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Authors: W. Michael Gear

BOOK: The Athena Factor
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BEVERLY HILLS, CALIFORNIA
P
aul wheeled the limo off the street into Sheela Marks' drive, and hesitated as the security gates rolled open. He waved up at the camera, aware that John was recording their entrance.
“You know,” Sheela called from the backseat, “I wonder if it's worth it anymore.”
“Pardon?” Lymon asked, turning in the passenger seat.
“All this.” She waved at the gates as they drove through. “The cameras, the gates and fences, the motion detectors. God, I feel like I'm living in South Africa.”
“It will all settle down into routine again,” Lymon told her. “You've just had a scare. Hell, I'm rattled too.” Thank God the ringing in his ears had finally gone away.
They passed the gardens and manicured lawn and pulled up in the circular drive before the big house. Rex's Ferrari and Dot's BMW were already parked off to the side. So was Felix's Bentley. Apparently the life of a Hollywood lawyer wasn't anything to sneeze at. Finally, Tony Zell's BMW Z8 was nosed in next to the rosebushes.
“Everyone's here,” Sheela noted, voice a bit off. “Wringing their hands over my health.”
Lymon said nothing, but shared a glance with Paul when he stopped the limo in front of the house's arching double doors. The original owner had imported them from a fourteenth-century Spanish cathedral. The wood was black and cracked, hand-hewn out of sections of oak. The things were so heavy they hung on special hinges, and the door frame was a giant steel arch overlaid with stone.
Lymon got out and was reaching for the rear door when Sheela opened it herself and stepped out. She wore one of
Marc Jacobs' white cotton blouses, beige Chloé trousers, and had a light cotton Bottega Veneta coat hung over her shoulders. As she stepped out she clasped a Fendi leather purse and gave Lymon a faint smile. A distance lay behind her eyes. “You ready for this?”
Lymon shrugged. “After you, ma'am.”
He glanced back when the big limo purred to life. Paul waved, slipped the car into gear, and accelerated around the circle, headed for the garage out back.
Lymon followed her up the steps to the giant doors. As if on cue, the right-hand side swung open. Tomaso, head of the household staff, called, “Good to have you home, Ms. Marks.”
“Thank you, Tomaso. Are they in the meeting room?”
“They are. Can I get you anything?” He tilted his head inquisitively.
“Sparkling water, thank you.” She glanced back at Lymon. “Anything?”
“Coffee, if it wouldn't be too much trouble.” It wouldn't, of course. It never was.
Lymon padded along behind Sheela on his cushioned shoes, feeling like a lion turned loose in the petting zoo. He barely glanced at the Southwestern artwork hanging on the white stucco walls, or the lacquered bronze sculptures resting in corners and in the hollow beneath the grand staircase. Underfoot, the marble tiles made a faint squishy sound under his rubber soles.
At the end of the hall Sheela made a left, leading him into the meeting room. Fifteen by thirty, the room was paneled in walnut with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A sixty-inch TV was built into one wall and attached to a satellite communications center for virtual conferences. A long and splendid maple table dominated the center, while leather-covered chairs with ample stuffing surrounded it. The small wet bar in one corner sported a rack of bottles, a tiny sink, and a built-in refrigerator. Gleaming chandeliers cast soft light on the hard people already seated at the table.
“What the hell happened back there?” Rex demanded before
anyone else could speak. He fastened his bulldog eyes on Lymon. Rex Gerber had served as Sheela's manager for the last four years, riding her rising star like a Frontier Days cowboy in a Cheyenne bareback contest. At fifty-eight, he liked to think he was younger than his round belly, balding head, and fleshy nose indicated.
“We were ambushed in the hotel hallway.” Lymon spoke professionally, refusing to go for the bait.
“What if he'd had a gun?” the lawyer, Felix Baylor, asked.
Lymon met the man's quick brown eyes. A sharp cookie and noted LA hotshot, Baylor had just turned forty-five. Along with his Bentley, he liked expensive trappings. The guy had a thing about being dressed to the nines; his shoes alone—custom-made Italian from a place on Rodeo Drive—would have paid a year's rent in west LA.
“Well, Felix, he could have killed Sheela, Dot, and me. Fortunately, you'll be happy to know that New York has even stricter gun laws than we do in California, so obviously he had to make do with a needle, a stun gun, and a flash-bang. Right?”
