Alias

by Amy J. Fetzer

  Darcy headed out, careful to close the doors without a sound. On the roof, she looked down at the ground, and decided against using the rope. She’d no way to release it and it would leave a trail. She went over the edge, working her way down. She ran toward her car, parked several blocks down behind a store, careful to stay in the shadows.

  If Maurice showed tomorrow night, he was guilty.

  Because if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t bother, nor would he understand the message.

  One thing she knew about her husband was that he wouldn’t waste time on someone who didn’t have the power to take him down.

  The following evening, Darcy strolled through the Pegasus Studio gates, smiling at the guard and showing her ID. She’d reconstructed the ID today using a five-minute photo taken in a machine in a drugstore. To the guard she was a young man in jeans and a jacket, so she didn’t offer more than a couple of grunts. Her mask was broader and whiskered, her hair hidden beneath a tight wig. While her waist was straighter with padding and her breasts were smashed under Ace bandages, it was the socks in her crotch that itched. But it wouldn’t do to have nothing there. She sort of understood guys’ need to adjust themselves all the time.

  It was nearly ten-thirty and the guard was more interested in checking the time than looking closely at her ID. His relief must be coming, she thought, finally passing through and walking toward the lights set up on the lot for night filming. The area was quiet, almost ghostly, and when she was out of sight of the guards, she veered right, quickly moving down the alleys between buildings. Most of the buildings near the roads were for shows where the public could watch the taping, but farther to the west was storage. The warehouse where the chauffeur said Maurice had gone that night. She picked the padlock, leaving it discreetly open.

  A little piece of bait.

  Darcy had been there that morning, searching for the best point to see activity and the least likely place to be spotted. The roof was her best option, but she hadn’t had time in the daylight to set anything up without looking suspicious.

  Her gaze landed on the fire-escape ladder on the building across the street and she stepped under it, hopping to give it a tug. It didn’t move down. Probably rusted into position. Yet if it slid to the ground as it was supposed to, the noise would alert anyone within half a mile.

  No guts, no glory, she thought, adjusting her backpack before she jumped, grabbing the rung. It squeaked and she dangled for a second, then reached for the next rung, swinging her leg upward till her foot caught a bar and took some of her weight so she could ease up to reach the next rung. The thing creaked with every move and she looked around, then pulled her body weight up two more before her feet connected solidly with the medal step. She climbed, looking back to see if any cars were coming, then threw herself over the ledge of the flat roof.

  It didn’t feel very stable under her feet, almost soft, and she crouched near the edge, shifting carefully to get the best view of the doors, the road and anything nearby. From the backpack she removed the night-vision goggles she’d bought at a pawnshop several months back and Jack’s video camera, flipping the night-vision lens into place, then setting the camera on motion sensor. She propped it on her backpack a few feet to her right, sighted in, then with the NVGs she settled in to wait.

  He’d show. He was in this up to his Armani lapels and gold collar stays. The next ten minutes stretched her nerves, every creak making her think she’d be discovered or the roof would give out under her.

  She could see the headline. Studio Collapses, Leaves Kidnapping Mother Under Ten Tons Of Rubble. Child Unaccounted For. She’d rather it said Movie Mogul Maurice Steele Indicted For Murder. She spent the next five minutes creating headlines that lightened her mood until she heard the crunch of gravel. Then the sound of a car engine.

  Sighting in with the NVGs, she peered over the edge of the roofline. A dark sedan moved up the alley, and she focused on the license plate.

  FLM MKR. Short for filmmaker.

  Well, Maury, honey, you didn’t trust your driver with this, did you?

  The car moved slowly and from her position she couldn’t see the driver. Besides, the windows were tinted. She glanced to the right to check the video camera. It was filming. Her palms went clammy, and adrenaline rushed in her veins, speeding up her heartbeat as she waited for the driver to stop and get out. Seconds passed. The car rolled, the crush of gravel beneath the tires loud and intrusive.

