"Why did you call yourself "Doc" Rowland the other night?" Clarissa broke the silence between them. "Were you a doctor at one time?"
"Oh my, no," he laughed. "I worked my whole life at the race track. I loved them horses like they were my children. No, child, I cleaned the stables and exercised the horses, helped the grooms, and polished the saddles. They used to call me "Doc" around the places 'cause when a horse was nervous or skittish, I'd go talk to him, or whistle and sing to him. Calmed them down every time. Said I was one of those head doctors for horses."
"A psychiatrist," Clarissa said. "A horse shrink."
"Call it what you will," said Rowland, "but I got called out to near every race track in California calming down mares with jitters or pacers with twitters.
Clarissa laughed and it made her feel good. "You should have been a veterinarian," she told him.
"Naw, I never had no money for fancy schooling," he replied. "Made some descent money when I worked, though. Then I got old. Nobody wanted me anymore. Said I got in the way more than I was helping. Guess when you're ninety three, you get put out to pasture with the other old horses."
"You don't look ninety three," said Clarissa surprised. "Don't feel it neither," he laughed. "Don't feel a day over eighty."
"Do you ever go out to the race track?' she asked?" Do you like to watch the races?"
"Sometimes I get to go," he said. "Got a few friends up ta Santa Anita still. Don't drive no more. Best thing that ever happened to me. I been walkin' everywhere and I'm in better shape now than I was at seventy-five."
Clarissa hugged the old man's arm, surprised at the strength in his bone-thin arm under his tweed jacket. She clutched it tighter, feeling a frail security in his closeness. She almost lost her footing when he suddenly bent down and plucked a shiny object from a puddle.
"Well, look here," he held up the shiny quarter. "My lucky day. Here, child. Now, maybe some luck will rub off on you tonight."
Clarissa took the quarter and gave Rowland a kiss on his bony cheek. "You will never know, Rowland, what you have just done for me."
As soon as she stepped into the lobby of the hotel, she headed straight for the pay phone.
CHAPTER 7
Virginia swam the length of the Olympic-size indoor pool with long, powerful strokes. She had done thirty such laps non-stop. Her arms ached with a leaden heaviness and her breath came in ragged gasps but the grueling exercise had purged her of the anxiety that had built up since this morning in the office with Morgan.
She sat on the steps in the shallow end of the pool with her eyes closed, methodically going through the series of breathing and muscle relaxation exercises that had kept her sane and in control for the last ten years. The pool was deserted. The steady rain continued to fall outside. Gray light from the floor-to-ceiling windows matched Virginia's somber mood. Everything was ready for her escape. The plan finalized, a bag packed and in the back of her closet, the funding secured and hidden away, the ace-in-the-hole safe at the Hempstead. Now came the waiting. For the plane ticket from Andrew Hayden, for Morgan to leave for Washington. She had to hang together for only one more day.
Her wet bare feet padded softly on the white pool deck. She reached for the terry robe and her breath caught in her throat. The chipped red acrylic fingernail lay on the patio table next to her own black hair band. The nail hadn't been there when she started her swim.
Had Clarissa managed to somehow get out of the Hempstead Hotel and make her way back here? Was the stupid bitch after the cash in her purse? Her clothes and jewelry? Anger rose in Virginia. She was just about to call out Clarissa's name when she stopped. Had someone else put the nail on the table? Dalton? Santos?
Virginia did a slow scan of the pool area. She always kept the lights off when she swam alone, preferring the natural light from the windows. The lapping water threw gray shadows dancing across the muted walls and deck. She could see no other movement, hear no other sound. That was no assurance that someone wasn't there watching. Virginia slipped into the robe, snatched up the hair band and walked quickly from the room.
She could not relax until she had done a thorough search of her condo to be sure no one was lurking in closets or behind doors. Foolish, she thought to herself, but still, the fear would no subside until she was certain Clarissa had not come back, nor were any of Morgan's security staff suspicious.
