The Athena Factor (5 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear

BOOK: The Athena Factor
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Sheela sat in a lounge chair, a script in her hand. Lymon identified it by the brass brads in the three binding holes. She was in Balenciaga jeans and wearing a William B white cotton blouse unbuttoned over a turquoise tube top. Her red-blond hair had been done in a French braid. A glass of what looked like iced lemonade stood on the marble table beside her.
Lymon seated himself on the padded wrought-iron chair across from her and waited. Even after three years of association,
she still affected him. Tall and long-legged, she carried herself with a sense of grace that no one would have associated with her obscure Canadian origins.
“Where do they get this shit?” she asked, smacking the pages she held. She looked up and fixed him with her irritated blue eyes.
“Got me. I don't write the things.”
She shook her head and tossed the script onto the cement beside her. “I read it before it went into development. Good stuff, nice idea. Now, the execs have been having meetings, it's been through two rewrites by four people, and it's shit! I'm on page thirty, and I already know that by the third act my character is going to be raped by her father. So now I'm shooting him in the last scene? Duh!”
“Yeah, well, you shouldn't complain. I know for a fact that producers and studio execs don't get put in charge of really hot properties until their lobotomies have fully healed.”
She grinned at that.
“What did you want to see me about?” Lymon rubbed his hands together. “Are my people on the ball?”
She lifted an eyebrow. “You come on your bike?”
Lymon nodded.
Sheela stood. “Come on.” She led the way back into the house, calling to Tomaso as she passed, “Lymon and I are going out for a while. If Rex calls, he can get me on my cell.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Lymon lifted a brow as they stopped by the front door. Sheela stepped into the coatroom and returned wearing a white leather jacket and carrying a pearlescent helmet.
“Sheela, just what the hell do you think you're doing?”
“We're going for a ride. You and me.”
“Are you nuts?”
“Are you armed?” She pointed at his armpit, where he kept his HK .40 Compact in a Kramer undervest. “Of course you are. So, I'm well guarded and safe, right? Come on, Lymon. We need to talk, just you and me.” She rolled her eyes
to indicate the opulent surroundings. “Away from here.” Her smile would have melted Kevlar. “And it's been years since I've been on a bike.”
“What if something—”
“It's an
order
, Lymon. If I can't trust you, who the hell can I trust?”
“It's not a matter of trust. It's about variables that I can't control: drunk drivers, spilled oil on the road, an errant SUV with underinflated tires and a malfunctioning guidance system.”
“Is that a harried housewife?”
“Generally.”
“We're going.”
With misgivings bubbling in his breast, he led the way out to the silver BMW. “In my professional opinion, I have to inform you that I think this is a bad idea. My job—”
“Is to keep your client happy,” she shot back. “Aren't you the one who lives by the mantra ‘The principal comes first'? Damn, I should have had Felix draw up a release, but that would have led to too many questions.”
He stopped, taking his helmet off the handlebar. “We could have Paul bring the limo around. Anything you have—”
“
Don't you get it?”
Her eyes were pleading. “I'm tired of living in a can, Lymon. And you're the head canner!”
He helped her with her helmet, surprised that it was not only the right size, but DOT and Snell approved. “You've been planning this?”
“Ever since we got back from New York.”
He straddled the bike, steadying it as she climbed on. “You've ridden before?”
“When I was a kid. Dad had a Harley and an old 250 Yamaha for farm work.”
“Just do what I do. If we go down, hang on to me.” He thumbed the starter, and the Beemer lit. Toeing it into gear, he let the clutch out and eased around the circle. At the gate, they waited while the heavy iron rolled back.
“I'll bet John's wondering who the second rider is.”
She laughed. “Yeah, it's good for him.”
“Where to?”
“Up to the Ventura, east to Glendale, and then take Highway Two over the Angeles Crest. After that, we'll make it up as we go.”
She
had
planned it.
Lymon wound around, caught Beverly Glenn north to the Ventura Freeway, and matched speed with the traffic.
