by Linda Welch
Before I sat, I slowly turned a full circle, as if admiring the décor, but I didn’t see any cameras in there either. The reception area was under surveillance, but not the corridor to the executive’s office, or the office itself, which seemed to indicate Vance didn’t want what happened up here on record. Perhaps that was just my suspicious nature at work.
Vance had a large corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows on two walls. I couldn’t miss the crucifix everywhere. The wall cabinet must have held twenty or so, and small display cases near the windows several more. A six-foot carved wood cross dominated the west wall, and on the south wall a big rosary with carved onyx beads dripped down, with the crucified Christ hanging from the bottom bead. Huge, intricate and beautiful, it would have looked perfect on the walls of an ancient Byzantine church. Senora Gerarco would have loved it. A magnificent eight-inch cross of ornately detailed gold set with opals sat on his desk.
And at back of the room, in a tall glass cabinet, a sword like Ronald and John carried. This was gilt in color, and glowing gems decorated the long hilt and a guard shaped like two crucifix joined together, but it was the same length, with the same nasty, serrated blade.
Like I said before, I don’t believe in some types of coincidence.
Vance left his computer and sat at his desk. My resume already lay there. He picked it up and looked it over.
The resume was a fabrication, same as my name and appearance. The navy linen jacket and skirt were a little tight, as I’d gained a few pounds since I last wore them. The wig of black ringlets just brushed my shoulders, and I’d applied a medium shade of base makeup, with a touch of blush. I made up my eyes with shades of blue shadow and dark-blue mascara. I doubt I did a great job of it, but I’d had little practice. Why the disguise? If this didn’t pan out, it would not do for Phillip Vance to recognize me on the streets of Clarion.
The resume didn’t mention my work with police departments throughout the nation, my stint as a telemarketer for Bermans, or as a field surveyor in Wyoming; my one secretarial position, or all the fast-food restaurant gigs. According to the piece of paper in Vance’s hand, Hilary West last worked as personal assistant to a financier. I was knowledgeable, efficient and discrete.
As I waited, my scalp beneath the wig prickled and I couldn’t scratch. Talk about torment.
Vance was a hunk, and at first glance you would label him the friendly, jolly type. A handsome guy in his early forties, he had a really nice smile which reached his deep blue eyes. He practically radiated geniality. His light navy suit, white shirt, black leather brogues and the fancy gold watch on his wrist shouted expensive price tag. I liked his voice, mellow, and he took his time talking, no rush-you-in, rush-you-out involved.
“Your credentials are impressive, Miss West,” he began.
As we talked, I loosened up and got into the role. Vance made it easy. After discussing my skills and experience and where I had, supposedly, worked, we did the obligatory getting-to-know the prospective new employee thing. He asked me a few questions about hobbies, preference in literature, whereabouts I grew up, etcetera, and I made harmless comments in return.
“Your décor is unusual,” I observed, looking at the many crucifix, and the sword.
“I’m a collector,” Vance said with an easy smile.
“How interesting!” I returned his smile, but I found his choice of decoration disconcerting and I bet legitimate job applicants did too.
***
I turned Vance’s business card over in my fingers as I crossed Temple, wondering what he would think when he made the promised call to me in the morning, to a nonexistent telephone number. Royal and I would be in and out his office long before then. Vance thought I’d be a good fit for one of two positions in Salt Lake City, if I didn’t mind the commute.
I almost liked the man. What a shame if he was one of the bad guys. All that charisma wasted.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Royal sat with his back to the window, knees bent, heels on the edge of the couch. I perched on the facing couch. He looked boyish. I wanted to give him a cuddle.
I went over there, got behind him and gave him a cuddle.
He rested his head back on my shoulder and caressed my arm where it twined his neck. “What’s this in aid of?”
I spoke into his copper-gold hair. “I guess because I - ”
Alarm bells! Sirens! Back off, Tiff! Back off!
