by Gayle Lynds
He was not amused. His voice was harsh. "It's a lunatic idea. You're not trained. You could get yourself killed. And me, too."
That shook her. She could not be responsible for any more deaths. But at the same time, there was no way she would back out. She had to see it through, for Colonel Yurimengri, Stephanie Smith, and her donor, Mikhail Ogust.
But also for herself. "I can't go back." Her gaze was locked on the highway ahead. "Take care of yourself. Don't worry about me. I won't ask for help, and don't you volunteer it. If I don't have what it takes to be your partner, so be it."
"Wonderful. Just wonderful. That makes everything okay. I'll let you go down like roadkill." He waited for her to say something, but she did not even bother to look at him. She meant it. He shook his head in disgust. Like hell he was going to let her die.
She turned on the radio. The announcer had just finished sports scores and was giving a preview of the coming top-of-the-news stories. The big piece was no surprise—the Russian president was expected to touch down shortly at Andrews Air Force Base. The White House was issuing bulletins keeping the press up to date about President Stevens's activities, his plans, and his agenda with Vladimir Putin.
Jeff shrugged and reached down to open one of the black boxes at his feet. He whistled when he saw it held makeup and disguise materials. "This could be useful."
As the newscast finally began, he broke down the sniper rifle and fitted it into the second box. When the announcer repeated the news story about his being sought for the West Virginia murders, he winced but said nothing. Then he opened the third box, the one that held weapons and their accessories.
"This guy was serious. Makes me a tad unhappy thinking about his replacement. Might be someone even better. And you can bet there'll be a replacement."
"Thanks. That cheers me enormously." She looked worriedly around. The traffic was growing heavier.
He closed the weapons box. "Have you checked the one in back?"
"Not yet. Why should I have all the fun?"
He gave a small smile. "Very thoughtful of you."
She gazed across at him, and they exchanged a quick look. She rolled up her eyes and shook her head. As she concentrated on the road again, Jeff reached into the rear, where the sniper had laid down the back seat, creating a flatbed. As he dragged the box toward him, the news loop on the radio finished.
She said with relief, "At least they don't have anything about me yet."
He opened the box and peeled back layers of foam rubber. He whistled again. "Listening devices. Tracking devices. A demodulator. It's like a Saks Fifth Avenue of crime and eavesdropping equipment in here."
"Yes, the fellow liked his tools." She gazed suspiciously at the traffic. They were approaching Tyson's Corner with its modern skyline of shops and offices set among the rolling woodland landscape of northern Virginia. She pulled into a parking lot.
He looked up and scowled. "Why are we stopping?"
"I'm going to get us a different car."
"Where are you getting us another car?" And then he saw handsome brass lettering—THE PHILMALEE GROUP—on the side of a twenty-story, glass-and-brick building. He said, "Michelle Philmalee? You're going to ask her? I don't think so." He glared at Beth as she drove into the parking lot.
"She said last night she owed me big, and I'm going to take her up on it." Beth parked the station wagon under overhanging branches in a distant corner of the lot. "It wasn't on the news that I killed a man, so she doesn't know the police are looking for me. No one—the police, the killers—will think to find me through her. And there's even less reason to connect you two to each other. We have to take advantage of the situation while we can. She'll loan me a car in a heartbeat."
"I'd rather steal one. You're opening us up to being stopped or caught."
"Where else are we going to get a car?"
"Thievery makes sense to me."
"Nonsense. It's broad daylight. Everyone watches for car thieves. I can just see you hot-wiring one and some alarm going off. Which is probably why you haven't suggested it before. Or we can keep the station wagon, but it stands out like a bruised thumb. We managed to escape the first cop who found us, but we might not be so lucky next time. Michelle's our best bet. The company keeps a raft of cars here."
"I don't like your going in alone."
"Don't worry. Phil won't be here. I'll be safe."
"That's not what's worrying me. You can handle Phil."
She unlocked her door. "Then what's your problem?"
He sighed. The answer was her. She was his problem. But he just said, "Are you going to sit here all day? Get going."
