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Authors: W. Michael Gear

BOOK: The Athena Factor
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“Tens of thousands,” Lymon stated. He glanced at Christal. “How long do you think it will take?”
She straightened. “Wait a minute, Mr. Bridges. I haven't aid I'd do it yet.”
“I haven't given you the job yet, either. I just asked how long it would take.”
As Christal considered, she drew little circular doodles on her pad. “Do I get a date with Mel Gibson? Assuming I can find his razor?”
“Probably not,” Rex muttered.
Lymon shook his head.
“I can guarantee coffee with Sheela Marks,” Sheela said dryly. “I have an in with her business manager.”
Christal raised her hands, looking uncomfortable for the first time. “Mr. Bridges, I can't give you a firm commitment on the time. If it's just a single event, a fan looking for a moment's fame, maybe a week. If it's what I think, part of a pattern, then who knows? A month? Maybe more. It would depend on the complexity of the case, the resources I have vailable. Sometimes, hell, it can boil down to dumb luck.” she met Lymon's glance. “Sorry, that's the best I can do given the facts at hand.”
Lymon nodded. “Thank you.” He glanced at Sheela, then added, “Ms. Anaya, would you mind stepping out into the hall for a moment?”
Christal glanced back and forth, reading expressions; miled professionally, and walked out, closing the door behind her.
Lymon frowned down at the table, his face a mask of indecision.
Rex blurted, “I think this is nuts!”
“You weren't there,” Sheela said calmly. “You don't know what it felt like.” She glanced at Lymon. “What do you think of her?”
He shrugged. “Right off the bat, I think she's smart, capable, and curious. She might be just what we're looking for.”
“And this thing with the FBI?” Rex prodded. “What really happened, Lymon?”
“She was romantically involved with the AIC, uh, the agent in charge, during an active investigation. The bad guy found out and managed to get photos of them in a compromising situation. My source says that she fell on her sword to minimize the damage.” Lymon smiled. “Sometimes people are just people, Rex.”
Rex wasn't mollified. “Seriously, Lymon, wouldn't it be better if you just put her on a plane back to DC? We're blowing this thing out of proportion.” He smiled. “Or, do you have
other
interests in the young lady? She's a nice piece.”
Sheela saw Lymon's jaw harden, and quickly said, “My decision, gentlemen, is that we hire Ms. Anaya to look into the attack at the St. Regis.” She tilted her head toward the door. “Lymon, would you ask her to step in, please?”
Sheela studied the woman as she returned. Anaya read the room's occupants, their expressions and body postures, with a single telling glance. She nodded at Sheela and took her seat, back straight, hands clasped, looking every inch a professional. Yes, she would do.
“Christal,” Lymon began, “we would like to ask you to look into this, if you're willing.”
“There are things I'll need,” Christal replied with a cautious smile. “I assume that I'll have an expense account for travel?”
Sheela nodded. “See to Ms. Anaya's concerns, Lymon. I'll expect daily reports.”
“Weekly,” Christal said as she drew a line across her pad. “I don't want to have to stop everything I'm doing to run off and find a telephone.” She looked up. “And another thing. I want you to understand there may not be anything to find. What happened to you in New York may be the work of a
well-prepared fan. Maybe a maid was pulling a prank in Sydney. Julia Roberts' sheets might have been a practical joke.” She paused, looking from person to person. “The final thing you must understand is that if there really is some kind of purpose and pattern to these events, I have to find evidence to discover the truth. In other words, some crimes, no matter how vigorously and professionally they are investigated, remain unsolved.”
“So, we could be paying you for nothing?” Rex asked as he rattled the ice in his scotch.
Christal fixed him with a piercing intensity. “No, Mr. Gerber. You will be paying me for my dedication, ability, and expertise.”
Sheela decided she liked Christal Anaya. It wasn't just anybody who could feed Rex his lunch like that.
“All right, people,” Sheela said, getting to her feet. “I've got an hour to prepare for Bernard's party tonight. Rex, I'll see you there. Lymon, Ms. Anaya, thank you for coming. I'll be looking forward to your progress.”
B
ernard Antillio had attached himself to
Jagged Cat
when the studio first optioned the screenplay. He, along with Sheela, had been the leverage to green-light the picture. Bernard was considered a hot director. His last picture,
Three,
had been nominated for a Golden Globe, and swept away its competition at Cannes, Toronto, and Sundance.
The guy looked the part. He had shaggy black hair that he wore over his ears like a fuzzy helmet. He left his white oversized shirts unbuttoned at the top to display a thatch of black chest hair. A narrow face, darkly complected, was home to large brown eyes that projected a brooding intensity. A good distribution deal on
Three
had not only boosted Bernard to fame, but had paid for his new digs.
The house dominated a brush-covered lot atop the mountain
on Miller Drive. The structure itself looked like haphazardly stacked triangles impossibly propped up with stainless steel columns that glittered in the lights. A wag had once said it looked like a pile of giant cement mousetraps that had been sprung and then filled in with glass.