“ - feel like a cuddle,” I concluded.
His arms came up and back, and joined around my neck. “I wondered if I would ever hold you again.”
“Yeah, I know. Me too.”
Next thing I knew, with one tug he had me over the back of the couch and on his knees. We sat there for a while, just holding and feeling good. At least, I felt good and I figured he did too. I had missed that. I knew Royal and I couldn’t be only partners, or just friends. It was all or nothing with us.
I still had a lot to learn about the Gelpha enforcer who gave in to the demands of his people when he knew what they did was wrong, and the man who threw wooden spoons when he lost his temper, and sulked when I paid more attention to my roommates than to him; who could be maddeningly patient one moment and the next as cantankerous as me.
I didn’t know where our relationship would go. Maybe one of us would step over a line too wide to step back across. Maybe our differences would force us apart. If that happened, so be it. But not now.
Now, as his lips found my neck, the flat of his hand brushed over my nipples, I had other things on my mind. His touch was light, tentative.
I couldn’t stand it anymore. I took his face between my hands and kissed him, my lips frantically drawing on his. My hands went to the nape of his neck, holding him there as my tongue explored his mouth. I heard and felt him moan as he clutched me to him.
He helped me get my jeans and panties off while I struggled to push his down past his thighs. I meant to get them all the way off, but Royal lifted me atop him. There was no gentleness in our love-making, no foreplay; our urgency took control. Straddling his thighs, I guided him with my hand and swallowed him, muscles clamping on his hot, silk-sheathed length. Grasping my waist in his big hands, he bucked beneath me, and I rode him like a bronco-buster, gasping and crying out. With a single shout, he came a second before me. I writhed atop him, trying to prolong every last frisson of sensation.
I collapsed on his chest. Snuggling in, my face in his neck, still swimming in the aftermath, I inhaled his special demon scent.
I could have stayed there forever, but too few moments later, with a sigh, I made to lift off him. His hands tightened on my hips to hold me in place.
“Royal, I want to talk about Vance!”
Eyes closed, he smiled. “You can do that right where you are.”
I tried to pry his hands off, but couldn’t budge them a fraction.
“You don’t see anything bizarre on me still sitting . . . where I’m sitting, while we decide how we get in Vance’s place?”
“You feel so nice.” His lips twitched then spread in the slow, wicked smiled I knew so well. “I have no problem combining business with pleasure.”
I did. Concentrating would be awful hard. But not to be outdone, I tried to relax. If he could keep his cool, so could I.
I couldn’t do it. “I need the bathroom.”
With another quirk of his lips, he let me go. I eased off him, grabbed my clothes and walked the length of the living room to the half-bathroom behind the kitchen. I did what I had to, climbed into my panties and jeans and went back to him.
Royal was heading for the bathroom as I came out. Not only had he not put his pants on, he’d taken his shirt off. I almost walked into the kitchen counter. A tiny smile tweaked his lips. “Bastard,” I said under my breath, but I grinned as I moved toward the couch.
I waited, sweet contentment making me smile. The stiffness and distance between us was gone. I felt a sense of healing, of wounds closing and emotions swelling, warm and fam
iliar. I’m not so stupid I believed our relationship could return to what it once was, but we could have something good, we could make each other happy.
When he joined me - thankfully fully clothed - I curled one leg on the couch to sit sideways, facing him. “Okay, tell me, how do we get inside Vance’s office?”
He pursed his lips thoughtfully, which made me want to plaster mine to them. “Not by the elevator. There are cameras all over the garage, and although I can get us through there without them picking us up, we will be stationary inside the elevator. We will not know if there’s surveillance until we are inside it.”
“Probably is.” I chewed on my lower lip as I considered the technicalities of breaking and entering. “We can’t go through the front entrance, the street is lit up at night.”
“But there is the stairwell in the garage.”
I gently slapped him alongside the head. “You could have told me right off. Thanks a lot.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“I don’t know if there are cameras in Vance’s office. I didn’t spot any, but maybe they’re real small, or I wasn’t looking in the right place.”
