Organized for Murder

by Ritter Ames

  The Pretenders' "Back on the Chain Gang" ringtone echoed from my red Prada purse, and my heart sank. I debated not answering. I cursed myself for even having turned the phone on when we landed.

  It had to be a new assignment. Everything else I'd worked on lately had been completed, as promised, on time. Except, of course, the last job, but the circumstances had left me no option but to abort. I squeezed the cellular, wishing the stranglehold would stop the signal.

  The phone stopped ringing. For some psychotic reason I felt equally glad and fearful.

  I didn't want a new assignment. I wanted the quiet vacation I'd been promised. I wanted to start writing a novel, even a silly trashy novel—anything that would be created and completed without second or third party suggestions or directives. A solitary luxury I had yet to experience. It had been four years since my last vacation!

  The ringtone resumed its impatient '80s rock scream.

  No one had to tell me I was good at my job. There was no one better. But I didn't care anymore. This was like one more cancelled birthday party because Daddy is drunk again. I didn't want to hear it.

  With suppressed fury, I stabbed at the faceplate of the "smart" phone. If it's so smart, why did it accept this call?

  "What?"

  I wasn't surprised when Max's voice bellowed incoherently through the speaker.

  "Calm down, Max." I held the thing out in front of me and screamed to be heard over his tirade. "I can't possibly understand a word you're saying until you bring the volume down several hundred decibels."

  "Where the hell have you been?" he screamed, loudly enough that the woman standing next to me jumped. "Damn it, Laurel, you have an obligation to this organization. I should not have to listen to forty-nine rings before your phone is answered." My boss had a tendency toward hyperbole, and could chew up workers faster than George Foreman did justice to a plate of ribs.

  Having survived a half-dozen years in the trenches carrying Max on my back, I knew giving excuses would do little more than fuel his volcano of self-righteous anger. But I also had no intention of becoming someone's idea of a virgin sacrifice, either—not that I even met the chief qualification.

  "I'm in the middle of Heathrow. And, I might note, every person within a three foot radius of me can hear you yelling. "

  This did the trick. The man valued privacy above all other things. "Laurel . . . ah, well . . . sorry . . . I ah . . ."

  "You have a job, right?" Might as well cut to the chase.

  "Yes, exactly. A pick-up. You have two days to retrieve the object. I've already had the instructions sent to your email."

  "I'm on vacation."

  "But Laurel, I need you for this assignment—"

  "There has to be someone else who can handle it."

  I knew he was shaking his head even before I heard the answer. "No, this pick-up has to be done by you. I can't trust anyone else with it."

  "Why? What is it?" His histrionics didn't convince me; I'd heard it all before. But until I knew the specifics I couldn't suggest an alternative courier.

  "Sixth-century jeweled sword and scabbard."

  The man knew I despised handling items of war! No matter the age, I could always feel the tremors of the poor victims. And it never failed. The more bejeweled the hilt, the more blood known to have been wiped from the blade.

  "No, Max—"

  "Laurel, I know how you feel, but this time it's di—"

  "I'm not carrying any more weapons. I don't care how old and valuable they—"

  "Laurel, it's believed to be Arthur's!" Max shouted.

  I narrowed my eyes at the phone. "Arthur who?"

  "The Arthur."

  "You're pulling my leg. You don't seriously mean . . ."

  "Yes." Smug self-satisfaction colored the simple word, right over the technologically advanced wireless communication. "Our source has what is quite possibly the sword of King Arthur."

  "C'mon, Max, King Arthur and that whole roundtable story line is just a legend. A nice one, I agree, affording the Brits a few more tourists each year. But nothing has ever been proven."

  Even as I argued with good sense and logical words, I had to admit that I was intrigued. Just about any piece from that relative time period would be quite a find.

  "A very old parchment was discovered with the sword," Max explained. "Apparently, word is, it looks like it could be the real thing. Everything must be authenticated, of course, but without the items that cannot be done."