From the highest of the pointed decks, one could see from La Cienega to the Valley. As Rex stood at the prow of one of the highest wedges—a combination of roof and deck—he nursed his scotch and stared out at the endless lights of the city spread so far below. They made an improbable seascape of twinkling yellow that illuminated the high clouds with a murky lemon glow.
His mind was knotted around Sheela's fixation on the New York attack. Now they had a what? A private investigator? And she would discover what? That a wacky fan had jumped at Sheela? Things like that happened. Adulation bred obsession. Stars like Sheela had to accept the lunatics, stalkers, and sycophants.
He chewed his lip, glanced back at the party visible through the windows, and listened to the music and chatter rising from the lower decks. A woman's high laughter carried over the babble of voices. They were mostly the movers and shakers from
Jagged Cat,
although the usual smattering of producers, execs, agents, stars, and wannabes had shown up. The place would have been packed but for a Russell Crowe gala in Bel Air.
Glancing down two levels, he could see Sheela in her pale blue dress. People crowded around her—supplicants in search of favor from the goddess of the moment. He wondered how she was bearing up under the demands. Adulation and parasitism had a great deal in common.
He turned his attention back to the view and recalled the afternoon. Rex couldn't help but grin at the memory of Christal Anaya's rich eyes. He would dream about her for a while. She had spunk—something he didn't see very much of these days.
Bernard came walking up, a drink in his right hand, his left arm draped suggestively over a young blond girl's shoulder. When Rex glanced at her, his first impression was of
shining white teeth, vacuous beaming eyes, and tits that had absorbed too much Miracle-Gro.
“Hey, Rex,” Bernard greeted, his smile that of a satisfied barracuda. “Good to see you. I hoped you'd come.” He glanced over the railing at the people clustered around the bar on the lower deck. Down at ground level, a muscular young man dove cleanly into the pool. Knots and clusters of people could be seen chatting on the lower levels and through the tall windows. “Great party, huh?”
“Yeah, and if that kid working for the valet scratches my Ferrari, I'll have his liver flayed with a weed eater.”
Bernard flashed his white teeth. “They've got insurance. I heard in advance that Felix was coming. Never piss off a lawyer who can afford a Bentley. Either he's very good, or he lucked into a tobacco settlement.”
Rex nodded, smiling warily. “Yeah, I wanted Felix here.” He pointed. Two levels down Felix was talking to Fillip Hart, the studio CFO. “As we speak, he's telling Fill that Sheela's on the way out.”
“Out of what?” Bernard continued to grin, his teeth white against his dark narrow face. The blonde under his arm was beaming up at him, awe and anticipation in her wide blue eyes.
“You've read that latest crap they've written into the script?”
Bernard's eyes narrowed, and he took a slurp from his glass. The girl frowned, as if suddenly confused. Bernard chuckled, apparently unsure if he wanted to fire back at Rex or if it was a joke. “Valerie, let me introduce you to Rex Gerber. Rex, Valerie.”
“Hi, ya,” Rex granted, lifting his scotch glass in a mock salute.
“Rex is one of the last of the true Neanderthals.”
Rex grinned. “So? Let me guess. You optioned the Scott Ferris story?” The grin died. “Don't fuck with the script, Bernard. You're not good at it.”
“Fuck you, Rex!
Jagged Cat
needed more punch. That's what we added. In case you haven't been paying attention, box office is where it's at. The marketing research indicates—”
“Bernard.” Rex lowered his voice. “I'll tell you just what
Felix is telling Fill. We're going back to the original screenplay, or Sheela's exercising her option to bug out.”
“Rex, she signed the contract.” It had finally soaked into Bernard's shaggy head that Rex was serious.
“She did, to do
Jagged Cat
the way it was way back when. Remember how it used to be a story instead of a blood fuck?”
“The public wants—”
“People want Sheela Marks doing what she does best. And it ain't being raped by her father before she chops him in two with a shotgun.” He waved down Bernard's protest. “That's it. End.
Finis.”
He smiled at the girl. “Nice to meet you.” He left Bernard sputtering and cursing.
He walked through the rich aroma of pot where four people sat passing a joint in the shadow of a palmetto and stepped through the sliding doors into the house. He squinted in the lights just as Tony Zell caught his eye. Tony lifted a hand and excused himself from Jodie Foster's manager.
Either it was a trick of the lights, or Tony had put something in his blond hair to make it slightly iridescent. The gold chains around his tanned neck were visible inside a loose black silk shirt. Three gold rings adorned his right ear.
“Rex?” Tony greeted, taking his arm and pulling him off to the side. “Fill me in, buddy. I'm hearing stories.”
“Yeah, it's true,” Rex began. “Sheela's really cranked about it.”
Tony made a pained face. “Why? I tell you, it's no big deal. So, it's a little publicity. It'll blow over. Not that it hurts, huh?”
“Bad publicity? I'd call it a bit more involved than that.” Rex crossed his arms, looking into Tony's perplexed blue eyes. He waved away Aaron Purcell, who was walking up with a beaming smile on his thick lips. “Later, Aaron. Okay?”
“Yeah, see me.” Aaron nodded happily at Tony and veered away.
“It's
not
a big thing!” Tony insisted. Then he asked, “Did Lymon put her up to this?”