“Shit!” Tony Zell, Sheela's agent, muttered. His fingers were tapping a rhythm on a glass of iced scotch. Tony was blond, tall, blue-eyed, and fit. His thing was flash. He liked gold, be it chains, rings, or watches. When he wasn't doing power lunches, he liked to play tennis or golf. Rumor had it that some kid with dreams of being an actor detailed his Z8 once a day.
“Hey, the guy was in a hotel uniform,” Dot shot back. She was sitting at the head of the table and had come dressed casually in a pink skirt, white blouse, and tennis shoes. “I was there. I looked the guy in the face and dismissed him. I still don't know how Lymon acted as fast as he did.”
“Are you sure you're okay?” Rex turned to Sheela, rising from his chair.
“I'm fine. Lymon was on the guy,” Sheela insisted as she and Lymon took seats.
“What about this needle?” Rex insisted. “Was he trying to inject you with something?”
“We don't know,” Lymon said. “Nothing squirted out of it during the scuffle. I just got a glimpse, but it looked as if the plunger was down. I'd say it was empty.”
“That's nuts!” Rex cried. “What was he after? Blood drive?”
“Have you given any thought to suing?” Felix asked as he squared his legal pad in front of him.
“Suing?” Lymon asked incredulously.
“It was a hotel uniform.” Felix pulled a diamond-studded Montblanc from his pocket; thin white fingers caressed it like a tobaccoholic would a Cuban cigar. “They have responsibilities to their guests, and they obviously tripped all over themselves in Sheela's case. As a result of their negligence, Sheela Marks' life was placed in jeopardy.”
“Bullshit!” Lymon shook his head. “So … you thinking about suing me, too?”
No humor lay behind Felix's eyes. “Lymon, we don't know what to think of your actions during the last forty-eight hours.”
An old and familiar tightening began in Lymon's chest as his gaze burned into the lawyer's.
“Stop it!” Sheela slapped a hand on the table. “It wasn't Lymon's fault! Or the hotel's. We're not suing anybody.”
Rex pushed a folded copy of the
Los Angeles Times
across the table. His thick thumb jabbed at a below-the-fold headline. The slug line read:
A picture of her receiving her Oscar got as much space as the story. From what Lymon could glimpse, it was a rehashing of the police report.
“The hotel couldn't have prevented it,” Lymon added softly. “This guy was a pro.”
“Huh?” Rex and Felix muttered in unison. Tony had straightened, a quizzical look in his dreamy blue eyes.
“He was too good at his job.” Lymon shoved the paper
back at Rex. “It wasn't any secret that Sheela was staying at the St. Regis. She had reporters up to the suite for three days before the assault. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out her departure time from the hotel. We'd advertised the fact she was doing the
Late Show
, and people know when it tapes. The studio sells tickets, right? Stars generally want to spend as little time as possible in the greenroom. So that gives the guy about a thirty-minute window to intercept Sheela. The hallway is the perfect choke point. I say the guy is a pro because he worked this out without me seeing him. His surveillance and planning were perfect.”
“So he did his homework. That doesn't make him professional.” Tony crossed his arms.
“The police never found a print. Everything was either wiped down, or smudged. The door he stepped out of was always locked, but when the guy went into that broom closet, he didn't jimmy the lock. He had a key. We watched on the security camera tapes later. He knew his target, knew what he wanted with her, and he damn near got it.”
All eyes but Sheela's were on him.
“Why?” Felix asked, irritated.
“We don't know,” Sheela said softly. “If he'd wanted to hurt me, he could have. And that grenade, dear God, you have no idea how terrifying that was. I couldn't hear, couldn't think, couldn't see. But for Lymon pushing me down, I hate to think what it would have been like.”
Lymon spread his hands. “Paul heard the flash-bang go off at the same time the guy burst out the door. Our attacker ran all of twenty yards, dove into a cab, and was gone. Vanished.”
Rex was still giving him the predatory eye. “Sheela is one of the hottest talents in film today, Lymon. She's worth thirty million a picture. Not to mention that she's a nice person.
Our
person. And you let someone get that close to her? What if that had been a real hand grenade?”
“We'd be dead,” Lymon replied reasonably. “But he wasn't trying to kill her.”
“But he
could
have!” Felix thundered. “For God's sake, man! That's why we pay you!”
“Enough!” Sheela cried, her blue eyes hardening. “I was
there.
I'm satisfied. I've been with Lymon ever since the event. He's done his job.”
