She took an easy run and circled the outer perimeter of the arena property several times, losing track of the count. Her knees ached from the Challenge, so she didn’t push herself.
She re-entered the hotel and stepped on the elevator, thinking about how she would spend her free time the next day. The idea of sightseeing in the middle of the contest seemed weird now, and she decided to hang around the hotel and arena, in case something important about the competition came up.
On the third floor, Lara slipped her card into the slot and pushed open the door to her room. She flipped on the light and let out a startled grunt. Kirsten was on her back on the floor and appeared to be dead.
Chapter 13
Six months earlier: Tues., Dec. 13, 5:07 p.m.
Paul took his third MetaboSlim before leaving work, washing it down with the remains of his afternoon tea. The diet pills were working incredibly well and he was down a pound since Saturday. They also gave him an energy and confidence he’d never had before. Tonight he would need both. Camille had noticed the change in him that afternoon and had commented that he seemed “perky.”
He would have preferred a more masculine adjective, but for someone who’d spent his life on the sidelines, it was great to be noticed. He’d asked Camille for the name of the gym where she worked out and decided he would join. He was beginning to understand that his makeover had to be more than just physical. He needed a social overhaul as well, and joining a fitness club seemed like a good start.
Outside, he peeled off his tie just to be rid of it and walked nine blocks to the nearby gym, battling a cold wind the whole way. His iCom beeped as he arrived at the new facility, so he stood in the lobby and answered it.
“It’s Isabel. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No, sorry. I’m hungry, that’s all. How are you?”
“I’m okay, but feeling tired. I’m a little worried about you. Why haven’t you called lately?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been busy at work and have a lot on my mind. But I’m doing great. I’ve decided to get a nose job.” For some reason he hadn’t told her before. Maybe because it still didn’t seem real.
“Oh Paul.” She hesitated. “I think you’re perfect the way you are, but if it’ll make you happy, then I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks. I’m pretty excited about it.” The woman at the counter signaled him. “I’ve got to go now. I’m joining a gym. I’ll see you Sunday for dinner.”
“A gym? What’s going on? Have you met a girl?”
“I can’t talk about it yet.”
“Okay, but soon. Bye, sweetie.”
Paul spent half an hour touring the facility with a tiny Asian woman, then clenched his teeth and signed a year contract. He hated to spend the money but the wild weather made outdoor exercise nearly impossible and he knew his VEx had limitations.
When he finally arrived home, he took Lilly out for a few minutes, then scarfed down a chicken salad for dinner. Having food in his stomach took the edge off his irritation and he relaxed in front of his NetCom. First, he searched for a cosmetic dentist, then he watched a live cam of a woman in Montana who raised and trained Great Danes. Paul loved the creatures but the thought of owning such a big dog intimidated him. He stroked Lilly as he watched the woman teach a Brindle to sit and wait for permission to eat. “We’re not like that here,” he reassured his little pet.
At eight o’clock, Paul grabbed his wig and mustache from the back of the closet and stuffed them into a backpack. He changed into a pair of dark blue athletic pants and a zip-up jacket, which he’d purchased for the occasion. No one who knew him—and he could count those people on one hand—would ever connect him to someone dressed this way. Now that he belonged to a gym, that might change in the future. He’d arranged the meet for nine o’clock and hoped no one in his complex would see him go out.
By the time he climbed on the bus, the diet pill had reached its maximum potency and Paul’s nervousness faded. He rode to the corner of Florida and Holbrook and headed for a nearby gas station, where he planned to use the restroom. The once-bustling business had only one car at the pump. The dirty metal door on the side of the building was locked, and Paul had to ask for the key. The semi-bald guy in the station booth barely looked at him, and Paul was momentarily grateful for his bland appearance.
