The Athena Factor (23 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear

BOOK: The Athena Factor
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Lymon padded into June's office and asked, “Is there something here I should know about?”
June turned in her swivel chair, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. “This guy wants Christal's address.”
Lymon raised his eyes. “Why?”
“Who're you?” The man had a competent way about him, as if he was used to authority.
“I'm Lymon Bridges. I run this place.”
The man nodded, offering his hand. “Hank Abrams. I'm with Verele Security. Uh, I suppose you've heard of us?”
Hank Abrams? Lymon kept the surprise from his face. “Yeah, I've heard of Verele Security. They do good work. Are you here for personal or professional reasons?”
That took him back. Lymon could see him thinking through the possible answers.
“Professional,” Abrams finally admitted.
“I see.” Lymon smiled graciously. “If you will leave your phone number and address, I'll see that Christal gets them. After that, it's up to her if she decides to contact you.”
Abrams gave him a hard evaluative look, then said, “I'd prefer to contact her on my own.”
“I'm sure you would.” Lymon kept his professional smile in place. “If I could offer some friendly advice, I'd say you might be better off to give her a little warning. Given your history, she might shoot first and wonder why you showed up after the fact.”
Abrams gave him an icy smile as he put the pieces together. “I see. Thanks for the advice. That's real neighborly of you. Uh, you wouldn't have some ulterior motive yourself, would you?”
“Such as?” Lymon could feel June's curious gaze as she sat between them.
“Christal's an attractive lady.”
“She's good at her job,” Lymon countered.
“Are you trying to protect her?”
“She can protect herself.”
“Then why won't you give me her address?”
“I already told you.”
Abrams narrowed his eye, the smile never wavering. “What's wrong? Afraid I might just hire her away?”
“It's a free market.”
“If you're worried, you're welcome to contact our New York office. My boss—”
“Verele doesn't concern me. You do. Just write your name, phone, and address there on the notepad. Christal will have it by tonight. My word on that. I'll tell her you're interested in hiring her. She can decide what she wants to do.”
“That's it?”
“Sum and total.”
Abrams glanced back and forth between Lymon and June, smiled in ill humor, and bent, jotting on the notepad at the corner of the desk.
As he finished and twisted his Montblanc to retract the ballpoint, Lymon asked, “Who was the Arab?”
Abrams started, and for that one instant Lymon could see him off balance. He recovered quickly, saying, “The Sheik is a client of ours.”
Lymon replied, “And Sheela Marks is our client.”
Abrams watched him for a moment, and then said, “From what I see in the news, you haven't been doing such a hot job protecting her recently.” He flipped a mock salute. “Nice to have met you, Mr. Bridges.” He turned on his heel, stepped to the door, opened it, and left. The sound of his feet on the steps grew fainter as he descended to the street level.
Lymon ground his teeth, glaring at the door, and stepped around to rip the paper from the pad. He glanced down, recognizing the address for the Hollywood Hilton.
“That was interesting,” June told him evenly as she wheeled her chair around to face her desk again. “Would you mind telling me what just happened here? Turf fight? Or was that just two dominant males growling, bristling, and scratching the dirt?”
Lymon folded the paper. “It's deeper than that.” He filled her in on the New York trip and then added, “Abrams and Christal were involved when they worked for the Bureau. It went bad enough to make Christal resign.”
June studied him thoughtfully. “I see.”
“Good. 'Cause I sure don't. What the hell was he doing here? And just why does he really want to see Christal?”
June shook her head. “I don't know, but if you think it has something to do with Sheela, maybe you'd better have a word or two with Christal, soonest.”
C
hristal looked up from the stack of
Daily Variety
magazines she had been going through at her kitchen table. It was the sunlight off the Plexiglas windscreen on the silver BMW motorcycle that caught her attention. She watched through the window as Lymon parked the bike, leaned it onto the sidestand, and stepped off. He was unbuckling his helmet as he walked from the parking spot next to her Chrysler.
She met him at the door before he could knock and motioned him in, saying, “Not much new on this front. I've got some feelers out, but I'm drawing a bust looking for links between Sheela and the actors targeted by the celeb hits.”
Then she got a good look at Lymon's face. “What's wrong?”
He tossed his helmet onto the couch and slipped out of his jacket. His eyes were smoky, as if something smoldered deep inside. He fished a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her before he turned and closed the door behind him.
Christal unfolded the paper, seeing the company logo at the top. She stopped at the familiar script. The note stated:
Christal: Contact me immediately. Most important! Hank.
A 212 area code telephone number—a cell, she assumed—and a Hollywood address followed.
She glanced up at Lymon. “Is this a joke?”