“Waahooo!” Sheela cried on the back as she raised her arms to the wind. “I am
free
!”
She's free, and I feel
like
I'm carrying a case of nitroglycerine in the tour pack!
He didn't know how long it had been since he felt so nervous. Damn it! What if he dropped it with Sheela Marks on board? The woman sitting behind him was worth somewhere in the neighborhood of a billion dollars by the time you figured in future box office, residuals, and advertising revenue. The lawsuits would take years. This was lunacy!
“Doesn't this thing go any faster than fifty-five?” she called over his shoulder.
“I was just trying to calculate your net worth if I killed you.”
“According to the latest figures Rex put together, about one point two billion. Now, take a deep breath, and let's move with the rest of the traffic.”
He made a face, signaled, and felt the BMW surge as he accelerated into the fast lanes.
They made it to the twisty two-lane outside of La Canada Flintridge, and Lymon eased into the first of the corners.
“Doesn't this thing lean?” Sheela asked over his shoulder as she wrapped her arms around his waist. “You've got tread all the way up the sides of the tires. I saw it back at the house.”
“Most strung-out actresses use pills,” he muttered.
“What? Pills?”
“Yeah, you know, for committing suicide.” With that, he figured himself for dead anyway, twisted the wick, and let the big twin do its thing.
H
ow long had it been since she felt this relaxed? Sheela tilted her head back and looked up through the branches. It was a pine tree. Even she knew that much. The can of Dr. Pepper felt delightfully cool in her hands. A crystal creek was bubbling just to her left as she sat on a lichen-covered rock with her feet on a brown bed of needles.
“Perfect,” she purred to herself. She could feel knots loosening in her muscles. For this one blissful moment, the world was fading, the pressure lessening.
She glanced at Lymon. He was standing to one side, looking antsy as he gazed back up the hill at the little gas station and store where they had pulled off the road. The sleek silver BMW was just visible at the edge of the parking lot.
“Relax, Lymon. Take yourself off the payroll for a minute.”
He smiled at her, the action wary. “Can't, Sheela. It's just who I am. You've already talked me into a potential major-league fuckup.”
She looked around at the trees and listened to the wind sighing in the branches. A loud car blasted past on the highway above them, exhaust howling. “So, how do you assess the risk here? High? We're on the edge of the forest. It's the wrong part of the country for
Deliverance
, and you don't look anything like Burt Reynolds.”
“I guess I don't at that.”
She studied him, trying to read his hard face. He had been a mystery since the first time she'd met him. Her previous security personnel had been pretty straightforward. They had cop personalities: That easy swagger, inside sense of kindred, and cynical approach to life she had known since her days as a teenager in Regina.
“You were a soldier,” she remarked. “Special forces?”
“Recon. Same thing, but different.” He looked at her. “Why are we doing this?”
She reached down for a pinecone and studied the brittle triangular petals. “I had to get away. I want to talk to you.” That made him even more nervous.
She decided to let him off the hook. “Lymon, I want you to look into something for me.”
He lifted a craggy eyebrow, waiting.
“This thing that happened in New York, it's been bothering me.”
“Look, Sheela, we're instituting new procedures for the next time we're on the road.”
She waved him down. “It's not that. I grew up in the real world. I know you can't stop everyone one hundred percent of the time. At least not and still let me do my job. I've got to go places, make appearances, and play the game.”
“Okay, so?”
“So, I want you to figure out what this is all about.”
He was frowning. “What have you heard?”
“Julia's bedsheets, John Lennon's hair, my attack, all high profile, all perfectly planned. Something you said at the meeting stuck with me: skill, power, money, and luck. Those were the things you said someone needed to beat a system. If we throw out luck, that leaves skill, power, and money.”
“Uh-huh. So?”
“It doesn't make sense. Anyone with money and power who wanted to touch me, could. He could wrangle an invitation to a party, or put leverage on Tony or Rex. He could buy his way onto the set for
Jagged Cat
, or glad-hand his way into a fund-raiser or release party.”