  The car door opened and Darcy almost squeaked when Maurice stepped out. He left the lights on, the car running and the door open. Thinking you’ll need a quick getaway? Maurice waited, rubbing his mouth, pacing, cursing, the same behavior he’d had that night. He was rarely nervous, so it always stood out more.

  He moved in front of the headlights and Darcy reared back at the clothing he wore. Jeans, which he wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing otherwise, a T-shirt and a shabby tweed jacket. So un-Maury. Did he think that was a disguise? Where’d he get that, Goodwill?

  He moved to the warehouse door, trying the lock and when he realized it was open he let it go, stepping back, shocked. Something moved, a rat probably, but enough to make a scraping sound.

  Maurice whipped around. Oh, God, she mouthed when he pulled a small gun from behind his back. Maurice moved to the next door a few yards to the left, peering through the wire-reinforced glass window. What’s in there, Maury? The body? The weapon? Darcy hadn’t seen any evidence to say so when she was in there the other day, but it would have been easy to hide—drop the body into one of the barrel tanks or drums, seal it up and the body would decompose with the strength of the chemicals. Half of them were blends with sulfuric acid.

  Clever.

  He looked around, then he disappeared down the narrow corridor between the buildings, big enough for a person to walk down but not enough for a vehicle.

  Darcy waited, not daring to move. One tiny scrape would echo and alert him. He had a gun, she just had her knife.

  When he reappeared, he went to the door, removing the lock and pocketing it before he pried the door open. It was a nearly airtight seal and the pop was loud. The reason Darcy hadn’t tried it tonight.

  Maurice didn’t seem to care. He walked inside, and Darcy shifted farther to her right for a better angle, getting a bird’s-eye view of the entrance and a few yards inside. Maurice went to the left. To the back. She saw his shadow pass by the only window in the place.

  If he was used to skulking he’d have known he’d cast a shadow.

  And he didn’t wear gloves. She made a note of everything he touched that she could see and didn’t wonder what he was doing. He was implicating himself by being there. He didn’t turn on a light or use a flashlight. That meant he knew his way around. Or exactly where he’d been.

  Less than two minutes later he came out, closed the door and put the lock back on. With a silk handkerchief, he wiped off his prints. Then he pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

  “Did you find out who sent that message?”

  He must be talking to his secretary, Alisha Watts.

  Alisha was hardworking, always a step ahead of Maurice, and a long time ago, she’d been Darcy’s friend. She also knew the darker side of Maurice, the side he never showed to the public. Darcy hadn’t asked Alisha for help years ago—Alisha needed her job to support her daughter—yet she’d won Darcy’s eternal gratitude when she’d called to say Maurice was out of the city till very late. Darcy had phoned Rainy that night and disappeared.

  “Well try harder, dammit. Your job is on the line, Ms. Watts.”

  A lie. Maurice couldn’t function without Alisha and since she’d been trying to get Maurice to promote her for years now, without success, she wouldn’t put forth a whole lot of effort for an “undisclosed sender” message.

  “I don’t need to be pulled out of meetings for crap like this.”

  Meetings, my fanny, she thought, studying him. She could almost tick off the seconds before he exploded. He cut the call and dial
ed another. From the gist of the conversation he was talking to a lawyer.

  Darcy smiled. He was scared. Maurice was a lawyer.

  “It’s got to be someone who saw that damn TV segment mentioning Fairchild and is looking for some easy cash.”

  He listened then said, “Hell, no, I’m not offering or paying. I just want the little bastard. No, no, you saw the loan papers. You approved them. What am I paying you for, Crommer, if not to watch my back? Fine, fine. You know good and well that Fairchild is in Europe living off the profits I made for her! If she wants to hide like a hobbit, what do I care?”

  Darcy could almost see the noose squeezing his tanned neck. He hung up, then moved to the car, standing between the car and the open door. He looked around, looked up to where she was perched. Darcy hunched.

  “I don’t know what you want,” Maurice called out softly, foolishly. “But you won’t get it.”

  Really, she thought, wishing she had a rifle. With a nightscope. Silencer, too. Of course, it would be nice, if she actually had the guts to shoot a human being, that would probably help.