She smiled into his big face. "I'll miss you, too." She headed toward the Philmalee Group headquarters.
Michelle Philmalee's company had projects all over the United States and in Eastern Europe, and she stayed informed about every one. As she sat there at her desk trying to work through the stacks of papers, she thought about the past. She had risen from small-town schoolteacher to head a Forbes 500 company, and she had the scars and trophies to prove it. She liked to say she savored both. But despite all the victories, and the skyrocketing success of the Group since she had taken control of it after the divorce, she sat there in her haute couture suit and polished red fingernails and felt an ache in her throat that would not go away.
She had taken an antihistamine at bedtime and another this morning. She had gargled a dozen times. She had even seen her internist this morning, but he had pronounced her throat fine. Still, it hurt like hell. A tear seeped from the corner of her eye.
She hurried from her desk into her private bath. Her office suite was opulent, from the hand-knotted Aubusson rug to the American Impressionist originals on the wall, and she had a bathroom just as elegant. It was lined with beveled mirrors, trimmed with ebony, and decorated with alabaster statues in recessed nooks.
She snatched up a tissue, leaned over the sink's gold fixtures, and stared into the mirror at her slender face with its hidden lines and wrinkles. She dabbed the tear with a tissue. She was getting old. She saw it beneath the Chanel makeup. Worse, she was alone. Her ex-husband, that bastard Joel, had been no good, but he was at least a warm body. Her psychiatrist at the time had suggested, however, that to remain in a marriage in which the warm body could be counted upon to beat her regularly might be flawed thinking.
Still, there were payoffs. Her two sons, for instance. She loved them. And it was because of Joel that she had learned to wear makeup and dress well. Makeup could not hide swelling, but it was very good for bruises. And expensive clothing was a fine way to distract clients and competitors from the sadness in one's eyes.
In the end, the reason she had divorced the abusive SOB was because he had tried to cut her out of the business she had damn well built. Then she had rebounded and gotten involved with Phil Stageman, whose idea of a good time was counting her money. It had been amusing to sleep with a man who was young enough to be her son, and he had paid off in other ways, too. She had enjoyed the envy of her female acquaintances and employees. Still, no amount of distracting muscle and fancy manners could hide his greed.
A more intelligent and sensitive man would have seen she was connected to her business more than she was to him. But then, she was afraid a more intelligent and sensitive man would not have been interested in her. Phil Stageman was a handsome fool. Which, in the end, made her a fool, too, at least when it came to men, and she could no longer hide the fact from herself.
She smiled wearily. She was alone again, and lonely. Pressing her fingers to her throat, she tried to stop the ache as she returned to her desk. She made herself work until her secretary buzzed to announce that Zach Housley from Edwards & Bonnett was on the line. She debated whether to talk with him. He had badly mishandled the Beth Convey affair by underestimating Beth. She and Beth had the same focused, hard-headed approach to business. That was why Beth usually won, and in the rare case in which she lost, she walked away slowly, still looking over
her shoulder for a way to salvage victory.
Michelle had expected Beth to phone by now. It was not like her. She was Beth's ticket to partnership at Edwards & Bonnett, and she had been anticipating some pleasure in Beth's excitement.
She sighed and punched the lighted button on her phone console. "Hello, Zach. Tilaina says you have something important to say about Beth." Maybe Beth had already told Zach she would resume representing Michelle.
But that was not it. Not it at all. Michelle listened in surprise as Zach said, "The police were just here." His deep voice was breathless with shock and excitement.
"And?" she prompted. The ache in her throat worsened.
He talked for five minutes. Murdered an unarmed tourist in Georgetown. Conflicting stories from witnesses. Escaped in the company of a man sought for a double murder in West Virginia. The police want her. On and on . . . Michelle not wanting to believe a word of it, not a word.
28
The afternoon sun radiated with an unaccustomed spring heat as Beth stepped away from the row of shade trees where she had parked the station wagon in the Philmalee parking lot. Clasping her shoulder bag close, she hurried toward the glass-and-brick headquarters with its striking modern architecture. A few executives entered and left through the big glass doors, all dressed impeccably. None did more than glance at her.