“I suppose.”
“It wouldn't cost more than renting a helicopter, say, or figuring out how to break Yoko Ono's security system. I am assuming that those things can be had, but for a pretty hefty price.”
He was watching her warily. “That's right.”
“Lymon, part of my job is hype. I'm a product, marketed and sold. I know I have a certain charisma that translates on-screen.
The rest of it is how I'm packaged. Hell, even a lot of the crap in the tabloids is manipulated by Dot and Rex.”
“What are you trying to get at?”
“Marketing.”
“I'm not sure I follow you.”
“I'm not sure I follow me either. It's just a hunch.” She tossed the pinecone to one side. “But it feels right.”
He nodded, frowning. “Okay, so, marketing what? Weaknesses in security?”
“That's what I want you to find out.” She stood, drinking down the last of her soda. “Now, while you think about it, let's go ride. I want to enjoy every second before they put me back in the can.”
 
 
The air-conditioning was humming its familiar chant as Lymon sat at his desk. He kept running his day with Sheela over and over in his head when he was supposed to be concentrating on paperwork. Through the open door he could hear June Rosen, the secretary, talking on the phone out front. From her tone of voice—excruciatingly polite—he knew it wasn't good.
Neither was his current task. He hated accounting, and thanked God every day that June could do most of it. She wrote the checks for the electricity, water, rent, insurance, and the rest. She calculated the 941 payment, made sure that W-2s were up-to-date. She kept track of employee hours and tallied the expense report receipts, then calculated and sent the billing. The burden of double-checking schedules and making travel arrangements fell onto her shoulders, and like now, she answered the phone.
Lymon heard it click; then came the sound of June's pumps as she walked back and leaned in the door. She was a wholesome-looking thirty-two, two kids, single after a second divorce. Today she had her brown-blond hair up in something Lymon would have called a beehive. She wore a charcoal cotton pullover.
“That was
Daily Variety
again. They're still prying away
at the New York incident. They are wondering if it could be related to Julia's break-in.”
Lymon tapped the expense reports with his pen. “Maybe Sandra Bullock and Nicole Kidman will get hit next? With Julia and Sheela, that's the big four.”
He paused at that, remembering Sheela's insistence that it was all tied somehow to marketing.
“You okay?” June asked. “You've been preoccupied all dry.”
“Yeah, fine. Thanks.” He smiled as she ducked back and clumped her way to the front desk.
Truth was, he'd been off his feed ever since that crazy ride with Sheela. After their soda stop, she'd insisted that they ride clear over to Santa Clarita before heading back. He had deposited her at her door a little before nine that night.
That look she had given him when she said “Thank you” had left him even more unsettled. Her eyes had been shining, intense—and they had looked straight into his soul.
Knock it off! She's business.
Security personnel didn't get involved with their principals. Not only was it morally irresponsible, it was downright dangerous. He was in enough trouble over the New York disaster.
His mind kept returning to that spirited ride. He'd been prudent, hadn't pushed the envelope, but once he'd relaxed, forgotten who was on the back, it had been fabulous.
The phone jangled at his elbow. He picked it up, hearing June:
“Sid Harness for you on line one.”
Lymon punched the button and said, “Sid? What's up?”
“Did Christal ever call you?”
“Nope.”
“Oh, hell.”
“Look, maybe she doesn't want the job.”
“She's her own worst critic. Still blaming herself. I don't know, it's just that she's too good to lose. You know what I mean? She's young, and this is the first time she's really taken a hit. And it was a bad one. She's one of the best. Got a nose for what's really happening, you know? It's like she can sniff out motive. Hell, she was the one who broke the Gonzales case before it got FUBARed.”
Lymon considered that. Motive? That was what was bothering him, Ensley, and Sheela. He tapped his pen on the reports. His people were trained to be guard dogs, not wolves.
“Lymon? You still there?”