He pulled on his disguise and checked his iCom for the time: 8:47 p.m. He headed back out and circled behind the gas station so the attendant wouldn’t see him in the shoulder-length wig, then walked in the direction of the Pizza Hut, where the transfer would take place. If Rathmore had followed directions, he would be there now, sitting in a booth near the door with his back to the entrance. A manila envelope would be on the table, where Paul could simply grab it, turn, and leave. This meet was simpler and less cautious than the previous mission, but Rathmore had followed directions last time, so Paul was less worried about a confrontation now.
The rich aroma of melted cheese and sizzling pepperoni hit his nostrils as soon as he stepped through the glass door, yet neither his brain nor his stomach responded with a craving. Again, Paul was impressed with the MetaboSlim supplements.
Only three tables in the restaurant were occupied, but his eyes were drawn to the one filled with an African American woman in her late twenties and three small children. The group seemed noisy and happy, but Paul thought it was too late for school-age children to be out having dinner.
In the booth nearest the door, he saw the back and shoulders of a tall man. Paul couldn’t be certain it was Rathmore, but the guy had the same short gray hair and long pale neck. The man didn’t turn at the sound of the door closing. Excellent. Paul took three quick steps, bringing him parallel with the back of the booth. He stopped abruptly, grabbed the manila envelope from the table, and spun back around.
As he strode toward the door, a child’s voice called out, “Hey, that man stole something!”
His nerves jumped at the sound, so Paul shoved the parcel inside his jacket, pushed opened the glass door, and pulled up his zipper. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rathmore rise from the booth. Damn! Was he coming after him? Or pretending to be for the sake of the restaurant’s other patrons? Paul broke into a casual jog, like a man trying to burn a few calories. He heard the jingle of the restaurant door open and close behind him, then the sound of footsteps picking up pace.
Paul sped up, heading for Tennessee Avenue. He’d planned to catch a bus after the drop, but now he just wanted to lose Rathmore. Few businesses were open and he saw nowhere to duck into. He rounded a corner and tried to plan an escape as he ran. The footsteps pounded behind, Rathmore’s long legs closing the gap, his pursuer silent and determined.
Feeling unnerved, yet strangely exhilarated, Paul charged toward Maryland Avenue, where he thought he could catch a bus or taxi. A couple came out of a lounge and stared as Paul and his pursuer raced by. As he reached the corner, Rathmore caught up to him and grabbed his jacket. He tried to jerk free, but the man hung on. Nerves bursting, Paul finally spun around and shoved Rathmore with all his might.
To his surprise, the taller man went down on his butt and cried out in pain. Paul turned and ran, pushing past a group of homeless women to round the corner. No footsteps came after him. He kept running, and two blocks later, waved down a cab.
“You okay?” the driver asked, as Paul climbed in, breathing heavily.
“Yeah. I almost got mugged.”
“You need a weapon.” The cabbie, a middle-eastern looking man, grinned at him in the rearview mirror.
“I think you’re right.”
Back in his apartment, Paul dumped the envelope on his kitchen table and was relieved to see a bundle of cash fall out. When he counted the hundred-dollar bills, he realized Rathmore had shorted him $1,700. What the hell?
Disappointed, but still pleased to have another $8,300 to fund his makeover, Paul wondered how he should handle the shortage. He was tempted to mess with Rathmore’s files, let him struggle a little
to explain himself in the interview. As he got ready for bed, Paul decided to let it go. Rathmore had paid $18,300 for the possibility of a better job, and Paul realized there were others just like him.
Chapter 14
Mon., May 8, 9:05 p.m.
Lara reacted first like a paramedic, kneeling next to the victim and pressing two fingers against Kirsten’s neck. She had no pulse. Christ. Lara flashed back to how she and Kirsten had worked together just that afternoon to shove a long pole into a bizarre door key. Now this vibrant young woman was gone. Lara tried not to think about the victim’s parents and how they would react to the tragic news. This time she would not be the one to tell them.
She spotted parallel burn marks in the V above Kirsten’s plunging neckline. Her roommate had been hit by a stun gun.
