by Tim Tigner
She imagined what they’d do to Chewie—and shut the door. She would not tell him what she’d discovered. Not tonight, and maybe not ever. Her life wasn’t perfect, but it could get a whole lot worse. She could be alone and responsible for the death of the only man she’d loved.
Still, she needed to share. The discovery was too big to keep bottled up.
Vicky made her way to the small vanity table in the other stateroom and sat before the mirror at the oblique angle casual conversations often assumed. After spending a decade conversing daily with her paraplegic mother, one arduous letter at a time, Vicky had become an expert at anticipating what Priscilla would say. So much so, that she found it easy to continue their nightly ritual even after her mother had passed.
“Mom, I figured it out. I know who’s trying to kill me.”
“Congratulations, dear. How’d you do that?”
“I landed on the profession first. An obvious one in hindsight, but one that never occurred to me, probably because there’s no connection to science and I have no interest in it. They’re lawyers, mom.”
“Makes sense, but there are a million of those. How did you identify the individual?”
“I did a search for most expensive lawyers. As you’d expect, there’s a huge range. Rural and small-town lawyers charge $100 to $200 per hour. In major metropolitan areas, $200 to $400 is more typical. Specialists can charge twice that amount, Manhattan divorce attorneys or Silicon Valley intellectual property experts, for example. The top firms in the biggest cities now charge $1,000 an hour for their senior partners. And then there’s Resseque Rogers Sackler & Slate.”
“Who are they?”
“RRS&S is a boutique firm in New York City.”
“Boutique?”
“Just four partners. Colton Resseque, James Rogers, Walter Sackler, and Scarlett Slate. Three men and a woman.”
“What’s their rate?” her mother asked with a knowing smile.
“They charge $2,400 per hour. That’s $40 a minute, if you can believe it.”
“That’s an encouraging sign, but it’s far from definitive.”
“Agreed,” Vicky said, smiling in the mirror. “But that’s just the start. At RRS&S, they have just one associate per partner. That’s very unusual because it’s less profitable. Other leading New York firms have up to seven.”
“So they’re leaving money on the table, but they also have less hectic schedules.”
“Right.”
“Meanwhile, when a client hires them, he knows that the named partner he’s paying for is actually doing the work.”
“Exactly.”
“A named partner who has the record of a mind-reader.”
“A perfect record,” Vicky emphasized. “If they accept your case, a win is virtually guaranteed by historical precedent.”
“So even at $2,400 an hour, wealthy clients are lining up. That’s compelling but not conclusive.”
“Agreed. The clincher is their trademark.”
“Their trademark? I don’t follow.”
Vicky pointed to her glasses. “The partners all wear the same eyewear. Classic horn-rimmed glasses.”
Mother nodded. “You’re right. That seals it. And by the way, your Pradas look much better, dear.”
“Thank you. I tend to agree.” Vicky laughed at herself. She was feeling giddy. She should join Chewie in bed, but her mind was too wound up to sleep.
And she had lots of work to do.
Identifying her opponent was just the first step in her journey to freedom. The easiest step, she was starting to realize. In fact, once she’d focused on the law as a field where mind-readers could excel, it had taken her only a few hours to lock in on RRS&S for the reasons she’d just recited.
Of course, her opponents would be aware of their discoverability. Therefore, they would assume that after Vance botched his job and tipped their hand, the hunt would be a two-way street. In response, they would likely have raised their defenses and redoubled their offensive efforts.
Her situation was even more precarious than it had previously appeared.
But what was she to do about it?
Offense seemed out of the question. What could one bioengineer do against four high-powered New York City attorneys? That question led to another mystery. How had four lawyers come to possess the technology? Developing it required a highly specific skillset and a very focused effort. A bioengineering effort. But Resseque, Rogers, Sackler and Slate had all gone to Harvard Law School. In fact, the three men had been classmates. Slate had graduated from Harvard Law two years earlier in 1997.
Tasked by that perplexing question, Vicky finally felt the tug of sleep. She yawned and decided to look into the lawyers’ backgrounds the next day.
And buttress her defenses. Their disappearance appeared to have been clean. She was still alive. Intuition had served her well in that decision. But as the partners of RRS&S redoubled their efforts to find her, she’d have to triple hers to hide.
While putting her head down beside Chewie’s, it struck Vicky that there was one obvious move. The mere thought of it pained her. The injustice was almost overwhelming.
First, an explosion had stolen her status as the daughter of two distinguished Caltech professors. Then, the risk posed by her breakthrough invention had robbed her of glory and her rightful place in history. Now, in the name of safety, her identity would suffer the ultimate blow.
Vicky buried her face in the pillow and screamed.
She needed to change her name.
21
The Guy
VICKY HIT CHEWIE with her big decision as they munched conch fritters at the Royal Jamaica Yacht Club. “You know I’ve been on edge lately. Not really myself.”
“That’s completely understandable. If someone had sent a professional assassin after me, I’d be…distracted too.”
“I’m so glad you understand, because I’ve come to a decision in that regard.”