  "Where was it found?"

  "In an iron box set below the cornerstone of what had been a very minor ancient church. The area's been one of England's neglected ruins for centuries. A pair of local boys discovered it when they decided to dig a cave."

  "How industrious."

  They called my flight. I stood and grabbed the handle of my carryon bag. Even as I walked, however, something nagged at me, something I knew he was holding back. "How were we contacted?"

  "Wyndham-Hall heard about it and passed on the information."

  "Who did the negotiations?"

  "Babbage. In fact, he is the one holding it, now. You'll need to contact him at the London office."

  "Who else knows about this?"

  "Ah, well . . ."

  I knew there was something nasty about this. The airline attendant looked at my first-class boarding pass and blue passport, then waved me through. I prodded my boss harder. "Out with it, Max."

  "We, uh, understand Moran's gotten wind of the piece.

  Damn. The man could steal your eyelashes without your noticing it.

  "And someone else, Laurel," Max said, a strange note in his voice. "Someone new. I don't have all the particulars yet, but a man of around thirty was asking after the boys and their treasure."

  "But you don't have a name?"

  "Not even a good description. You can see now why you are best for the job."

  "Yes." Why fight the inevitable? "I'm still entitled to a week's vacation." I pivoted and began working my way back to the terminal, squeezing through the oncoming tide of passengers.

  "What about that ski trip you took?" he countered

  "Get it right, Max." I broke free of the crowd and smiled at the puzzled look the boarding attendant gave me as I reappeared. I'd get online later to rebook my flight. "My adventure in Switzerland was while I was on the trail of that Van Eyck painting, pursuing the defunct count who fancied himself the next ski champion of the world. I lost seven pounds, at least a yard of skin, and couldn't walk normally for a week after the so-called vacation."

  "We'll talk about it later, Laurel. Right now, time is of the essence."

  "We'll talk about it now. My plane hasn't left yet, and I can still get onboard."

  A hissing sound erupted from a nearby cappuccino machine, and a similar sound came through the phone. "Okay, okay. If you bring the piece in safely you can take a full week's vacation."

  Easier than I'd expected. Then I smelled the trap. "Before the end of this month, Max. Not next year."

  "You are very good, Laurel." Max laughed mirthlessly. "Per your terms. Please check your email and contact me immediately with any questions."

  A click and he was gone. I stepped into the coffee bar and ordered a caramel latte with lots of whipped cream.

  While I'll admit I was intrigued by the possibility of this piece, it was an art recovery expert's dream. After all, the thing that put me over the edge and off my flight was the mention of Moran. The man was a ruthless viper, nearly unstoppable in whatever quest he undertook. Could I beat him again? Did I have that kind of luck? Because luck would have to once more play a part. Talent wasn't enough. And until I knew more about the other player Max referred to, I planned to not dwell on the possibilities. I just hoped I could spot the mystery man before he or Moran spotted me.

  I keyed into my secured email account, and the screen flashed confirmation of the incoming case instructions, along with several more files labeled as containing diagrams and pictures. Files previou
sly forwarded to the foundation by the original contact, Wyndham-Hall. If only the little wonder machine could as easily have seen the timeline for the next few days. I called Simon.

  "Hi, love. I got an email earlier saying you'd phone. Got everything safely stowed away until we can get authentication," he answered.

  As he talked, I could hear the scratch his razor made over his tough beard. I knew the sound intimately. What Max and company didn't know was that Simon and I had shared an eight-month attempt at a Trans-Atlantic affair. The last time we'd spoken by phone was when it ended, both of us agreeing the delicious, illicit-feeling trysts took more time and energy than either of us could spare from work. It had been the best decision at the time, but hearing his voice now, even through the peripheral noise of the terminal, brought back a swarm of memories.

  "You're going to have to make it to the city without a welcoming party," Simon continued. "I have an informant meeting me this morning, and I don't know how long that will take."

