Blood Double

by Neil Mcmahon

  Just off shore, he could see the dragon-prowed Viking boat that had brought the dignitaries here from San Francisco, rocking slowly with the sea’s easy chop.

  The car drove past the house, down a slope, around to the rear. First-story windows showed a professional kitchen inside, with white-jacketed staff busily preparing food on the long stainless-steel tables. Monks could hear music now, a jazzy live sound from the upper stories.

  But that was where the party stopped. Here below, it was dark and deserted. A garage door set into the basement opened automatically. The car drove into a spacious parking area supported by concrete pilasters. The door closed behind them.

  Hearne and the driver got out. The driver opened the door for Monks.

  “You stay in the car,” Hearne said to Larrabee. The driver waited too, taking up the watchful attitude of standing guard.

  Hearne walked Monks into the house’s basement, down a hall, and into a windowless room. Monks recognized the electronic panels, numbered by zone, of a sophisticated security system. A bank of video screens set into one wall showed what was happening in different areas of the property: the front gate, the entrance to the house itself, the kitchen, and several views of the party, with the elegant guests mingling, drinking champagne, and dancing to the music of the orchestra.

  Monks was not surprised to find Kenneth Bouldin, in black tie and dinner jacket, standing in front of the video screens, waiting.

  “Dr. Monks,” Bouldin said. “You look like you’ve had a rough night.”

  Hearne unlocked Monks’s cuffs. He flexed his hands, numb from constriction. Hearne stepped back and stood with hands on hips, coat unbuttoned—shoulder holster and pistol butt clearly visible.

  Bouldin picked up a remote control and flicked on several video screens that had remained blank. These showed bed and bathrooms. Most were unoccupied. One offered a glimpse of a seated woman’s high-heeled shoes and uncovered knees, poking primly out past a toilet partition.

  And in one luxurious suite, Lex Rittenour, washed, shaved, and dressed in evening clothes, was standing with his hands at his sides like a little boy, while Audrey Cabot, severely beautiful in a long sleeveless gown, tied his tie.

  “Lex is going to make a brief appearance tonight to quell those ugly rumors,” Bouldin said. “He called us to come get him. He got scared, all alone out there in the big world. Realized he was going to be needing drugs. Then some homeless people kicked him down and took his money.”

  There was going to be a lot of screw-cap wine drunk in some San Francisco alley tonight, Monks thought. On the screen, Audrey stepped back, surveying Lex. He looked cowed. His rebellion and his adventure were over.

  “He told me the whole story of what’s been happening,” Bouldin said. “The appalling research that was done. The murder attempts on him, and on you. Dr. Monks, I give you my word. I did not know anything about any of it until tonight.”

  Monks said, “You can’t seriously expect me to believe that.”

  Bouldin smiled thinly. “It confirmed something I’ve suspected. Bits and pieces that have been adding up. You and I have an enemy in common: Ron Tygard. He’s been playing some kind of Machiavellian game. Corporate intrigue, triple-crosses, wheels within wheels, like on TV. Thinks he’s G. Gordon Liddy.”

  Monks recalled his glimpse of Tygard a few hours earlier, clasped in the embrace of Audrey Cabot’s silken thighs. Climbing the corporate ladder, on an inside track.

  And startlingly cold-blooded, if he had engineered Gloria Sharpe’s murder at just about that same time.

  “He set up that assault on you, then called me to cover it,” Hearne said gruffly. “I wouldn’t have allowed it.”

  Monks was familiar with the military thirty-second apology. He was impressed: This one had taken less than half that.

  “Things can be very simple when each of you has something the other wants,” Bouldin said. “Like with Lex and me tonight. So here’s what you want. I’ll see to it that Tygard doesn’t cause either of us any more trouble. I’ll guarantee your safety, and I’ll send you home rich. No quibbling from you this time.”

  “And I just let this all go away?”

  “Essentially. Yes.”

  “But it’s not simple at all,” Monks said. “It’s an atrocity. The outrage will scorch the planet.”

  “Appalling,” Bouldin said again. Monks got the sense that he was studying the effect of his own voice. “I’d make reparation if it were possible. But—you must understand, the legal implications prohibit any such thing. It would be an admission of responsibility.”