Her next reaction was pure civilian. She jumped to her feet, looked around in panic, and thought, Oh fuck, they’ll blame me.
After mentally replaying her heated encounter with Kirsten and realizing the cameras had caught it all, Lara’s detective training kicked in. She checked her iCom, then scanned the room in a slow rotation and took it all in. The body was near the door with no sign of struggle and no defense wounds that she could see. The killer had simply come to the door with the stun gun ready and hit Kirsten in the chest as soon as she opened it. Most stun weapons weren’t lethal even at the highest settings, but they could be, and Kirsten was clearly dead. Had her attacker smothered her while she was unconscious?
Why, for christ sake? Kirsten was annoying, but now that she was no longer a contestant, why would anyone come here and kill her? A realization hit Lara like a body slam. The assailant could be Bremmer, the shooter who’d followed her here. The son-of-a-bitch might be worried that she could identify him and now wanted to silence her. Poor Kirsten had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Fuck! Another death on her hands. Rage erupted in her chest and Lara wanted to hit something. She paced the room, trying to decide her next move. She had no choice but to report the body, but as soon as she did, the D.C. police would haul her in for questioning. When they discovered her Taser—which was on the video footage from yesterday morning—they’d keep her in lockup until she could hire a lawyer. That’s what she would do if she were assigned the case. As a detective, she’d also look for a better motive. Even though she and Kirsten had argued, Lara had no reason to kill her. She’d already beaten her in the Challenge, and Kirsten was scheduled to fly home in the morning.
Fighting back anguish, Lara accepted that the Gauntlet was over for her. She’d miss her round in the Puzzle while they questioned her, and afterward she’d probably be quietly sent home with the others who’d failed.
Lara made two decisions. One, she would hide her 9-millimeter, which no one seemed to know she had, so the police couldn’t confiscate it, and two, she would call the employment commissioner before she did anything else. If the killer really was his boyfriend, Morton needed to know Bremmer was out of control. And if anyone could or would keep her in the competition, it was the commissioner. She could still make trouble for him by telling the cops about the shooting incident at his house.
Lara didn’t plan to do that. She felt guilty, knowing she would make it harder for whoever investigated Kirsten’s death, but she would make up for it by looking for Bremmer herself. Lara spoke Morton’s number into her iCom, not trusting her shaky fingers to key it in: It’s Lara Evans from Eugene. My roommate is dead, and I think your lover, or whoever it was that shot at you, followed me here and tried to silence me. I think he killed Kirsten by mistake.
She scanned the text, decided it was fine and said, “Send.”
Morton hadn’t responded to her last message about smoothing things over with the director, so Lara had no idea when or if she would hear from him. How long should she wait? Lara decided to contact Minda Walters if she didn’t hear from the commissioner in the next five or ten minutes. The director would not be pleased, but she would want to be informed in advance.
While she waited, Lara dug out her all-purpose tool and her duct tape. She unscrewed the vent in the bathroom ceiling and taped the gun to the side of the metal pipe. Unless cops were looking for drugs, they wouldn’t search there. Anxiety built steadily as she fastened the cover back in place. How long would she be without the gun? Six hours? Twenty-four? Lara dug in her bag for her Mace, then changed into jeans.
She waited five minutes, checked her iCom even though it hadn’t beeped, then sat down at the NetCom. She looked at recent incoming messages, found the one Minda had sent that morning, and hit Reply. The message went straight to Minda’s hotel room/office, and after eight beeps, the director’s face appeared in the corner. She wore a silky shirt that looked like a pajama top but her tattooed makeup gave her a wide-awake look. Lara felt sweaty and disheveled from her run.
“What is it, Lara? It’s inappropriate to contact me at this hour unless you have an emergency.”
“Kirsten’s dead. I came back from a run and found her on the floor.”
“Dear God.” The director’s hand flew to her face. For three seconds, she seemed stunned, then she kicked into program-director mode. “What does she look like? Has she been shot? Is she a bloody mess?”