“There should be a room for their surveillance equipment. We will find what we need to know in there.”
“Not if a night guard’s in there monitoring it.”
“I’ll know before we go in.”
Oh, yeah, that demon sensing thing of his.
“A lot of places feed their footage to a security agency after business hours,” he added helpfully.
I made a face. “Maybe we should forget it.”
He took my hand. “No. We cannot.”
I grinned. “We do it.”
“Tonight,” he agreed.
***
I parked my Subaru outside the Megaplex. We strolled toward the big glowing building arm in arm. The flashing green neon reminded me of Freddie Conroy and I reflexively glanced up to make sure no bodies dangled over the marquee. A few people left the giant theater and a whole lot went inside during the couple of minutes we walked beside it. The heat from the pavement came through the soles of my sandals, the air felt heavy and oppressive.
I nodded at Brenda as we passed her. Her eyes followed me and her hands tightened on the shopping cart, and I guessed she was disappointed when I didn’t stop to talk.
We crossed the side street, walked past an upscale mini-brewery and eatery called Murphy’s Tavern, and through the alley to the rear of the Emerson Building. I looked up. The windows were dark.
We stopped at the side entrance to the parking garage, empty of vehicles but brightly illuminated. Royal picked me up in his arms, hugged me to his chest and away we went.
Seconds later, we crouched in a stairwell just below the first floor, Royal with me on his knees, his arms tight around me. We sat there longer than necessary before he sighed and set me down on the step. He put his hand to my hair and I leaned into it with my eyes half closed. “I missed you, Tiff. So much.”
I smiled as I laid my palm on his chest. “Ditto.”
“Wait here. I’ll come back for you when I find their operations room.”
And he was gone. Faster than a speeding bullet, that’s my Royal.
The tile step felt cool and wriggling my butt didn’t make it comfortable. But I didn’t have time to chew more than one fingernail before he came back and squatted beside me. “Found it. Ready?”
“Ready,” I said, joining my arms around his neck. His arms clasped me to him, and the next thing I knew we were in a small room stuffed with two desks, PCs, monitors, and a bank of screens which showed us views of the inside of the building. Again, Royal held me longer than needed, his face in my hair, and as he let me down he took in a deep breath through his nose, as if pulling in my scent.
He walked about the little room, looking at all kinds of interesting things, like wires and conduits snaking down the walls, small metal boxes stuck here and there, and some larger units with digital readouts.
“Yes, whatever those cameras see is going to Gurley Security as we speak.”
I sagged. Damn! Were we through before we began?
“No problem. None of the monitors show Vance’s office.”
He was right. The reception area from two angles; a big office divided by partitions into small cubicles, each with a desk, chair, file cabinet and computer; a long corridor. But not Vance’s office, or the corridor leading to it. Nothing stirred. The building looked empty.
“I’m guessing, but I think Vance wants to keep what happens up there strictly private,” Royal said.
“My thoughts exactly.”
He came to my side. “Shall we?”
Another stomach-roiling burst of speed and we were outside Vance’s office. Royal left me teetering on my feet while he worked on the door. By the time I had my legs back, he had the door open and me inside. He went to the computer and got it up and running.
Vance apparently did run a legitimate business, and Royal soon had his temp employee files rolling up the screen. And there were the files of his agency staff. Royal grunted in his throat.
“What?”
He took a tiny flash drive from his pocket and plugged it in a USB port. He flexed his fingers like a piano player loosening up. “Now, let’s see what else we can find.”
I hung on his shoulder as data zipped up the monitor. Royal started typing.
A file folder popped up on the screen. Royal opened it and sixteen icons appeared, each a picture of a man. All were young and clean shaven and looked like weight-lifters, with muscles bulging their suit jackets and shirts. Royal clicked one of the icons and a new file opened.