Rex, as always, was the first to back down. “Yeah, well, we're scared, that's all.” He looked at the newspaper. “It could have been a lot worse than just a couple of canceled shows. And there's the upside. The phones have been ringing off the hooks. Everybody under the sun wants an interview. Larry King wants first crack at you. He said he'd bump whomever to get you.”
“Screw him!” Dot cried. “Last time, he dumped Sheela for Julia Roberts. Paybacks are a bitch.”
Felix continued to study Lymon. “You're sure the syringe was empty?”
Lymon shrugged. “I'm not sure of anything. I'm not even sure it was a syringe. It didn't look quite right. In the police report I told them it was ‘syringelike.' When he jammed the stun gun into my ribs and I didn't go down, I think he got spooked. I had on enough layers that he didn't get a good connection on the electrodes. Sheela was behind me, supporting me so that I didn't fall. Then there was Dot—she was screaming her head off. I think the guy figured the attack was blown, so he dropped the flash-bang and ran.”
“For God's sake, why?” Felix repeated the question that had been tormenting Lymon for two days.
“Who knows?” Dot looked from one to the next. “Maybe he's sitting in some bar at Lex and Twenty-fifth saying, ‘Hey, wow! I just scared the shit out of Sheela Marks, man.'”
Felix cocked his head. “I don't get it.”
“Neither do I,” Lymon answered with a shrug. “It was just a glimpse, but like I say, the syringe looked empty.”
“What does that mean?” Rex narrowed one eye into a threatening squint. “What good is an empty syringe?”
“I don't know.” Lymon looked up as Tomaso stepped into the room bearing a tray. He placed a glass of sparkling water in front of Sheela and set a cup of coffee to Lymon's right. It was black, just the way he liked it.
“So, what do we do?” Tony leaned forward, a sharpening in his eyes. “
Jagged Cat
is in preproduction. Costuming wants Sheela in for fitting on Tuesday. Shooting starts on the first.”
“So what?” Rex asked. “Sheela's there. What's the big deal? This is our turf.” He glanced meaningfully at Lymon. “We can handle it, right?”
Lymon nodded.
Sheela had continued to stare absently at the table in front of her, the sparkling water fizzing by her hand. “It changes your life”
“What's that?” Felix asked.
“Knowing that someone can get that close to you.”
“It won't happen again,” Rex started, but Sheela raised a hand, cutting him off.
She looked at Lymon. “You've always told me that security wasn't a positive thing. That you could only lessen the odds.”
Lymon nodded. “Just as with any system, there's always a way to beat it. Doing it, however, generally takes skill, money, power, luck, or some combination of them.”
Sheela studied him thoughtfully. “Which of those do you think was responsible for what happened in New York?”
Lymon sipped his coffee, considering. “Luck is out. My guess is that we're looking at skill and money.”
“Why?” Rex demanded.
“It was well planned, which means the guy wasn't counting on luck. The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives controls the sale of flash-bangs to military and police only. This guy had a CTS 7290. He didn't buy it on the corner of Twenty-second and Park Avenue. It took money to get that uniform. He didn't just lift it out of some guy's locker at the hotel. So, where'd he get it? Bribe someone in the laundry? Was it even real? Or did some tailor in Midtown make it based on photos of the real thing? Where did he get the key to the storeroom? The hotel ran inventory. None of their five keys for that room are unaccounted for. So, how did the guy know which key opened that door?”
“You're sure he didn't pick the lock?” Felix asked.
Lymon shook his head. “I watched him on the tape, Felix. You could see him reach down, insert it, and turn. It had to be a key. And the guy was cool. He didn't even look up at the camera. He knew he was being recorded, and not once did we get a full facial shot. During the attack his back is toward the camera. Afterward, he runs with his head down and tilted, sort of like a charging bull. Like I said: a pro.”
“I don't like it,” Rex added. “Thank God Sheela's safe.”
“I want to know why,” Sheela added, looking straight at Lymon. “Can you find out?”
Lymon carefully replaced his coffee cup. “Honestly, Sheela, I can try, but I can't promise anything.”
“You have connections, don't you?”
“Yeah, sure. But those things cost—”
“I don't care.” She used her screen presence, that commanding alto that had carried her to top billing on the marquis. “
Find out!