“There are no obvious wounds. I think she might have been tasered.”
A moment of silence.
“If I had done it, I wouldn’t be calling you. It looks like random violence.”
“Have you called the police?”
“No, I thought you might want to handle it.”
“Stay in the room. I’ll make the call and handle the media.” Minda’s image disappeared. Lara thought it was odd that the director expected her to sit in a room with a dead body, but Minda knew all of their bios, including the fact that Lara had been a homicide detective. Her iCom beeped and she snatched it from the desk.
The commissioner’s face appeared in the small screen, so Lara tapped the Speaker option. “Sorry for the bad news. I just told Minda and she’s calling the police.”
“You need to keep your theories to yourself.” Morton spoke like a man used to making people jump. Lara didn’t like it, but she let him finish. “Richard Bremmer didn’t kill your roommate. That’s nonsense, so please don’t mention it to the police. It was probably Kirsten’s boyfriend or some guy she blew off.”
“I saw Bremmer in the back of the room at the orientation this morning. He either followed you here or he followed me. Someone asked about me at the hotel desk before I arrived. I think I’m in danger.”
Morton scowled. “I’ll get you some protection. It’ll seem natural after your roommate was killed.”
“Thank you.” Lara knew it was time to confront him. “The guy who shot you, he’s not really your lover, is he? There’s something else going on.”
“He is my boyfriend and there’s nothing nefarious. You spent too many years as a cop and now you’re paranoid.”
“Or just finely tuned to bullshit. Call him off me, whoever he is.”
“I said I’d get you protection.”
“What I need is for you to make sure the cops don’t hold me long enough to miss the Puzzle on Wednesday. They’ll consider me a suspect.”
“I don’t have much clout with law enforcement, but I’ll do what I can. Please keep quiet about our earlier encounter.”
“Okay.” Lara paused. “For now. If they charge me with murder, I’ll tell them everything.”
“Don’t! I have to go, Minda’s messaging me.” Morton cut her off, and Lara sat down on the couch to plan what she would say when the police showed up.
Minda arrived first, bursting in without knocking. She had a cameraman with her, as always. Lara didn’t move from the couch. From the hall, Minda glanced over at her and said, “We may or may not use this footage, depending on how this incident plays out in the ratings, but we have to film it.”
“You should stay out of the crime scene.” Lara stayed put. She wanted no part of this broadcast.
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br /> Minda turned back to her cameraman, gave him a few directions, then recorded a short segment directed to the viewers, a video clip they might never see.
The camera guy came in for a close-up of the body and Lara winced. If the killer had dropped any trace evidence, it could be ruined or compromised by contamination. This would be bad for the crime scene tech who processed the scene…if they still sent technicians out. Maybe the detectives had to do all of it now. Most local law enforcement budgets had cut everything and everyone considered nonessential.
A police officer stepped into the room. “Shut off that camera and get away from the body.” The stocky Hispanic cop didn’t shout, but he carried an authority that few would defy. The cameraman started to move further into the room. This time, the officer shouted. “No! Out in the hall. But don’t leave.”
The camera guy hustled past the cop and out the door. The officer looked over at Lara. “You’re the roommate who found the body?”
“Yes.”
“Stay there. A detective will be here to talk to you in minute.” He turned to Minda in the hallway. “Who are you?”
“Minda Walters, the director of the Gauntlet.”
“Were you with her when she found the body?”
“No. Lara informed me that Kirsten was dead, and I came down to see the situation.”
“Where were you before?”
“In my room here at the hotel.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, but I was involved in a video chat with several people who can testify that I didn’t leave my room until I heard from Lara.”
“Please go back to your room and stay there until another officer arrives and can clear you.” He sent the cameraman away with the same directions, then stepped back into the hall to stand guard. The presence of only one patrol officer at a homicide was indicative that the D.C. police had suffered similar budget cuts as Oregon had.
The Gauntlet Assassin (An Action Thriller) Page 9