  Water ran then stopped. Through a mental eye, I could see Simon shaking the razor before returning it to the antique, bone-colored shaving cup I knew stood on the basin. "Who's my competition?"

  Simon gave an easy laugh. "Believe me, Laurel, this one-eyed, smelly Welshman is no competition. I'd much rather be wrapping my arms around you. But the rogue claims he's privy to information guaranteed to 'interest' me about a piece."

  "About the . . . latest?" The barista started the coffee grinder, and I could barely hear over the unholy roar.

  "Right." Simon's answer seemed a whisper. "Laurel, this connection—"

  "Yeah, this is no good for a private conversation." I shouted into the microphone. "Meet you at the office?"

  "That would be perfect. I'll try to be there by two."

  I sighed. Luckily, I had my small carryon, but the rest of my things were on their way to Lake Tahoe. I needed to email Max to have someone pick up my luggage. I'd spend the time until my meeting with Simon scouting out a hotel room and shopping for whatever I needed. What really cheesed me was that my best lock picks were onboard the Tahoe flight, riding around in the cargo bay in my luggage. Useless to me there, but they would have never made it through security so I checked them. Now I had to find a set of replacements.

  Before putting the phone back into its pocket, I called a particular boutique hotel. One I had stayed in before and whose personnel had proven its discretion admirably. They had room for me. I headed for the taxi stand.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Milan will always be my favorite place to shop, but London stays in my top three. With shopping essentials completed, credit cards depleted, and the holes in my wardrobe refilled for this job, I jumped in a black cab and headed for Simon's office. The morning stole more out of me than I'd thought, but at least the shopping gave me the tools necessary to feel capable of handling any new challenge that reared its ugly head. I rested my head against the high-backed seat and closed my eyes. Just a quick catnap to refresh my mind.

  But it did little to refresh. Instead, I dreamed in some cryptic mélange, the images pushing me like a Fellini film treatment to run around Lake Tahoe, all the while carrying a huge silver sword. Footsteps charged through the underbrush behind me, and a voice wove through the trees, whispering in a clipped, English accent. "How far can you run, Miss Lioness? Do you really think you can escape?"

  I awoke when the cab stopped.

  "Here ya go, miss," the cabbie said. "Delivered as promised. And I'll drop these packages back off at your hotel. Would you like me to return and retrieve you?"

  The dream left me feeling off-balance. A ridiculous manifestation of my subconscious.

  The cabbie wore a black cap, and knocked it back to show the queer look on his face by the time I finally answered. I smiled and hoped he didn't think I needed a keeper. "My friend will get me back. Thanks so much for your help."

  I handed the driver a good portion of my emergency stash of British pounds. He doffed his cap, and I turned to look out the cab door at the building. A quaint example of early-nineteenth century English architecture, it reflected the conservative nature of the old-fashioned trust company that owned it. Simon's office was tucked away in one corner, off the main side of the building.

  After getting out of the taxi, I set off on a brisk pace around to his private entrance. A concrete and stone wall chased along the sidewalk at shin level, with four-foot iron bars dancing along the top. I stopped at a brass nameplate engraved with the words Beacham Ltd., London. A couple of careful steps down and I was eye-to-eye with the brightly polished, lion-head doorknocker that always made me think of Dickens's A Christmas Carol.

  I reached for the brass knob. Locked.

  So, Simon, your little rendezvous lasted longer than you expected. But surely Martha should be there. Simon's secretary felt it her sworn duty never to miss even an hour of a proper day's work.

  I still had my key, but it took a few minutes of searching to find it in the oversized purse. As I slid it into the brass lock and gave a twist, I was surprised to hear the dead bolt give way from the inside. I pulled the key away, just as the door opened.

  "What do you want?"

  Planted in front of me was a woman about my age wearing a blue power suit and a pair of large eyeglasses. She was taller and broader than I was, and effectively blocked any view of the office. I had the feeling that was the idea.