Rex made a face. “What would Lymon care? And, yeah, it is a
big
thing. Sheela might be on top right now, but she's
vulnerable. Women always are. She might survive one dunking, but she's not a man. She can't take two.”
“Why?” Tony looked worried as he fingered the gold ring on his left index finger. “Are there threats?”
“Nothing that Felix can't handle. Look, they don't want the publicity. If they don't handle this right now, it'll be in
Daily Variety
's Monday edition. It'll be talked all over town that the screenplay's such a piece of shit that Sheela's walking. That kind of negative … What?”
“What are we talking about?” Tony looked perplexed.
“Jagged Cat.
What the hell did you think we were talking about?”
“Sheela's walking on
Jagged Cat
?”
“Haven't you been listening? I sent you a memo. Either they go back to the original story, or we're gone. Remember that clause that Felix put into the contract? We gave up two percent of box office for the right to ankle if anything pissed us off.”
Tony nodded, thinking.
“What the hell were you talking about?”
“This thing at the St. Regis in New York.” Tony shook his head. “I don't know why it weirded Sheela out so much. I mean, man, these things happen. She knows that.”
“Yeah, well, Lymon found her a PI—a woman, no less. You'd think it was a movie. A real bitchin' number, too. Mexican, I'd guess. Like Jennifer Lopez, but more intense. Not J-Lo. Raquel, from the old days. Classic, with that fire in her eyes.”
Tony's gaze had fixed on infinity. “She got a name?”
“Christal Anaya. Ex-FBI. Lymon gave me a thumbnail on her. She got caught fucking some of the Washington brass. They were going to kick her out, so she resigned rather than make a stink.”
Tony gave him a careful scrutiny. “You think she can do anything?”
Rex shrugged. “Hell, how would I know? If you ask me, it's a waste of money. But, yeah, if there is anything there, I think she's a bloodhound. She'll sniff it out.”
Tony had fixed his gaze on one of the bronze statues that stood in the corner of the room. It looked like green spaghetti that dripped water.
Rex rattled the ice in his glass. “Meanwhile, you might stop and have a nice chat with Fill. Just mention that we've still got a deal with him for two pictures. Ask him what he's got in mind for a replacement if Sheela legs on JC.”
Tony nodded, and he fingered his gold chain. “Yeah, I'll do that.” After a pause he glanced up. “FBI, huh? No shit?”
 
 
“Why are we here?” Christal asked as she looked around at the expensive furnishings in Morton's. The tablecloths, the centerpieces, the diners in fashionably tasteless dress left her uneasy. Something about the young beaming staff didn't seem right to her. They hustled about with an unaccustomed alacrity, smiling, seeming to be happier than circumstances warranted. And then she got it: They were too beautiful.
“I want you to get it out of your system.” Lymon waved around. “Morton's is probably the most famous restaurant in Beverly Hills. So, here you are. This afternoon you sat across the table from Sheela Marks. Tonight you're where all of Hollywood's greats either eat or have eaten.” He pointed to a booth in the back. “There's Governor Schwarzenegger with one of his managers. Evidently he's tired of the Capitol lunchroom up in Sacramento. That or he wanted to talk business with someone. As many movies are pitched, brainstormed, and green-lighted in places like this as in board rooms.”
She chewed thoughtfully on her salad as she shot a furtive glimpse at Schwarzenegger. God, the guy was big! He looked older than he did in the movies. “Okay, so just what is it that I'm supposed to be learning here?”
“That once you get past all the hype, the money, and other bullshit, we're just dealing with a bunch of people. Stressed out, but still just people with all the baggage that entails. True, they're more egotistical and screwed up, but then they've got the means to support and reinforce their egotistical and screwed-upness.”
“Sheela didn't seem screwed up.”
“Nope. That's one of the reasons I like working for her. She still has horse sense.”
“Horse sense?” Christal lifted a dark eyebrow. “Is that a bodyguard technical term?”
He stuck a fork tine into a tomato wedge. “Not yet … but it ought to be. I said horse sense because she comes from a Canadian farm where they raised horses—mares, more precisely—for urine. Some kind of estrogen source for menopausal women, or some such thing. And in the end result, you can't use the term common sense.”
“Why not?”
He lifted the tomato, studying it. “Because sense is never common.”
“No, I guess it isn't.” The way he was looking at her made her nervous. “What is it, Lymon?”
“Did you have any training in witness protection, personal security, that kind of thing?”
“Some.”
“Look, Christal, there are four main causes of danger in the personal protection business: Intentional injury, where someone comes gunning for your principal. Unintentional injury, where the attack is targeted on someone else and Sheela just happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time; she's collateral damage, if you will. Third are silly accidents. Say she trips over a cable while receiving an award, or maybe just slips in the bathtub.”
“And the fourth?” Christal asked as she finished her salad.
“The fourth is an invasion of the principal's privacy. Sheela is a very private woman that the whole world would like to keep under a fisheye lens.” Lymon stabbed a chunk of romaine. “My job is to keep her safe from all four of the above-mentioned threats.” He studied her as he chewed, swallowed, and said, “Do you understand that difference?”

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