To calm her jittery nerves, she decided to make herself a cup of herb tea. She had the water in the kettle and the teabag in the cup when she almost dropped and broke the fragile china. There, on the sink, was the cup Clarissa had used the night before, complete with lipstick stain on the rim. Virginia knew she had been careful to put all of the dishes in the dishwasher while Clarissa had been in the shower. She distinctly remembered putting the soap in the dispenser and starting the machine on the wash cycle. Or had she? She had been in a rush to get Clarissa out of the condo. Her mind reeled. Her heart pounded. Had Santos seen the cup last night? He hadn't said anything about it. Would he have or would he wait and tell Dalton or Morgan? Had Clarissa come back? If so, how did she inside? Where was she now?
The sudden whistling of the tea kettle shot her nerves to the ceiling. She fought down the urge to call Dusty at the Hempstead to make sure the bitch was where she ought to be. She struggled for emotional control, trying to calm herself with the breathing exercises. Everything would be fine. Calm down. Think. She repeated the litany over and over until she could pour water into a cup without shaking.
Virginia set the steaming cup of herb tea on the patio railing and looked out over the city. Lightning danced on the western horizon from another storm approaching from off the coast, and thunder rolled softly in the distance. The night air was cool and clean, almost sweet smelling. Virginia closed her eyes and imagined the Arizona desert around her where she grew up. She could see the millions of stars in a black sky and hear only the chirp of crickets instead of the Saturday night traffic on Wilshire Boulevard below.
Virginia had been sixteen when she left the reservation in northeastern Arizona. She had run away from the poverty and the control over her life that was suffocating, leaving behind the baby daughter that the tribal council refused to let her take with her off the reservation. Her own mother had done the very same thing. Her Hopi Indian mother eloped with an Irish gas station attendant in Flagstaff. When Virginia was born a year later, her grandmother and aunt, with the support from the council, took her away from her mother and raised her.
Here, at her journey's end, on the balcony of this high-rise condo, she looked back on a life that had been nothing but a long, tortuous climb out of the mire of poverty. She had given up her daughter, her pride, her dreams. There had been the four year scholarship to the University of California at Los Angeles, the degrees in business and computer technology, graduation in the top five percent of her class. Virginia had a future, a way to get her daughter off the reservation, a thirty thousand dollar a year job with a fledgling computer company that specialized in business software. Within a year, sales were in the millions.
Virginia stood by helplessly as one of the partner, Morgan Wolfe, drained the company dry in less than two years. She was twenty-four years old when she got her layoff notice from Wolfe and a job offer of sixty thousand a year to become his personal assistant. The offer was a simple one. She was to design software for his extensive business holdings, manage personal and business affairs, she had to be free to travel with him at a moment's notice, no outside personal relationships, and no children.
Virginia had fallen in love with twenty-seven year old Morgan Wolfe from the moment she first saw him at a business meeting at the computer company. She accepted his job offer and its conditions immediately. Always, she had thought that Morgan would marry her, she would finally tell him about her daughter Raylene, and he would let Virginia bring her to Los Angeles to live with them. Ten years later, she was desperate to escape.
The herb tea and the old memories calmed her nerves. The wet n
ight air felt good. She was reluctant to go back inside. Her thoughts went again and again to convincing herself that Morgan was not aware that she had his incriminating witness stashed away in a homeless shelter. Every time the doubts would surface, she would hit them with logic and reason.
He could not possibly know. She had left no trail. When he made love to her he was his usual passionless self, automatic and predictable, functional, nothing out of the ordinary. By his own insensitive nature, he could not possibly have sensed her nervousness. Or could he? There is where the doubt surfaced.
Virginia had gone over every detail of the afternoon a hundred times. What moves would have given her away? Would Morgan chalk it up to a mood swing or that she hadn't slept the night before? Did she pull off the lie to a master deceiver?