  The apology and veneer of civility did not conceal the coldness far back in his eyes. Monks realized that for Bouldin, this was not even about money. It was about something Monks himself could not fathom. Perhaps it did come close to the desire to be a god.

  “You’re leaving out the criminal element,” Monks said. “I don’t know if those abortions would be considered murder, but they’re certainly in that court.”

  “I’ll remind you, I had nothing to do with any of it,” Bouldin said. “Neither did Aesir Corporation. It was Tygard and that doctor, Ostrand.”

  “They worked under your auspices,” Monks said. “The Aesir gods are going down. And you’ll be at the longboat’s helm.”

  “It would be expensive for us, in the short term,” Bouldin agreed. “It would stop the IPO. But then—” Bouldin raised a hand, the same gesture he had made from the deck of the Viking ship to dismiss the crowd of reporters. “The dust of that outrage would settle. The market for REGIS would be unchanged. Sharpened, if anything, by proof of a practical application. We’d drop back a little, quietly regroup, and bring it out under another name.”

  It was chilling. Mainly because it was true.

  “So you see, Dr. Monks, you’re contemplating a noble gesture that wouldn’t do anyone any good. But, I’m afraid, would cause you grief. You, and—most regrettably—your daughter.”

  Monks stepped quickly toward him, hand rising to reach for his throat. But Hearne moved in between them like a boxing referee.

  “My daughter is not to be a part of this in any way,” Monks said.

  “But she already is.” Bouldin did not step back. “She knows about the research. Knows that someone shot at her father. And Lex says she’s something of a crusader. Now, none of that’s a problem. I have no intention of harming either of you. I just want to be sure that she doesn’t do anything impulsive.

  “Bring her here. Now.”

  Monks’s rage flared, but with it came a jolt of elation, making him almost giddy. From the instant he had seen the flashing blue lights, he had feared that Martine, after all, had lost her nerve; had called Bouldin, and told him where Monks and Larrabee would be.

  But then Bouldin would know that Stephanie was with her.

  “You’ll both stay here in comfort tonight,” Bouldin said. “Tomorrow, after trading’s closed, I’ll send you home, with her medical education paid for and plenty besides.”

  “She stays out of this,” Monks said harshly. “We’re going to take it public. If what you’ve said is true, you won’t go to jail.”

  Bouldin listened with the air of a school principal hearing a child’s excuse.

  “Let me give you a gesture of good faith,” he said.

  He half-bowed, politely gesturing Monks ahead. Monks walked warily to a heavy steel door, like a bank vault, at the far end of the room. Bouldin opened it and stepped aside.

  It revealed a concrete-walled chamber with a drain in the center of the floor. Ronald Tygard, hog-tied and gagged with duct tape, was on his knees. He looked up at them, wild-eyed, and jerked at his bonds in a sort of hopping motion, trying to stand or flee.

  Bouldin nodded to Hearne.

  Hearne stepped into the room, drawing from inside his coat an old-fashioned .38 police special with worn bluing. He placed his right foot on Tygard’s neck, forcing him face down on the floor. Then he leaned over, put the gun to the back of Tygard’s he
ad, and fired. The sharp blast of sound echoed from the dense walls, bringing Monks’s feet right off the floor.

  Tygard jerked forward, his face twisting like a cat’s that Monks had once seen caught in a car fan. Hearne fired again.

  Bouldin made the same polite bow, ushering Monks away.

  “Our common enemy is gone,” Bouldin said. “I don’t want to harm you, or your daughter, Dr. Monks. But if I did—how long do you think you could hide?”

  They walked back to the security room, with Hearne and his gun following. Bouldin handed Monks a phone.

  “Call her,” Bouldin said.

  Monks punched Stephanie’s cell phone number.

  Her “Hello?” was cautious, apprehensive.

  Monks said, “Steffie, start calling news desks. Tell them what we found out. Right now.”

  Hearne placed the gun barrel against the back of Monks’s neck, a hard cold ring just below the foramen magnum. Bouldin pulled the phone out of his hand.