”
 
 
Sid Harness loosened his tie as he followed the hostess to a table in the back. He liked the Old Ebbitt Grill. The place had atmosphere. He glanced at the brown marble columns on the back bar with their golden chapiters. The stuffed African game heads glared down with fierce glass eyes. Dark wood trim accented the white panels, and the frosted glass dividers seemed to glow with an internal light. The effect was accented by real gas lamps that illuminated historical paintings of the Republic.
From old habit, he took inventory of the occupants: several prominent Washington reporters, one of the Congressmen from Ohio with several of his staff members, a basketball star with not one but two fawning blondes at his table. The usual eclectic Washington bunch.
The waitress led Sid to a booth on the back wall, a semiprivate affair done in red leather with high seats. He slid onto the cushions across from Christal Anaya, took the menu, and smiled his thanks as the hostess retreated.
“Sorry I'm late.”
Christal arched a thin eyebrow as she studied him from across the table. “If this had been anyplace but the Old Ebbitt Grill, I'd have left a long time ago.”
“Development on a case,” Sid muttered, and preempted the young man who came to ask if he'd like anything to drink. “A Foggy Bottom ale, please.” Sid looked a question at Christal.
She placed a hand over the melted ice in her glass. “I've had enough for now.”
After the young man left, Sid cocked his head, watching Christal watch him. God, she was striking. Her midnight black hair gleamed in the fancy gaslights, contrasting with the polished brass above the leather seats. She had a straight nose, sculpted cheeks, and perfect mouth, the sort that demanded a passionate kiss. Spirit lurked within her liquid dark eyes.
“If you're thinking of trying your luck”—her voice was husky with threat—“don't. I'm not big on men right now.”
Sid shook his head, sighed, and leaned back, stretching out his arm. “No way, Chris.”
The faintest trace of a smile ghosted around her full lips. “Then why would you bring me here?” She indicated the plush restaurant. “It's fancy and expensive, Sid. What's your game?” She narrowed an eye. “Your wife know you're here? With me?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Really?” Christal leaned forward, dark locks spilling over her shoulders. “And just what does she know about me?”
“Everything.”
A dark deviltry danced in her eyes. “Everything?”
“Yep. I told Claire I was going out to dinner with a beautiful femme fatale who'd been busted across the chops for something that might have been a simple mistake under other circumstances.”
Christal leaned back then, suspicion in her eyes. “So, what's the gig?”
As the waiter stepped up, book in hand, Sid said, “I'd like the New York cut, medium well, baked potato, and Ranch dressing.”
“The buffalo tenderloin special.” Christal shot Sid a sly glance to see if he would recoil at the price. “Medium rare with garlic mashed and a Caesar salad with lots of anchovy.”
The waiter stepped away, and she made a chastising gesture with one slim hand. “Normally, in a place like this, the woman is supposed to order first, you know?”
Sid yawned, scratched under his chin, and said, “Yeah. So, I'm a barbarian.” He paused. “How you been?”
“Give me a break! How do you think I've been? I feel like hammered shit. When I finally get to sleep, I dream that last meeting in the director's office. I see that son of a bitch sitting there staring at his hands like he was a boy caught shoplifting.” She shook her hair back. “I feel like I've been trashed, Sid. I feel like … Hell, I don't know what I feel like. Sick, I guess. Sick in the guts.”
“Humiliated?”
“Humiliated.” She rolled the drink glass with its ice back and forth. He watched her thin fingers, the bones so delicate under tanned skin. Her nails looked perfect. “I was headed for a really super career, you know.”
At the tone in her voice, he added, “Yeah. Well, it doesn't seem like it, but the resignation was the right thing.”
He figured she might have given a sewer rat that same loathing look. “Really?”
“Yeah, they'd have spitted you and roasted you alive. You might feel like shit this way, but you'd have felt like sour vomit the other.”
“God, I'm glad you asked me to dinner! I feel so much better now.”
“Good.” He flipped a card out on the table. “I hear you're thinking about leaving DC. Going back west.”
She picked up the card, glancing at it. “You can't be serious?”
“Yep.”
“Cut the cowboy crap. Texans and Mexicans have a very long and not so nice history, remember?”
“You're from New Mexico.”
“Yeah, well Texans and New Mexicans have a long-standing thing between them, too.”
“I know. If God had meant for New Mexicans to ski, he would have given them money.” Sid grinned. “I know all the old jokes.” He paused, studying her. “About that card, I know the guy. He's always looking for good people. You're one of the best.”

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