In the end, she believed that she was successful. That alone would sustain her until the plane ticket and cash arrived from Andrew Hayden tomorrow. The ticket would be untraceable by Morgan, no cash withdrawals would be evident from her personal accounts. It would be a neat and clean escape. Suddenly, she felt relieved and exhausted. It meant that she would probably get some descent sleep tonight. Only one more day. By Monday morning Morgan would be gone and she would be on her way to freedom.
She swigged down the last mouthful of the tea and turned toward the sliding glass door. The cup fell from her hand and smashed into pieces.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded but there was little strength in her voice and, with a sickening realization, she already knew the answer to her question.
"Morgan asked me to drop by," Marco grinned as he lolled against the door jam. "He wanted to make sure you're okay."
"That's bullshit," Virginia spat at him.
"Call it what you like."
"So I'm just fine. Now you can leave."
"You're hospitality sucks, Virginia," said Marco. "What is important is that you're here alone, and we can have a talk. We work for the same company and yet we don't get to talk much. We got a lot in common, you and me."
"We have nothing in common so why don't you just get the hell out of here?"
"I won't be here long."
Dread flooded through her and she struggled to keep her nerves steady and meet his leering stare. Of all the people she had met through her years with Morgan Wolfe, Marco Camponello was the one who most frightened her. Evil radiated off him like heat from shimmering desert mirage. He was fiercely loyal to Morgan and put the fear of God into anyone he met. He was a valuable asset in the terror he elicited and in the more loathsome duties that Morgan would entrust to him.
Marco was without a known past. He had appeared one day in Morgan's employ about eight years ago. Virginia always shuddered at the memory of that first meeting. He had torn her open with his eyes, and she recoiled inwardly at the clamminess of his handshake. She threatened to quit her job if Morgan kept him on. Morgan smiled at her and told her that if she thought about quitting, Marco would talk her out of it. Virginia never mentioned quitting again but Marco purposely avoided her.
Now the doubts exploded in her. Morgan knew. Somehow she had given herself away. The fingernail, the cup. Marco's presence her on her balcony confirmed the worst of her fears.
"Let's go inside," he said. He stepped aside and motioned to her.
Virginia eased past him, staying as far away from him as she could. He made no move to touch her, but merely slid the glass patio door closed and locked it, then drew the drapes. When he turned back to her she was at the small desk in the alcove between the living room and the kitchen, the phone in her hand. In two quick steps he was at Virginia's side and slammed down her hand with the receiver on the telephone. She looked at him, startled.
"Who were you going to call?" he demanded.
"Morgan," she replied, her hands shaking. "You have no right to be here. I don't believe that Morgan knows you're here."
"Have you ever known me to disobey Morgan Wolfe?" Marco asked and the grin widened on his face as he pressed closer to her. He held her hand firmly under his on the telephone receiver. "I do what he tells me. If I were you, I'd do what he wants you to do."
"Morgan usually asks me himself."
"Tonight he sent me."
Marco let go of her hand and she pulled away from him. He turned away and wandered around the living room poking into the fireplace and looking in vases and decanters. He walked the floor, peering at the carpet, in corners, and behind bookcases.
"What are you looking for?" Virginia demanded.
"Nothing in particular," he told her. "Just waiting for you."
"For what?"
"You know what, Virginia. We both know. Morgan knows or he wouldn't have sent me." He paused, staring her down, watching for the slightest sign of nervousness that would weaken her. "Tell me where she is and I'll leave."
"What are you talking about?"
"Clarissa Hayden."
"So she didn't come home last night. Big deal. Morgan doesn't expect me to keep track of his women. That's not part of my job. I wouldn't do it anyway. I could care less about any of them. I can't stand most of them."
"But you do know where Clarissa is."
"I don't, Marco," she screamed at him. "I hope she left him."
"Maybe she did. You'd like that, wouldn't you? You get rid of one, he gets another. He puts you back on the shelf. Good old used up Virginia. Trades you in for some new blood. Prettier than you, younger than you, sexier than you."
"Go to hell, Marco."
Marco grinned, running a purplish tongue over uneven teeth. He was getting to her. He knew all the buttons to push. This would be an easy job.