  Darcy knew her limits. She wasn’t a killer.

  But she might have married one.

  He climbed into the car, backing out.

  Darcy leaned against the lip of the building and for a moment stared up at the stars, considering all she’d accomplished and whether or not this trip would evolve into more. She’d have to go over the financial reports, dig for more. She had documents signed by Fairchild, but she’d need some handwriting samples to compare.

  Later, she thought, reaching for the camera and backpack.

  It was time to go home.

  Chapter 7

  D arcy did a hip-grinding walk on her way across the salon to some kicking Nelly Furtado music, shaking the application bottle of tint for Liza Ringling. The success of her trip to Hollywood gave her extra energy and her clients were feeling it.

  The joint was jumping. Blow-dryers whined and chatter filled the space in the air. Charlie was in the corner, his own private spot, nodding his head to the music and playing with his toys. I’ve got a great kid, she thought, smiling at him when he squished his nose at her.

  Megan was at the appointment desk, her dark hair twisted up in chopsticks and her long, thin legs propped on a stool. She deserved the break. She’d been Darcy’s right hand and sometimes her left since Rainy had died.

  The customers were enjoying the late-afternoon jam session and most were getting the full treatment. Her Korean manicure-pedicurist chatted away in heavily accented English, and the masseur was escorting Rayleen Pickman to the private room. The schoolteacher would love the soft music during the warm-oil massage, and the chance to feel pampered. Chasing after thirty six-year-olds couldn’t be easy. Darcy glanced at the tanning booth, checking the timer. She had a client in there trying to maintain her summer tan. But then, Sue Ash was eighteen, beautiful, with a body every boy in town was panting after. A tan would make little difference.

  Full service, she thought, grinding to Furtado and tinting light brown hair red.

  “You think he’ll like it?” Liza asked nervously.

  Darcy met her gaze in the chrome-rimmed mirror. Liza’s husband was going to love it, she thought. “Every man wants a redhead once in a while. Makes him think he’s walking on the wild side. Besides, if you don’t like it, I’ll tint it back for free. But you have to wait at least two weeks.” Though not one customer had ever asked to be tinted back to their original color. “Dark red hair, a kicky new cut—Dave will think he’s sleeping with another woman.”

  “Well heck, he can’t argue with that,” Liza said. “A consenting affair?”

  “The best kind,” Darcy said, and Jack, all tight T-shirt and rippling muscles flashed in her mind. Quickly she pushed him out and suggested Liza pop over to the lingerie shop and give her husband more of a treat. She finished applying the color, snapped off her gloves and set the timer. Giving Liza a nudge, she handed her the latest trendy lingerie catalogue before she went off to get the woman her favorite mocha latte.

  In the supply room, she’d just finished making the drink when Meg came in, holding the cordless phone.

  “It’s Alexandra Forsythe,” she said softly and Darcy stilled, then handed the fat mug over to Meg.

  “That’s for Liza, let me know when the timer goes off,” she said, taking the phone.

  Meg frowned, pulling the door closed.

  “Alex, hey, girl.”

  “Hello, Darcy, how’s that handsome three-foot man of yours?”

  “He’s great. Wish I could bottle his energy. So what’s up?”

  “I called to tell you that I met the Dark Angel.”

  “Oh my God.” The Dark Angel was a legendary figure at Athena Academy. Years ago, he’d broken into the school and accused the Academy of killing his sister. A few students, including Alex, had caught a glimpse of the handsome, passionate youth. The legend had started there and was still making the rounds among students today.

  “My thoughts exactly at the time. Remember the FBI agent I caught snooping around Athena Academy? His name is Justin Cohen.”

  Alex had told Darcy, Kayla and Tory about catching him at the school. She also thought she’d spotted him at Rainy’s funeral. “So what was he up to all those years ago breaking into Athena and causing hell?”

  “He was trying to find a connection to his sister Kelly’s death. He thought that Athena had something to do with it.”