  “If you do that, Miss Monks,” Bouldin said. “I promise you, you won’t be seeing your father again. Now tell me where you are.”

  Monks yelled, “No!”

  Monks waited, through the slowest and clearest seconds of his life, for that tiny muscular contraction of Mickey Hearne’s forefinger.

  Bouldin grimaced and pushed Hearne’s hand down.

  “Let’s negotiate,” Bouldin said to Monks, the businessman again. “There’s no point in both of us losing.”

  Monks took the phone back. This time, it was Martine’s voice on the other end.

  “Are you all right?” she demanded.

  “So far.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “They found us.”

  “Who’s ‘they?’”

  “An old friend of yours.”

  “Oh, no. Ken?”

  “Yes.”

  Voice charged with anger, she said, “Put him on.”

  Monks offered the phone to Bouldin. “Dr. Rostanov,” Monks said. He had the grim satisfaction of seeing surprise, then wariness, come into Bouldin’s eyes.

  Bouldin jerked the phone from Monks’s hand.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Bouldin said icily.

  Her reply was loud enough for Monks to hear through the receiver. “I swear to god, Ken, if you hurt these people, I’m going to be a nightmare you can’t imagine!”

  “No one’s going to get hurt if you behave sensibly,” Bouldin said soothingly. “Where are you? I’ll have someone pick you up.”

  “You think because you fucked me you own me? I’ll rip your eyes out.”

  Bouldin winced again. “This can be overlooked, my dear. Think about all you’d be giving up,” he said, but his voice was losing its confidence.

  Monks caught Bouldin’s wrist and clamped down hard. This time Hearne did not interfere. Monks twisted the phone free, still gripping Bouldin’s struggling hand.

  “Remember those lines you crossed,” Monks said to Martine. “You have to hold this time. It’s everything.”

  “I’m holding,” she said fiercely. “I’m holding what I found.”

  “Get out of there and keep moving,” Monks said. “If you don’t hear from me in one hour, start making those calls.”

  For a few more seconds, Monks listened to the sound of her breathing.

  Then he let go of Bouldin and side-armed the phone hard against the concrete wall. Its plastic case cracked and it skittered across the floor. Bouldin backed away, rubbing his wrist, with an ugly look on his face.

  “She’ll come back,” Bouldin said. “Just like Lex.”

  “The stain’s spread too wide already,” Monks said. “Too many bodies to hide. How are you feeling, Captain?” he said, swiveling to face Hearne. “One woman murdered already. A couple more on the list. Along with a good cop.”

  Hearne shifted his shoulders, not in a shrug, but in the quick, angry movement of a man trying to shake off an intolerable truth.

  Bouldin turned slowly, his head twisting so that he was half-looking at Monks over his shoulder. It gave the odd sense of a marionette with a single string being pulled.

  “What woman?” he said.

  “Another one to blame on Tygard?” Monks said contemptuously.

  “What woman?”

  Monks blinked. He had not sensed much that was genuine from Kenneth Bouldin, but this had that ring.

  “Gloria Sharpe,” he said. “Walker Ostrand’s assistant.”

  The rest of Bouldin turned. “When did this happen?”

  “I found her a couple of hours ago,” Monks said. “In her shop, South of Market. Somebody came to get her body and set the place on fire.”

  Bouldin’s gaze swung the other way, fast this time, fixing Hearne.

  Hearne shook his grizzled head emphatically. “It wasn’t us.” He was looking angrier by the minute.

  “Is this some kind of a ploy, Monks?” Bouldin said. “A move to distract us?”

  “You can smell the smoke on me, for Christ’s sake.”

  Bouldin wheeled and strode toward the metal door. Monks watched, surprised, and then astounded, when it opened to show Ronald Tygard flopping around, struggling against his bonds and snarling through the gag.

  The shots had been blanks.

  Bouldin crouched and roughly pulled the duct tape gag loose.

  “You son of a bitch!” Tygard shouted. His eyes were wild with rage and fear. “I didn’t try to kill Lex! I didn’t set up the hit on him.” His head jerked to indicate Monks.