"Let's talk about the company, Ginny," Marco sank into the sofa and put his feet up on the beveled glass topped coffee table. He gazed at her under his heavy eyelids and slowly scraped his boot's buckle across the glass. His dark eyes bored into Virginia as she stood near the fireplace.
"What about it?"
"The company has had a few resignations recently. Avery Roth, Byron Roth, Virginia Essex."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"You know Morgan can sense when a business is out of harmony. Just last month he sensed that in Roth Galleries. Something wasn't right, he told me. Got to get that business back on track, he said. Then there was that awful robbery and Avery Roth shot. Too bad, you know. Morgan told me that Avery was planning to leave the company. Couldn't take the pressures, Morgan said. Died too soon."
Marco scraped the buckle on his boot back across the glass top table. The high squeal made Virginia's nerves ache but she stood rooted to the carpet, her eyes never leaving Marco's face.
"Then Byron, you know," Marco went on, "had a ticket in his pocket for Singapore when I went to talk to him. Said he needed a vacation. Probably did too, after the robbery and his brother being shot and killed. Poor guy. I told him he better come and talk to Wolfe about it. Set up the meeting for last night at the house. You had left, of course. Maybe you heard about it?"
Virginia said nothing. Marco waited, analyzing the fear behind her eyes, the slight curl of her lip that she herself was completely unaware. Marco smiled.
"Poor Byron," Marco shook his head in mock sympathy. "Morgan felt sorry for the guy. Under so much stress. Morgan gave him his vacation. Don't expect Byron back from Singapore for a while. He needed a lot of rest."
"What does this have to do with me?" Virginia said, trying to swallow the phlegm that persisted at the back of her throat and broke her voice. "I had nothing to do with Roth Galleries. So Byron's on vacation. So what?"
"Morgan senses that something is wrong closer to home. Clarissa disappearing last night, you all uptight. Morgan just wanted to know if you were alright. Maybe the stress of your job was getting to you.
"I'm fine, Marco," Virginia said. "I just didn't sleep last night. I'm exhausted. I worked all morning in the office. I need to get some sleep. So why don't you leave and let me do that?"
"Morgan thought you might have had another job offer somewhere. Maybe y
ou talked it over with Clarissa yesterday. Maybe she called you last night. Maybe she was here."
"There is no other offer, Marco. Tell that to Morgan. I don't discuss my job or my life with his women. Tell him that, too."
"If you're lying, you're dead."
Marco rose from the sofa and started for the front door. Virginia allowed herself a little feeling of relief, but there would be no release until Marco was out of the building. Suddenly, Marco turned abruptly and stalked toward the bedroom.
"Now what?" Virginia tried to keep the panic from her voice.
"Forgot to check in here," he called over his shoulder. "Told Mister Wolfe I'd check out your place. I got to do my job. Then I'm outta here. 'Course, maybe you got Clarissa stashed in here. Then I'll be staying awhile."
Virginia followed him to the bedroom door. She tried to keep her eyes off the bed where she had carefully concealed Clarissa's jewelry. Marco was going over the bathroom, down on his hands and knees, searching every inch of the floor, the shower, toilet, and vanity table. Virginia held her breath. She had cleaned it thoroughly, removed every trace that Clarissa had showered in there.
"What day does your cleaning people come?" Marco asked.
"I don't have a cleaning crew. I do it myself. Morgan had never allowed me to have servants unless he approves them. I couldn't stand any he sent so I don't have any."
"You do a good job," Marco said as he snapped off the bathroom light and began pulling out the bureau drawers in the bedroom. Virginia tensed and her hands balled into fists at her side. Marco pushed aside everything in the drawers and ran his hand expertly under the bottom of each one. He moved to the closet, checked each garment, purses, shoes, boxes, pockets. Satisfied, he searched under the bed, pulled the bedding off and ran his hand around for any new tears or seams. He pulled up the box spring and Virginia's stomach turned over. Marco ran a practiced eye over the coils and let the mattress back down.
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