“Sid? Maybe she's not right for executive protection. It's an art, a calling if you will, rather than a nine-to-five job. It takes a certain kind of personality. You know, someone who can whip a Lincoln through a J-turn one minute and walk the principal's dog the next. She's a street agent, right? Trained to stick her nose into trouble, not cover and evacuate a principal.”
“She's got the brains for it, Lymon. Isn't that what you've always told me? That the job was really thinking out of the box? Planning? Advance study of a location or event?”
“Yeah, so? If she was that smart, how'd she get her tit in a wringer over this Gonzales thing?”
“What would have happened if someone had recorded your, um,
indiscretion
with that sultan's daughter?”
“I'd have been court-martialed then, and sitting in jail in Djibouti today.” Lymon winced. “Hey, I was young. I've never fucked up since.” An image of Sheela stared at him with cerulean eyes, and his heart skipped. Crap! He couldn't do it again. Wouldn't.
“Christal's young, too. Unlike you, she got busted. So tell me, you've been there. Second chances can make all the difference, can't they? Or have you stopped believing in learning from your mistakes?”
Sheela's words haunted him:
Lymon, I want you to figure out what this is all about.
He took a deep breath. “Sid, if I wanted her to do a little digging for me, maybe stuff that was OTR, off the record, could she do it?”
“In spades, buddy. I swear, she's as good as they come.”
“What is she to you?”
There was a long pause. Finally, Sid said,
“Yeah, okay, maybe I'm a little bit in love with her. Just trust me on this, all right? When have I ever steered you wrong?”
“Give me her number, Sid.”
 
 
The tape made a ripping sound as Christal stripped it from the roll and sealed the last box. Using her teeth, she bit it off and patted it snug on the brown cardboard. Her apartment was cleaned, all trace of her gone but for the stack of brown boxes, each carefully labeled. The moving guys would be coming within the hour to load them into the van. Three days later they would unload them at her mother's house in Nambe, New Mexico. Whenever Christal was ready for them they'd be stacked in Mom's garage.
Her remaining personal possessions consisted of a pile of clothing to be hung in the back of her old battered '95 Nissan, her suitcase, two plants, and the radio that was playing on the breakfast bar.
She stood and tossed the roll of tape into her open suitcase. At the mention of Mel Gibson's name on the radio, she stopped short. She'd always liked his work.
“Sydney police remain baffled as they reconstruct the break-in at Sydney's prestigious Regent Hotel. Gibson certainly isn't in for a close shave in his next film, since it seems the erstwhile thieves only took the shaver head off of his electric razor.”
Christal wrinkled her nose and tossed her thick black hair over her shoulder. She remembered the scuzzy stuff that an electric razor collected: bits of skin, chopped fragments of beard. Hell, if she was hitting Mel's place, she'd go for his checkbook, credit cards, and Swiss bank account—assuming he had one.
“Or, how about his agent's phone number while I'm at it, huh?”
She walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, and found a half-empty carton of orange juice. She set it on the counter before tossing opened jars of mustard, pickles, ketchup, and mayonnaise into the trash. When she lifted the lid on a plastic container in the far back, she found the green fuzzy remains of a month-old casserole. Good riddance. The nearly empty jar of Greek olives she kept, opening the lid
and popping one into her mouth. She'd packed her glasses, so she tilted the orange juice carton back and chugged.
The phone rang. Wiping her mouth, she reached for the receiver. If it was the moving guys telling her they'd be late, she was going to raise hell.
“Hello?”
“Is this Christal Anaya?”
The voice was male, competent sounding.
“Yeah. Who's this?”
“Sid Harness gave me your number. My name is Lymon Bridges, of Lymon Bridges Associates Personal Security, LLC. My business is—”
“Yeah, I know.” She made a face. “Look, I don't know that I'd be any good at babysitting celebrities. You know, it's that bullshit factor.”
To his credit, he laughed.
“Yeah, you get that on occasion, but not so much from the kind of people my agency works for. Most of them know the stakes.”
“Well, you see, Mr. Lymon—”

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