She pushed in through the front door and nodded at the security guard. He watched as she headed past the life-size oil painting of Michelle and went straight to the receptionist, who sat behind a granite barricade at a glass-block desk. The building had good security and a staff that had been trained to protect its executives from the annoyances of nonbusiness life.
"Ms. Convey?" The receptionist was not certain she recognized Beth without her standard business suit.
"The same. I'd like to see Mrs. Philmalee."
She was not on the appointment list, so the receptionist called upstairs. The answer came immediately to send her up, that Mrs. Philmalee was waiting. The receptionist handed Beth a badge, which she snapped onto her black cardigan. Too polite to stare at Beth's messy appearance, the woman ducked her head, trying to hide her disapproval.
Concerned for a moment that she had been followed, Beth surveyed the lobby. But there was nothing unusual amid the stark modern furniture and floor sculpture. She entered the elevator, which lifted her silently to the twentieth floor, and stepped out into an atrium foyer full of plants. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto Virginia's undulating green hills. The air smelled of moss and flowers, scents that at another time would have seemed fresh and inviting, but not today. Today they cloyed and seemed oppressive.
And Michelle Philmalee was striding impatiently toward her from the corridor, her hands extended. "Beth, my dear. How glad I am to see you." Her black hair was smoothed back under a narrow black velvet headband. In a navy Yves St. Laurent suit and Gucci stiletto heels, she was put together impeccably. With a sweep of her shrewd gaze, she took in that Beth was not, but she gave no indication of it. "Come back into my office. We have much to talk about."
"I can't stay—"
"Of course you can, dear. In fact, I insist." The smile on Michelle's face stiffened. "Come along now."
Michelle's office was quiet and had the air of an art gallery with its original Impressionist paintings and sleek designer furniture. There was a fireplace in the corner, with love seats on either side. A cymbidium orchid stood on the coffee table between the love seats. When Michelle gestured to the closest one, Beth sat and put her bag at her feet.
Michelle settled on the other end and crossed her ankles. She stared hard at Beth.
"What is it?" Beth felt as if she were under a microscope.
"I'm trying to decide whether you look like a killer. I must say, dear, you have the appearance today of something wild and dangerous. Certainly an ape man would be tempted to drag you home to his cave. If I sniff your fingers, will I smell gunpowder?"
"Oh, no," Beth breathed. "How did you—?"
"What if I told you the police were on their way?" Michelle's black eyes were hard as agates.
Beth jumped up. "Then I'd have to leave."
"I don't think so. My security would stop you. They're very well trained, you know. I spent a fortune making sure they were. I learned that sort of thing from Joel. Would you like a cup of coffee?"
Beth studied her, nodded to herself, and settled back onto the sofa. "You have no intention of calling anyone, at least for a while. And the police don't know I'm here. You're curious, aren't you? You want to know what's going on more than you're afraid of me. You're a bitch, Michelle."
Michelle winked and rang a bell that was sitting next to the orchid. "I think coffee's in order. I told Tilaina to brew a fresh pot. French roast. Something a little stronger than I usually drink. As for being afraid"—she chuckled—"don't forget I was married to Joel Philmalee for thirty years. If he didn't scare me—and, yes, I know I should've left him decades ago—I really doubt you would. Do you have a pistol in that big purse of yours?"
Beth rolled her eyes up. "Michelle, you need a life."
As a tap sounded on the door, Michelle said sweetly, "I have a life. I'm just not particularly fond of it right now." She turned to the door. "Bring the coffee in, Tilaina."
They said nothing as Michelle's secretary carried in a heavy sterling tray with a matching coffee service. She was a large woman in a serviceable serge suit and Hush Puppies, no competition for the dainty fashion plate that her boss was, which was, no doubt, one of the reasons Michelle had hired her.