“I wish. He was in the office a couple of hours ago.” Lymon watched her carefully. “Christal, I don't like it. Whatever is between the two of you isn't my business. But the fact that his client was so fixed on Sheela just might be. First we target the Sheik at the preem. Then your old boyfriend shows up as the Sheik is leaving. Then, bam! Abrams is walking in my door asking to see you. You tell me: Is this something I need to be concerned about?”
Christal took a deep breath, a cold feeling in her stomach. She perched her butt on the couch back. “Honestly, Lymon, I don't have the foggiest idea. It's nuts! Crazy! Too far out! What did he want? Did he say?”
“Only that it was professional. If it is, am I supposed to think it concerns Sheela? Is that the hidden agenda? Or is it just coincidence that he saw you in New York, got to thinking about his wife dumping him, and he talked Verele into trying to hire you so that you and he could get back together?”
Confusion came tumbling out of her brain, stopping any logical thought. “No way in hell!” she cried, crumpling the paper in her hand. “What? Does he think I'm a complete idiot, that I'd even want to be close to him?”
“I have no idea.” Lymon cocked his head, apparently seeing through her struggle for control.
“I
don't
want to see him.”
“It gets worse. I think he tried to follow me from the office.” Christal stopped short, staring. “Huh? Why would he do that?”
“To find you.”
“That's even nuttier than …” She couldn't finish it, seeing the concern in Lymon's eyes. “Wait a minute. What makes you think he was trying to follow you?”
“A dark blue Ford Taurus followed me from the office parking lot.” Lymon crossed his arms, pacing back and forth on the living room carpet. “It was parked back in the alley. I don't think he expected me to be on a bike. It must have been a shock when I threw a leg over the Beemer and motored
off. This Ford pulled out after me. He did a good job, but his hand was tipped. There's no parking where the car had been sitting.”
“Hey, Hank was trained by the Bureau. If he was following, it wouldn't have been a half-assed job.”
“Yeah, trained to do a tail with a team, right? Lots of cars, passing, pulling off, keeping in touch by radio. That sort of thing. This time, he just had himself. It gets a little harder for one guy. Especially if he's having to make it up as he goes.”
She glanced uncertainly at the window, half expecting to see a blue Ford pull into the space next to the BMW.
“Relax,” Lymon told her. “Splitting lanes is legal in California. He's still back on Wilshire somewhere, sitting in traffic. I went around a couple of blocks and stopped to talk to the two homeless guys that live in the alley. Stewart and John. They described your Hank Abrams. He'd just pulled in and was waiting, figuring that you'd show up, I suppose. Or maybe that if you and I were involved—”
“What?”
Lymon chuckled. “That was one the things that crossed his mind when I wouldn't give him your address.”
Christal shook her head, failing to see his humor in her current misery.
“Christal,” Lymon added gently, “give him a call. See what he wants. If it involves that Sheik and Sheela, we need to know.”
She nodded numbly. The thought came tumbling out of her stunned mind. “What if he offers me a job?”
“I'd ask for double the salary you're getting now. Any other fringe benefits are up to Hank and Verele.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” He hesitated. “Listen, I hate to ask you to call this guy. Anything you need, we're here for you. Me, Paul, the rest of the guys. If it gets sticky, we'll take care of you. You know that, don't you?”
She nodded. “Yeah, I'll call him, Lymon. Just give me time to get myself together.”
 
 
Hank Abrams had a sour feeling in his gut as he slowed, looked at his map, and frowned at the community gate that blocked his access to the street where Sheela Marks lived. Once again he cursed life without FBI credentials. That badge had opened a lot of doors. It would have passed him here, too, where he didn't think a Verele Security business card would. The guy at the guard shack would have asked where he was going and double-checked to see if Verele Security was making an advance at any of the houses up the road.
“
Sheela Marks is our client
,” Bridges had told him. That meant that he might be able to pick up Christal when she went off shift at the principal's house.
He slowed as he considered the guard shack that stood in the middle of the road and noted the cameras that had been placed unobtrusively in the ornate shrubbery to either side.
Did he want a record of his presence here? It left him feeling awkward, somehow sordid. It wasn't as if what he was doing was illegal. The fact was, there were no laws against him completing his assignment.
Assault
, the voice said in his head.
But it wasn't assault. Not in the classical sense. All he had to do was get close to Christal. He glanced at the small canvas kit bag on the seat behind him. He had checked out the special equipment it contained. The hand patch had been the most unusual; it stuck to the palm, and just by shaking hands, scrubbed off enough of the target's cells to be useful. The other stuff was no less esoteric, and each had its own particular uses.
