by Meryl Sawyer
A ping-ping from another computer told him the audio analysis was finally complete. His operatives had been recording conversations in Tina Layton’s room with a parabolic microphone. Drug enforcement had developed the parabolic mike. Because it was employed from afar, it didn’t require a judge’s authorization the way a search warrant or a wire tap did. The parabolic system didn’t provide as clear a tape as more sophisticated devices.
A fact that Kilmer Cassidy had warned him about.
He’d argued—successfully—that patients were too often moved in hospitals as was equipment. They couldn’t count on sneaking in and relocating a bug in such a busy place. Now, he admitted, the risk might have been worth it.
Parabolics picked up the gurgle and burp of the machines in the hospital room, noise from the street, and every other sound imaginable. Drug enforcement had special agents who were trained to listen and interpret what was being said. They rarely had to contend with as much noise as was generated in a hospital, and junkies didn’t whisper.
The printer kicked into action and spit out a printed version of what was on the audiotape. It’s me. It’s Sammy.
Bingo!
Sammy had to be a nickname for the Robbins woman. The bitch had come to visit her sister—just as he’d known she would. A good disguise had gotten her by his operatives. The bitch had nine lives, but she wasn’t getting away from him this time. Samantha Robbins would appear again. When she did, his men would nab her.
Brock had planned to wait until his operatives had the broad in the secluded house he’d rented before he appeared on the scene. Considering what had happened last night, he decided to leave for Miami as soon as he could line up one of the Obelisk jets.
“I CAN’T WAIT,” Devon told Chad. “I want to see Tina now.”
“I know you do but you’re much safer when the angle of the sun hits the building across the street. I’ve studied the area. If someone is watching for you, that’s where they’ll be.”
“I guess you’re right,” she reluctantly agreed.
“Keep walking,” he told her. Unlike yesterday, Devon now needed to master the hunkered-over walk of an elderly woman. “Your cane is fitted with a knife. Just twist the handle and it will come apart.”
“I have the Sig Saur in my handbag”
“True, but you may not have time to get it out. And if someone jumps you, chances are they’ll be wearing a Kevlar vest. It’s bulletproof, but a knife will slash right through the material.”
“What if they’re not wearing Kevlar? Miami’s pretty hot to put a vest under your shirt. Wearing it on top would call attention to the person.”
“Good thinking. If they’re not wearing a vest, even better. Go for the heart.” He offered her his body. “Here, try it on me.”
It took several tries before Devon could pull out the knife and effectively lunge at him. She was good, but he knew she wouldn’t stand much of a chance with pros. She would be a distraction while he took care of them.
Chad had spent his time at the hospital analyzing the situation and deciding what he would do if he wanted to kill Devon. He’d watch the main entrance because it was the closest to ICU, and there was a reception desk there where visitors obtained information on patients. Opposite the entrance was a huge apartment building. That’s where he would hide. The other buildings were medical offices, which would be more difficult to use without being discovered.
A sharpshooter could hit anyone going into the building, but Chad didn’t think they would risk killing Devon at the hospital entrance. He was betting they would follow her and take her out someplace that they could get away from easily.
UNFUCKINGBELIEVABLE! All five of Obelisk’s jets were being used. No doubt Cassidy had gone to Hilton Head to play golf. Another jet was en route to the Caymans where Obelisk had numerous offshore accounts. The others were on top secret assignments, but one was due back at eight. By the time it refueled and flew him to Miami, it would be ten o’clock. His operatives should have the bitch by then.
While he killed time, waiting for the jet to return, he drove by Jordan’s condo. It was late afternoon, and he knew she wouldn’t be home yet. He’d pressed softened wax into Jordan’s front door. The expert locksmith Obelisk used had made him a key.
He parked his car down the street and watched the condo complex for a few minutes. No one came or left the building. It wasn’t very large—only twelve units. Jordan’s condo was on the top floor.
Brock left his car and walked to the building. He rang the buzzer by the J. Walsh nameplate. Nothing. He waited and rang again. Still, no answer.
He looked around to make certain no one was watching. He used the door key he’d had made to enter the building. Rather than risk meeting a tenant in the elevator, he raced up the stairs to the sixth floor.
There were two units on the penthouse level. Jordan’s faced the street. The other was occupied by a retired dentist who spent most of the winter at his place on the “redneck Riviera” outside Mobile.
Brock rang Jordan’s doorbell and waited. No one came to the door. He didn’t expect her to be home, but it never hurt to be careful. He inserted the key in the lock and opened the door.
“What in hell?”
The living room was empty except for a card table with a lamp next to the windows facing the street. He checked the kitchen. Nothing in the fridge. The cabinets were empty. He looked in the bedroom and closets. Zilch.
A disturbing thought waltzed up his spine like a snake. He’d been set up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
DEVON STOOD BESIDE her sister. Steven was sitting on the other side of the bed in a chair that was pulled as close as possible to Tina.
“You should have been here earlier. Tina’s sleeping now.”