"I'll pour. Thank you, Tilaina." Michelle's hands were folded neatly in her lap. As soon as Tilaina murmured her thanks and turned toward the door, Michelle poured coffee into two Haviland cups.
"There's no way I can stay," Beth insisted. "But I promise to fill you in when things settle down. Right now I need to borrow one of your cars."
"Cream? Sugar?"
"Michelle!"
"Oh, very well." Michelle left the steaming cups on the coffee table. "I'll settle for a look at your pistol."
Beth glared. She made no move for her purse.
"You have one, don't you?" For the first time, Michelle looked uncertain. "Did you really murder that poor tourist?"
Beth thought quickly. "It wasn't on the news, so someone must've called you. My office? Was it Zach? He knows you fired Phil, and then Phil was waiting for me at my house. . . . It was self-defense, Michelle. The man was no tourist. He was a professional assassin. He'd already taken several shots at me. If I hadn't fired, he would've killed me."
Michelle leaned forward. "But so many bullets. I understand he looked like Swiss cheese. By the way, Zach's congratulating himself for discharging you. He doesn't approve of keeping on attorneys after all-points bulletins have been issued against them."
"That knuckle-dragger didn't discharge me, I quit!"
"I know, dear. I was filled in on all the fireworks by Joleen. She does like to gossip, doesn't she?" She picked up her cup and sipped coffee. "Besides, I know you'd never murder anyone."
Suddenly weary, Beth closed her eyes. The whole horrible scene flashed through her mind. The killer running out from behind the station wagon . . . his gun aimed at her . . . her squeezing, squeezing the trigger . . . and then his flying back like a broken doll, blood pouring from wounds. She inhaled. She had to stop dwelling on it. She had gone too far, but on the other hand, if she had not fired she would surely be dead herself.
She opened her eyes and scowled. "I don't have time for this. Make up your mind, Michelle. If you don't believe I could murder someone in cold blood, are you going to loan me a car or not?"
Michelle cocked her manicured head, considering. She understood self-interest. It had fueled all her life. If she helped Beth, she could be arrested for aiding and abetting a fugitive. Maybe for being an accessory after the fact. From her days as a high school teacher, she remembered what Publilius Syrus, the Latin writer, had said: He who helps the guilty shares the c
rime. She was not sure, but whatever the charges would be, they would be bad for business, far worse than if it were public knowledge that she had been a battered wife. At her high-powered social and business levels, some things simply were not aired. She could see the headline on the cover of Business Week or Forbes now: MAGNATE CAUGHT AIDING KILLER'S ESCAPE.
But she had always liked Beth, and she had felt guilty for hiding her relationship with Phil from her, and then acting like such a shit when Beth told them she had forgotten the evidence about HanTech at home. Beth had proved her wrong, not only because she really had had the list of owners, but because she had been big enough to hand it over, even though she had every reason not to.
Michelle felt odd. Something solemn and good seemed to blow through her. Unconsciously she raised her hand to her throat, feeling for the pain that had lodged there when she told Phil he would have to agree to bringing Beth back as her primary attorney or leave, and he had left. It was still there, aching.
She folded her hands in her lap. "My staff obviously knows you're in the building. That could be a problem. But Zach phoned not long ago, so I think I can safely pretend I received his call after you'd left. Too late to inform anyone, so why bother. But I don't think it's wise to give you a company car. They have so little speed, and besides it would mark you because of the logo on the doors."
Beth, who had been sitting stiff and angry, relaxed a fraction. Still wary, she asked, "You have another idea?"
"Of course, my dear. Ideas are my specialty." She stood and walked to her desk. "Take mine. It's a nice Ferrari. Excellent power and traction. But you have to promise—if you get out of this mess, you'll take me back. You'll represent me again. Will you promise?"
Beth stared. "I don't know, Michelle. I honestly don't know what I'm going to do. I might quit practicing altogether."
"You can't! I need you! Besides, it's not in your nature. You'd be bored silly. Remember, you like the law."
"Thanks. Let's leave it this way . . . if I return to it, you'll be my first client."