  That didn’t make sense. “Wait a sec, back up and start over.”

  “I know, it sounds strange, but given what we know about the egg harvesting and Rainy’s ovaries being scarred and the accident, it’s not that far off. His sister became a surrogate mother around the time of Rainy’s supposed appendectomy. Her doctor was Dr. Henry Reagan, the man who signed off on Rainy’s chart. And Dr. Reagan’s part-time nurse was our own Betsy Stone.”

  “Oh hell.” Betsy Stone was Athena Academy’s nurse.

  “His sister died during the birth and the hospital records show that the baby died along with her.”

  “But you don’t believe it?”

  “No.”

  “I’m with you. If the mother was dying, they’d have tried to save the baby before that, and if she was a surrogate, someone was probably paying big bucks for that child.”

  “I concur,” Alex said and Darcy smiled. Alexandra Forsythe was old money, highly educated, a “came over on the Mayflower” blue blood, and the furthest thing from a rich snot that there was. But sometimes that upbringing showed in her speech.

  “Where is Dr. Reagan now?”

  “Justin learned that he died of a heart attack years ago. Kayla is trying to track down his files. Justin’s been keeping track of Athena Academy all these years. When he heard about Rainy’s accident, he checked it out and realized that we all suspected it was murder.”

  “We know she was murdered, we just have to prove it.”

  There was silence for a second or two, and Darcy knew that the suspicions cast on Athena Academy had shattered the very foundation of Alex’s upbringing. Her family had helped to found Athena Academy.

  The evidence they had pointed right to the Academy and Betsy Stone. But was she in on it? Or had someone used Betsy to get to the school? They had to be careful about questioning the nurse. If she got spooked and took off, they’d be back to square one. Finding out exactly who else was involved and why without ruining the school’s reputation was going to be a tough act to play. “What can I do?”

  “Kayla mentioned that you were doing some private investigative work.”

  “I’m still learning really.” Firsthand, she thought. The skills came in handy when she was rescuing women from their abusers. But the Cassandras didn’t know about that. Yet. “You don’t want to use your FBI connections to hunt, do you?”

  “No, this is personal. And I’d rather keep this between those I trust.”

  Darcy smiled, touched. “You want me to check out the surro
gate-mother angle? Won’t be easy. The trail is twenty years old but I’d bet if there was one, then there were more.”

  “I agree, Kayla’s running a search at Athena for possible leads and we’re still looking for the fertility specialist Rainy was seeing just before her death, Dr. Deborah Halburg.”

  Still? Where could the woman be? “I’ll get right on it. Alex, does Justin know about the egg mining?”

  “No. We really don’t have enough information yet. But he wants to work with us on the investigation. I…think it might be a good plan.” Something in Alex’s voice sounded odd. Had the renegade Dark Angel gotten under her usually reserved skin? Darcy suspected as much when Alex abruptly changed the subject. “And by the way, I had a car accident.”

  “What? Oh, my God! Were you hurt? When was this? What happened?”

  “Darcy.”

  “Yes?”

  “Take a breath.”

  She did, slowly. “Jeez, you must be okay if you’re that matter-of-fact about it.”

  “I’m fine, nothing major—but I passed out while driving.”

  “Like Kayla did on the Athena grounds?” Kayla had been searching for Rainy’s Athena medical files when she fainted dead away for no apparent reason, too.

  “I believe so.”

  That was three people. Rainy falling asleep at the wheel and dying. Kayla. And now Alex. “That’s no longer a coincidence, Alex.”

  “I agree. My doctor said there was nothing wrong with me to make me faint.”

  “This is getting dangerous. Someone doesn’t want us getting any closer to the truth.”

  “I will use every caution. And so should you.”

  There was a knock on the door and Meg peered inside, pointing to her head. “I hate to cut you off, but I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll let you know what I turn up as soon as I have something.”

  “Thanks, Darcy. And Darcy…” Alex seemed suddenly hesitant. It wasn’t like her. “If you need any help, for…anything at all, you know I’m here for you, too. We all are.”