It was late afternoon and the angle of the sun was low. Chad believed this might prevent anyone watching from across the street from spotting her. Disguised as an old woman, complete with makeup that made her skin appear wrinkled, Devon had taken a taxi to the hospital. Chad had driven behind her in the wreck. He’d disguised himself as a hospital technician. Chad was wearing green scrubs, had a stethoscope draped around his neck, and had an ID badge he’d made up at a copy shop pinned to his chest.
“I couldn’t get here any sooner,” Devon told her brother-in-law.
He grunted. She could tell the animosity was back. Now that Tina’s condition was improving, Steven didn’t feel so vulnerable.
“What did the doctor say about her condition?”
Steven quirked an eyebrow. “Which doctor? She’s got a dozen.”
“Give me a rundown. I’d like to know what all of them thought.”
“Bottom line, she’s getting better. It’ll take months and lots of physical therapy, but—”
“Tina’s going to recover.”
“Looks that way.”
“I’m so thankful. I’ve prayed—”
“Know what bums me?” Steven asked with a frustrated scowl. “An old man didn’t hit Tina. It was a young guy with a skull cap driving a Hummer.”
“A Hummer? I thought—”
“The witness has disappeared. Supposedly he was from Des Moines, but the police haven’t been able to locate him.”
“How do you know all this? Did Tina—”
“She was awake earlier. The detective investigating the case came by. She told him about the Hummer and the kid driving it.”
Suddenly her forehead felt tight and a dizzying tremor of panic gripped her. Chad was right. This was a trap. Tina had almost been killed—because of her. Even now, her sister was barely alive. It was her fault.
Despair and an overwhelming sense of defeat gripped her. She’d blotted out common sense with false hope. Rutherford and Ames had already ruthlessly murdered two people. Killing Tina wouldn’t have meant a thing to them.
Devon realized she should walk out and let them kill her. Right now, she couldn’t imagine how she could possibly escape without someone else dying because of her.
Her sister. Ariel. Chad.
The trial, she thought. If only she could stay alive until then. From the stand, she could let the world know the price of telling the truth.
“S-Sammy?” her sister called in a voice almost too low to be heard.
“Tina. I’m here.” She edged closer to the bed.
“W-w…where?”
Devon realized her sister didn’t recognize her. She pointed to her own chest. “It’s me. Sammy.”
“Y-you’re—”
Steven jumped to his feet, saying, “Don’t talk. It takes too much out of you. Let her talk to you.”
Devon took her sister’s hand, thinking how much better Tina looked. She was attached to more equipment than Devon cared to count, but they’d removed the oxygen clip and Tina’s bed was slightly elevated so she no longer appeared to be flat on her back and totally out of it.
“I came, Tina, the minute I heard you were in the hospital.” Devon gestured to her disguise. “You know it’s almost impossible for me to get away, but it didn’t matter. For you, I’d risk anything.”
Tina’s eyes were barely open, but tears seeped out of the corners. “I know. I’ve missed you so much.”
Devon caught her brother-in-law’s grimace. “Steven’s been here the whole time. He’s never left your side.”
Tina rotated her head a notch. “I—I know. That’s why I love…him.”
“She’s exhausted,” Steven told her. “Maybe you should come back later—”
“I can’t! I have to leave soon.”
“D-don’t…go,” cried Tina, her voice not more than a whisper.
“Let me do the talking,” Devon said. “There are things I need to tell you.”
Steven eyed her warily, but Tina bobbed her head.
“I’ve heard the trial will be soon. After I testify, I hope my life returns to normal.” She didn’t add that Rutherford and Ames had arranged for Tina’s accident or that they could still be a threat to Devon even from behind bars. “We can spend time together again—”
“W-w-wonder…ful. We need to see…each…other.”
“Of course, and I want to be with Ariel.”
Tina asked her husband, “Where is Ariel?”
“With the Overfelts. They took Ariel to the stable to ride her horse earlier today.”
“Good.” Tina moved her head to look directly at Devon. “Tell me…what’s…happening.”
What could Devon say? Nothing. She couldn’t reveal anything about where she was living or any personal information that could lead someone to her. The discrepancy between her sister’s account of the hit-and-run and the witness’s story warned Devon to be extremely careful. This room could be bugged. Every word she uttered could be used to target and kill her.
“I’m happy,” Devon told her sister with amazing honesty. “I have a new life.” She smiled at Tina even though she wasn’t positive her sister could actually see her clearly. Tina was heavily medicated and barely functioning. Still, this might be the only time they had for months to come. “I’ve met a man.”
“W-w-what about Tyler?”
Naturally she’d told Tina about her affair with Tyler. She’d never mentioned him since she’d left Houston.
“Tyler married someone else.”
“S-s-sorry…”
“Don’t be. It was for the best. I’ve met a great guy. You’re going to like him.”
Steven’s nose crinkled as if he’d smelled something rancid. Devon didn’t pay any attention to him.
BROCK SAT IN THE BACK of the luxurious Sikorsky S-76 and studied Jordan’s Web site. Sex in a basket. A cutesy pink basket filled with sex toys. Major kink in a bag. A lavender floral bag with a whip sticking out of it.
There wasn’t a clue on the site that told him who Jordan Walsh was or where she lived. The key, of course, was the Gull Wing. He had a call into Mercedes to see if they had an address.