Chewie put down his fork. “Okay.”
“I’ve become convinced that we did the right thing by disguising our escape route and then disappearing on a yacht. But the more I think about it, the more I’m worried that’s not enough.”
“Really?”
Chewie’s tone left Vicky sorely tempted to reach for her Pradas. “You sound surprised.”
“To be honest, I was thinking about returning to Vegas and reviving REVELATIONS.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. You were well on your way to becoming a headline act. A legend in your own time. And at a young age. That’s a one-in-a-hundred-million opportunity. I understand your security concerns. I really do. But we can work around those. Basil and the Bellagio are clearly willing to help.”
“They are?”
“Yes. They put out the word on the street that the assassin sent for you met with his own untimely and most unpleasant demise. You’re protected.”
“Mob style?” Vicky said, as much a statement as a question.
“A made woman,” Chewie said in an upbeat tone.
“So you’ve been in contact with Basil?”
Chewie reddened. “He emailed me to see how you were. One thing led to another.”
“What does he know regarding our location?”
“Nothing, Vic. It didn’t even come up.”
“If you’re going to stay with me, I need you to stop emailing. Close your account. Email can be used to trace people.”
“If I’m going to stay with you?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it came out. Please close your account, for my sake.”
Chewie fidgeted with his fork then popped a conch fritter into his mouth. He was buying time to think.
Vicky spent the strained silence regretting her decision not to read his mind.
“What has you so concerned?” he finally asked. “Did you hear something? Remember something?”
Vicky realized she could no longer hide her fear. The best she could do was keep it vague. “Th
ere’s no reason to think that whoever hired the first guy won’t hire a second.”
“I can think of a few.”
“Can you?”
“Sure. For starters, tempers cool. People move on. Time is the ultimate emotional solvent.”
“Okay, I buy that. But what if it was someone or some organization who thinks psychics are satanic? Can the Bellagio protect me from a jihad? Can you?”
Vicky immediately regretted her last quip. It had just slipped out. She had to repress his misplaced feelings of guilt, not feed them. Chewie didn’t know what she knew. And he’d been tolerating a lot of behavior that undoubtedly looked irrational if one wasn’t in her head. “I’m sorry. That absolutely was not fair. You’ve been so supportive and I’ve been so…complicated.”
“No need to apologize. I’ve never been in your shoes, and you make a valid point. Plus I cut you off.”
“You did?”
“Back at the beginning, when discussing our disappearance, you said you didn’t think what we’d done was enough. Then I interjected my thoughts about reviving REVELATIONS. What else do you want us to do?”
Vicky took a deep breath. “I’m going to become a blonde and assume a false identity.”
Chewie struggled to remain impassive, and she loved him for that effort. “To ensure that the next assassin can’t track you down?”
“Exactly.”
It was Chewie’s turn for a deep breath, but he ate another conch fritter instead. “How does one acquire a false identity?”
Vicky wasn’t certain. “I assume the same way you buy illegal guns and drugs. You find a dealer.”
“Makes sense. How do we do that?”
She liked his choice of pronoun. “We visit cheap owner-operated bars. The kind motorcycle gangs would hang out at if islands had motorcycle gangs, then we ask the bartender.”
“Sailors.”
“No, the bartender.”
“I mean that islands have sailors instead of motorcycle gangs.”
“Yes. We ask around in sailor bars.”
Chewie rose. “Give me a minute.”
“Where you going?”
“To ask the bartender.”
“This is a yacht club.”
“With a local bartender. Be right back.”
Vicky returned to her lunch as Chewie walked off. She didn’t want to change her name, become a Brooke, Sienna, or Sasha. But she didn’t want to hire assassins either. She wasn’t that person, and she couldn’t afford it if she were. If $100,000 was the cost of a contract on her life, killing the four big-shot NYC attorneys would probably cost more than half a million. She didn’t have nearly that much cash.
If she did, if she returned to Vegas and resumed REVELATIONS, she’d use the money for defense. Become a king and hope to build a castle before the marauders arrived, so to speak. But that wasn’t a Victoria Pixler tactic. Or a Quinten Bacca tactic. They were a pair of dolphins up against four sharks. Given that she didn’t see herself or Chewie transforming into a killer whale anytime soon, their smart move was to maintain a low profile and an ocean of separation.
Chewie returned as she was wiping her mouth before a clean plate. He was wearing a smile.
“Don’t tell me you got a name?”
“The marina’s maintenance guy says there’s a guy you go to for that.”
“Great. Where is he?”
“He didn’t know.”
“Is he here in Jamaica?”
“No, he’s pretty sure he’s on another island.”
“Okay. What’s this guy’s name?”
“The maintenance man didn’t know that either.”
Vicky was perplexed. “Why, exactly, are you smiling?”
“Because we’ve confirmed that he exists.”
Vicky remained confused. “I thought we’d already assumed as much.”
Chewie rephrased. “What he’s saying is that there’s a guy. The guy. One top guy serving the whole Caribbean whom the natives all know about.”
“Except nobody knows who or where he is?”