  Her long legs screamed athlete, as did the way she held her shoulders. But the glasses appeared to be fakes; heavy horn-rimmed frames with clear lenses. Interesting. She wasn't a cheap thug, either. Expensive salon streaks added fire to the thick, red hair she had caught up in a huge bun at the nape of her neck. I had no problem envisioning it down her back, flowing in vibrant curls. This definitely wasn't tiny, blue-haired Martha. "I'm here to see Simon."

  One shoulder twitched. The move was nearly invisible, but I was on guard for any tell. I still couldn't quite trace her accent, but it was definitely Continental, probably a hybrid. "Mr. Babbage is on holiday. You'll have to make an appointment."

  Excuse me?

  "Where did he go?" I was careful not to reveal anything.

  "Scotland."

  "Oh, Scotland's lovely this time of year," I extemporized. "Have you been there?"

  "Yes." Wariness creeped into her eyes, behind their glass windows.

  "I'm sure Simon will have a wonderful time. Especially if he took golf clubs."

  "Yes, he took them. He brought his bag into the office so he wouldn't forget. I watched him carry them out." Her words came briskly; a lie-detector couldn't have been more accurate.

  "When did he leave?"

  "This morning, early."

  "And he'll be back when?"

  "A fortnight."

  I nodded and took a step away. An almost imperceptible shift in her posture showed relief. "I'll try back later then. Thanks so much for the information. Oh, by the way, what happened to his last secretary? I think her name was, maybe…Marsha?"

  "That's right." A widening smile revealed her pleasure at so easily fooling me. "She found another job. Felt she needed a change."

  Martha had worked for the Beacham Foundation for thirty years, the last twelve with Simon. If she wanted a change now, so did the Queen. "How interesting. Do you happen to know where she went?"

  "Some bank, I think."

  I smiled and renewed my thanks. The redhead waited until I reached the gate before finally closing the door and slamming the bolt back into place.

  Okay, so I knew the Amazon was lying, and Martha was missing—possibly Simon as well. Yes, I was alarmed. I could call the New York office on the intruder, but there was little they could do from there but notify the police. Which would not bode well for anyone should Simon just be held up with his Welshman. Until I knew what I was dealing with, better to keep things close to the vest.

  And figuring out what I was dealing with meant figuring out just what this imposter was doing in Simon's office.

  "Took
his golf clubs," I muttered, biting the corner of my lip as I frowned. Simon hated golf, thought it was the biggest time-waster known to the corporate world.

  Entering the trust company's main lobby, I eventually turned down a hallway and entered a service area. A skip down a ramp led to another hallway—and a janitor's closet. I took a quick look around before slipping inside. Under the third shelf on the back wall was a small knob that felt like a knot in the wood. I pressed the spot, then quickly stepped back as the row of shelves swung outward to reveal a locked door. Martha had never been too keen on Simon and me fraternizing, so to smooth ruffled feathers he had given me the key to his back door. Or, as he put it, his "escape hatch."

  Keeping my fingers crossed, I inserted a small silver key in the lock and turned, hoping the end of our affair had not also signaled a visit by the locksmith. The key turned easily, and the door slid open, revealing Simon's private washroom.

  I peeked through the crack in the door that led to his office. My fears were confirmed. The Amazon was ransacking Simon's office, working with an abandon that bordered on hysteria. Whatever she was looking for, she hadn't found it yet.

  I moved back to the janitor's closet, pulled the door nearly closed, and reached for my cell phone. Looked like all the hours I'd spent absorbing the atmosphere while Simon devoured fish and chips would be put to good use.

  After a number of rings, I finally heard a breathless, "Hello—I mean, Beacham, Ltd."

  Assuming my best, working-class London accent, I said, "Yeah, we got yer package by mistake."

  "What?"

  "A package, dearie," I enunciated the words slowly. "As in the post. Ya know, from the parcel service. Came in with the new menus. The bloody printer finally got the bloomin' things right."