His cell phone vibrated and he pulled it out of his pocket. He’d been in the air over an hour. Judging from the endless stretch of darkness below, they were somewhere over South Carolina.
“Brock Hardesty,” he answered in case it was someone from Stuttgart calling him about the Gull Wing.
“251 here.”
“Have you got her?”
“No, but she’s in with her sister. We can tell by the conversation.”
“Is she still wearing the baseball cap?” Brock avoided using “disguise.” The Sikorsky was a luxury helicopter that made little noise. He didn’t want to chance having the pilot overhear him.
“Ah…we’re not sure.”
“Why not?”
“We didn’t see her come into the hospital.”
Shit! 251 might be the master of disguise, but he wasn’t good at detecting them on others. “Was 77 monitoring the minicams?”
“Yes. He didn’t spot her, either.”
Brock’s operatives had placed inexpensive video cameras at the secondary entrances. Designed for spying on kids or the nanny, these cameras fit in the palm of his hand. Battery powered, they could be easily hidden in the trees and were difficult to spot unless someone knew to look for them. Their transmission was relayed to the monitoring station set up in the apartment building across from the main entrance.
“One of you hustle up to ICU and find out what she looks like.”
“I sent 77. He should be there by now.”
“Who else is in the hospital room?”
“Just the husband.”
“The next time I hear from you, I want you to tell me you have the bitch.” He hung up without another word.
The image of the man in the do-rag played across Brock’s mind. If the prick wasn’t in the hospital room, he must be hanging around nearby. What was he up to?
The phone vibrated again before Brock could put it away. It was the classic car specialist Mercedes kept on their staff in Stuttgart.
“I’m Hans Ziegler,” the man said in a clipped German accent. “You have a question about a Gull Wing.”
“Yes. I’m a collector. I have a red ’52 Gull Wing. I’m interested in acquiring a caper-green Gull Wing recently restored by Jordan Walsh.”
“Vat color?”
“Green. Specifically caper-green. It’s a one-of-a-kind Gull—”
“K-purr? Those little brown zings chefs use for garnish?”
“That’s right.”
“Not a Mercedes color.”
“I know,” he replied, trying not to sound too impatient. “This was a custom automobile. Jordan Walsh recently had it restored and Mercedes supplied the paint.”
“Impossible! All vintage restorations come through my office. We never shipped caper-green paint because we don’t have it. Never have. Never will.”
Brock thanked Ziegler and hung up.
The bitch had deliberately tricked him. Why? Why?
He stared out the helicopter’s window and thought about his night with Jordan Walsh. He’d blacked out from too much alcohol—something he’d never done before.
Was it possible Jordan had slipped something into his drink? He’d read about the date rape drug rohypnol, commonly called “roofies.” Guys slipped the pills into drinks. The women continued to function, but couldn’t remember anything the next morning.
What possible reason would Jordan have had for giving him a roofie?
The light dawned and he barked a laugh. The device DARPA was testing. That’s what she’d been after. When he was out cold, she’d opened the safe—room safes were easy to crack—and removed the gadget. She’d substituted something that didn’t function properly.
Who in hell was she working for?
CHAD WANDERED TOWARD ICU with a clipboard in his hand. He’d taken it off the counter in the maternity unit. In scrubs with a stethoscope around his neck, Chad didn’t attract any attention.
His first mission had been to locate the ancillary cameras the hit team had put up at the other entrances to the hospital. There was one in the eaves over the ER entrance tha
t Chad couldn’t get to, but the others were in trees and bushes. He’d taken care not to have his picture appear on the screen and came at them from the side. He zapped them with Pam that he’d transferred into a small spray bottle.
The cameras were the inexpensive type easily purchased at any electronics store. A dash of Pam and the image produced became blurry. Anyone monitoring the system would blame it on the poor quality of the camera.
Chad walked by the ICU pod, his head turned so the security camera didn’t pick him up. A man was coming out of Tina Layton’s room. Chad opened a closet door marked Storage. It turned out to be bedding and linens.
The man hurried by without paying any attention to him, but Chad got a good look at the guy. Tall, bulky chest, sandy hair in a brush cut. Military, Chad decided, or ex-military like him. Men who’d been in the service tended to have a certain look. There was a cadence to their walk that came from drills and marching. This guy fit the profile exactly.
He closed the closet and walked off to the side to keep out of the security camera’s range. He looked over his shoulder to see if anyone from the nurses’ station was watching him. They weren’t; he spritzed the camera with Pam.
Chad checked the nurses’ pod again, then slipped into Tina’s room. Devon’s sister was asleep, and her husband was hunched down in a chair beside the bed. Devon opened her mouth to say something, but he silenced her with a finger over his lips. He nodded to Steven Layton, who didn’t seem to recognize him, and pulled Devon into the hall.
“What was that man doing in here?” he asked.
“Wrong room. He was looking for Richard something.”
He shuddered inwardly and braced himself for what he’d known was coming since Devon had told him why she was flying to Miami. He whispered in her ear, “He’s one of the hit team. They must be getting an audiofeed from the room. They didn’t know what you looked like and came to find out.”