  “If you lie to me on this one, I really will have you shot,” Bouldin warned. “What do you know about a woman named Gloria Sharpe?”

  “I never fucking heard of her! Let me go!”

  Bouldin slammed the door, cutting Tygard’s despairing yell to silence.

  Bouldin took a hard plastic rectangle from his coat pocket. It was just bigger than a credit card, with an LCD readout.

  “We use an internal email system for high-security communications,” Bouldin said. “You access with one of these, connected to the company mainframe. It assigns you a new code every time. It’s almost impossible to hack somebody else’s personal channel.

  “But Tygard claims that I authorized the assault on you, using my code. He swears it was my voice. But I didn’t give that order, Monks. I didn’t know it had happened until after the fact. So I assumed that Tygard was lying.”

  If not, it implied someone who could hack an elaborate firewall. Copy a voice. Manipulate the company’s clandestine operations. All the while, staying hidden behind the scenes. There were probably dozens of employees at a place like Aesir with that level of technical skill. But the “someone” had to have one more element: a reason to commit murder. Judging from the targets, that reason was self-defense—eliminating those who were out to expose him, or her, or them.

  “I’m assuming you’re all lying,” Monks said. “But somebody tried to murder Lex. Probably murdered Walker Ostrand. Very definitely, Gloria Sharpe. If it wasn’t Tygard and it wasn’t you, you’ve got a killer loose in the house. It’s time to open this up, Bouldin. Your worries go way beyond me now.”

  He watched Bouldin’s reaction tensely, trying to read if this was still a bluff intended to make Monks drop his guard. If so, Bouldin was playing it well. He looked confused now, even frightened.

  “What do you suggest?” Bouldin said.

  Monks was not going to give up the information about Kwon: Kwon could be eliminated, and the prostitutes intimidated into silence. That had to go to someone who could be trusted.

  “Look for whoever was in on the research with Walker Ostrand,” Monks said. “Find out who hired him, who funded him, who had contact with him. The records have probably been wiped out, but your specialists should be able to recover them.”

  Bouldin hesitated, but then started punching keys on his handheld computer.

  “Now you can tell me,” Monks said to Hearne. “How did you locate us tonight?”

&nbs
p; “Lex described the van you were using. We had units patrolling the hospital area. One of them spotted you.”

  Monks exhaled. It was like in the ER: You could do a thousand things right, but all it took was one piece of bad luck.

  A small beep sounded. A video monitor above the door to the hallway showed someone approaching: Audrey Cabot.

  Hearne looked at Bouldin. “You want to keep this private?”

  “Audrey can keep a secret,” Bouldin said. “Let her in.”

  Hearne stepped to the door and opened it. Audrey’s floor-length gown was rose-colored silk, adorned with a diamond necklace that would have graced a queen. Her skin was like alabaster and her gaze like frost. Monks could not help picturing the recent object of her affections, now hog-tied and thrashing in his cell only a few yards away.

  “What are you doing here?” she said to Monks.

  “Ms. Cabot,” he said. “I admire your style.”

  Her eyes narrowed, that same stiletto look he had seen through the binoculars, but then she ignored him, turning to Bouldin.

  “Lex is ready to mingle with the crowd,” she said. “He’s shaky. Let’s stay close with him and keep it short.”

  Bouldin said, “Do you know the name Walker Ostrand?”

  She frowned. “Not offhand. What about him?”

  “He was a subcontractor. I want to know who hired him. Where he came from.”

  “Ken, I am not an employment service. I have no idea. If it’s not absolutely urgent right now, I’m babysitting a billion dollars up there.”

  Bouldin nodded curtly. “I’ll be right up.” Audrey stalked out of the room.

  Perhaps ninety seconds later, with Bouldin working at his keyboard again, the intercom clicked on. A man’s voice said:

  “Mr. Bouldin, Lex Rittenour’s been shot. We need a doctor up here quick.” The strain came through the voice, even with the static, as with paramedics in the field.

  Bouldin closed his eyes and lowered his face into his hands, a gesture so defeated that Monks almost felt sorry for him.

  Monks said, “Get me to Lex.”

  On his way to the door, he paused to look Mickey Hearne in the face.