Hell, if the instructions were correct, he didn't have to have physical contact with her, just find out where she lived. He'd committed the list of things he could take to memory: hairbrush, toothbrush, dirty clothes, used personal items, a sack full of her garbage, and so forth.
Theft
, his legally trained mind countered.
Well, sure, by the strictest interpretation. But who would care? It wasn't like lifting a hairbrush was grand theft, for
God's sake. All he needed to do was get into her house, and from there, it was easy.
Breaking and entering.
Not if Christal invited him in, he countered. Hell, all he needed was her washcloth! If she didn't invite him in, the trash would do. But it wasn't as discreet; the samples could have come from anywhere with garbage. How would they know if a sample came from Christal, or a guest? But in a pinch it would do. He could wait until she took it out, and then he'd box it FedEx, check out of his hotel, and be on a plane that night.
He wheeled the Ford around and reluctantly drove away from the controlled access to Sheela Marks' community. As he passed the high-dollar houses he couldn't help but notice the tall walls that surrounded the large mansions. One by one he took the roads that surrounded the compound, figuring that the houses contained within sat on less than five acres. He could see the roofs through the gaps between the surrounding houses. Which one was Sheela Marks'?
The cell phone warbled in its melodious tone, and he pulled over to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Hank?”
Christal's voice was controlled, toneless.
“Hey, Christal. It's good to hear you again.”
“What do you want?”
She sounded icy.
“Look, we need to talk. Something's come up.”
“Yeah, I remember the last time you got it up. Somehow I ended up getting screwed twice.”
He made a face. “Dear God, Christal. You have no idea how sorry I am. I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to hurt anyone.”
“I know.”
She seemed to actually understand.
“If I could take my pound of flesh out of Gonzales, I would.”
A pause.
“We just screwed up. That's all. He was ahead of us. I learned my lesson, Hank.”
“What lesson was that?”
“We weren't professional. That was the mistake I made that night. You can bet I'll never make it again.”
He took a deep breath. “Yeah, that's two of us. That's why I need to see you.” He paused. “Uh, Marsha has filed for a divorce.”
“Make your offer
.” Her voice was emotionless.
He hesitated; obviously she wasn't into reconciliation. “What is Bridges paying you?”
“That's my business.”
He winced. Then remembered Bridges' advice. “I think we can double it.”
Her laughter caught him by surprise. Then she said,
“Hank, you couldn't afford me. Not that I'd work for you for any price.”
“You haven't heard my offer. Ten thousand a month.” There. That ought to bring her around. At least get her to meet with him.
“You're not even close.”
More bitter laughter came rolling out of the earpiece.
“Have a nice life, Hank.”
“Wait! Christal, for God's sake, wait! Don't hang up!”
“You tracing this? Need to keep me on the line?”
“God, no! I swear.” He shook his head, trying to figure out how it had gone so wrong. “Look, if you and Bridges are involved, that's fine. Here's the scoop: My boss is interested in seeing if you have what it takes to join our firm. That's all. No pressure, no strings. You can stay here in LA and handle our principals here.”
“I'm with LBA now. I like working for Lymon. You know”—
it sounded like a taunt—
“Sheela Marks is one of our clients.”
He frowned. “Would she be interested in changing security firms? Could you get me and my boss an interview?”
“Ah, so am I to believe that you want to use me to get close to Sheela? Is that it? You were always a deep player, Hank.”
“Christal, just meet with me. I'll
buy
your time if I have to.”
“What?”
“Pay you. Five thousand dollars. Just for the chance to …” He realized that he was listening to dead air.
With a pained look, he pressed the
end
button and stared thoughtfully through the Ford's windshield at the row of expensive houses.
“Yeah,” he grumbled, “I'm a smart guy, I'll think of something.” He threw the cell phone across the car, hardly aware that it shattered against the passenger window.
 
 
Sid leaned back in his office chair at the Washington Metro Field Office and stared at the bulletin board across from him. It showed a map of the world. Here and there, pins were stuck into it, marking where geneticists had disappeared over the last five years. Of all the cases he'd ever worked on, he'd never had one like this. It just seemed to lead nowhere. His counterparts contacted through Interpol had found the same thing, and they'd been working on some cases for five years.
He needed a break, anything to get his mind off the Gordian knot that his case had become. A picture caught his eye where it rested at the edge of his desk. Sid, Tim Paris—a fellow agent—and Christal Anaya stood behind a podium receiving a meritorious service award. He smiled, reached over, and lifted the phone. He glanced at his Rolodex and pressed in the numbers.
The distant ringing was followed by Christal's voice.
“Hello?”
“Christal? It's Sid.”
“What's up?”

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