”

He paused. “I don't know. Why don't you tell me?”

“Yeah, later, all right? When I get my guts back.”

She was saved when a voice called out, “Ladies and gentlemen, if you will take your seats, you are about to be part of filmmaking history! The premiere screening of
Night Stalker
is about to begin!”

A sporadic burst of applause and cheers was followed by people walking toward the doors on either side of the concession stand where harried caterers still poured champagne.

“What now?” Christal asked, taking a deep breath and centering her quavering soul.

“Now we wait.” The question was hanging unanswered between them.

BOOK: The Athena Factor

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