Jason Solis. Thirty-two-years-old, tall, prematurely balding head of thin brown hair. Brown eyes. Nothing remarkable about him. But underneath, just about everything there was to know about Jason Solis scrolled up the screen. His history: born in Tulsa, Oklahoma in 1978, he went to school there and on to college; got himself a BA in social studies, joined the US Army. He retired after a four-year stint.
He went to work for Vance in 2005, and I somehow didn’t think he was registered as one of Vance’s employees. He was private hire. Very private.
Then it got interesting.
Vance had everything on this guy. His likes and dislikes, his hobbies, who he dated in High School, what his parents did for a living and where they lived. Every friend the man ever had, notes on them and on acquaintances. Where he had traveled. It went on and on. A man’s entire life on record in Vance’s computer. Not only his social security number, but bank accounts, credit cards, how much he spent and where. I had never seen anything this invasive.
Royal took down Solis’ file and brought up another. Same thing. Raymond Pickles, Mick Taylor, Gary Williams. Wendell Morris had white hair—he could be the one who hired John and Ronald. The files contained extensive information on all sixteen of Vance’s men.
Royal delved some more and brought up digital copies of their passports. Fourteen of the sixteen were not American and listed overseas addresses. Only two were US residents: Taylor from New York City, and Morris from Chicago. Morris was a recent hire.
Up came another screen and Royal hacked into Salt Lake City International Airport’s database. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “Most of his men were overseas till last week.” He looked up at me. “I think I know why Vance hired those bums to blow up Daven’s house. When he found Daven, he couldn’t wait for his little army to arrive, he wanted the job done ASAP. So he had Morris hire your down-and-outs. But they are here now, all sixteen of them.”
I puffed out a breath which ruffled his hair. “Then Vance is our guy.”
“I don’t doubt it. But this is not good enough, Tiff. This is not proof he’s involved in the slayings, or the disappearance of Rio Borrego.”
There wasn’t much else. Royal found a listing of properties leased by the Phillip Vance Executive Agency: a house on East Monroe and a storage garage on Warren.
He produced another flas
h drive, plugged it in another USB port and copied the data, disconnected both drives and tucked them in his hip pocket. “Are you up to taking a look around?”
I knew what he meant. We’d be zipping all over the place, but I didn‘t think my stomach could take much more. “Why don’t I wait in the operations room or whatever it’s called?”
Royal reached out, and I raised my arms so he could hold me, but he paused, frowning in concentration.
I started to speak, but he held up one hand to silence me. “Something strange. . . .”
He walked to the back of the room where the wooden cross hung, and pressed his palms to the wall either side of it. I didn’t know what to think as I watched his hands move over the wall, palms pressing and stroking.
A narrow section of wall, including the cross, silently slid back a few inches, then to the left and out of sight, leaving an empty rectangle about three-foot-wide and seven high. Royal grinned. “I knew there was something odd about this room.” He stepped through and disappeared.
Heart pounding, I went over there. It was a doorway, a dark gaping hole. I couldn’t see what lay beyond, I couldn’t see Royal.
“Tiff, you have to come see this,” he said loud in my ear, just as a bright light all but blinded me.
I jumped and slapped a hand to my chest. He was right beside me and I hadn’t seen him come back. “Good grief, Royal! Don’t do that!”
He laughed. I was so not amused.
“Ah, there it is.” He stroked his index finger down my cheek. “That wonderful flush.”
“It get’s that way when I’m alarmed, or angry, or embarrassed. Or just plain hot.”
He looked into my eyes with a smoky gaze. “You are always hot. I wonder I do not go up in flames when we touch.”
I swatted air as I felt my blush deepen. “Aw, flattery will get you everywhere.”
Now he’d turned on the lights, I saw the opening gave access to a small landing, a steep stairwell descending beyond it. “A secret staircase? You have got to be kidding.”
He laid his arm across my shoulders. “Come on. No cameras down here either and it is deserted.”