“Not nobody, just this particular bartender and maintenance man. Anyway, now that we know the guy exists, I’m sure we can find him.”
22
Information Arsenal
CHASE SLID OUT from behind their dining table and stood to stretch his legs while Skylar continued to study her laptop. He was frustrated and more than a little nervous. His sense of unease had been growing like a tumor since Scarlett Slate first walked into their St. Croix courthouse conference room.
“I’m just not seeing anything connecting Slate to the narcotics trade,” he blurted in frustration, half to Skylar, half to the sea.
They’d researched each case referenced on the Resseque Rogers Sackler & Slate website. They’d scoured PACER, the federal government’s Public Access to Court Electronic Records system. And they’d been through every RRS&S case on file with the courts in New York City. Nothing revealed a link to the narcotics trade or a cartel kingpin. The closest was work for pharmaceutical companies and medical industry executives, but those were all in the wrong league, starched shirts and glass towers, not side arms and escape tunnels.
Skylar said nothing.
Chase continued venting. “They’ve represented plenty of cheats and reprobates. Jeffrey Epstein and Bernie Madoff types. But no gang or mafia members. Basically, their clientele are all rich white folk, like the Porters.”
Skylar continued to ignore him.
“Are you listening?”
“I think I found it,” Skylar mumbled, her eyes remaining riveted to the screen.
Feeling a flash of excitement, Chase stretched to look over her shoulder.
“Clayton Millstone versus Claire Millstone? A divorce case?”
Skylar finally finished scrolling and turned his way. “Claire Millstone used to be Claire Porter. She’s Kitty Porter’s daughter. Scarlett Slate’s partner, Colton Resseque, represented her—last year in New York.”
That answered the Porter-Slate connection question, but it didn’t add anything helpful beyond. “What business is Clayton Millstone in?”
“He’s an investment banker specializing in the energy sector.”
No help there.
Chase took a deep breath. Maybe Skylar was seeing something he’d missed. “Where does this leave our search for the source of Slate’s information?”
Skylar shrugged. “At a dead end—for now. What do you want to do next?”
Chase stared out across the water. “I was thinking about a swim.”
“It’s one o’clock in the morning and we’re in the middle of the ocean.”
As a security precaution, they had stopped docking at marinas overnight, choosing to anchor far offshore instead.
“The moon’s out, and I need to burn off some frustration before thinking about sleep.”
“How about we motor in for a jog?”
“We?”
“Sure. I’m always up for a run. Then we’ll motor back out and sleep in.”
They were off Pine Cay, a privately-owned island in the Turks and Caicos that boasted just a few dozen homes and an exclusive resort. They’d found a delightful trail for that morning’s sunrise jog.
Twenty minutes later, as they tromped through the forest for which the cay was named, Chase blurted, “Maybe Sargon sold us out.” The notorious British thug had supplied the John and Joy Hughes identities they were using. The identities Scarlett Slate somehow knew were fake. “Why didn’t I think of that earlier?”
Skylar kept her eyes on the dimly lit trail. “I’m sure you did—and then dismissed it. He may be the obvious source of the identity leak, but he couldn’t have revealed any of the other information Slate knew.”
“You’re right. I did. My brain is fried. That said, now that we’ve exhausted our list of possible individuals, we need to consider that Slate may have pieced it together from multiple sources.”
“She hardly had time for that.”
“I
agree. But we’re thinking like mere mortals. Who knows what the research department of a powerful New York City law firm can accomplish—given the proper financial incentive.”
“You have a point.”
“Maybe I should interrogate Sargon.”
Skylar didn’t immediately respond.
Chase knew she was picturing the back-street British thug with his burly crew of enforcers. One of the big guys had cracked Chase on the back of the head with a sap during his last CIA mission. Knocked him out cold. Then apologized as if it were nothing.
“I think we need to carefully weigh the upsides versus the downsides of doing anything provocative with Sargon,” Skylar said.
“Good point.”
“It’s probably best not to remind a man like that of our existence. Especially to inquire about a sensitive question. He’s a shark, and you know what sharks do when they smell blood.”
“Another good point.”
The couple jogged on. Nights were dark in the coniferous forest, but without clouds, the moon and stars were bright enough to illuminate hazardous branches and roots. Chase found it entrancing, almost dreamlike, silently speeding through blackness with the filtered starlight above and a carpet of needles below.
“You know what we need to do?” Skylar asked as they completed the circle.
“Get breakfast?”
“We need to change yachts and change names.”
Chase had given both ideas some thought. “Scraping the name off the yacht will be sufficient, especially if I add a big blue bow stripe. Boats look so similar that little changes make a big visual impact.”
“Works for me. I’ve grown attached to our first home. What about us? Will a few tweaks do it?”
“You’d make a fetching redhead, and I could grow a stubble beard.”
“And our names?”
“We should probably change them—using someone other than Sargon.”
“Any idea who we could use?” Skylar asked, jumping a log.
“As a matter of fact, yes. There’s one guy who’s been the guy in the Caribbean for decades.”