by Jay MacLarty
Simon glanced at the man’s security badge: R. J. Kelts. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before, R.J. You’re new?”
“Aye. First day.”
“You sound Irish.”
“Aye, that I am, sir. And you are…?”
Simon pulled open the front of his jacket, exposing his security badge. “I’m expected.”
“Oh, yessir. I saw your name on the list.” He extracted a keycard from the breast pocket of his blazer, slipped it into the magnetic card reader, waited for the click, then pushed open the door. “Have a good day, sir.”
“You too.” For an instant, Simon considered asking if she was alone, then thought better of it. “Good luck with the new job.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Simon closed the door, waited a moment for his eyes to adjust, then worked his way toward the bedroom, and the only sliver of light in the suite. Hoping her dinner with Atherton had not turned into something more carnal, he tapped lightly on the door. “You—” Distracted by images of erotic interplay, he almost said alone. “—decent?”
Her voice, husky from sleep, barely penetrated the door. “I may not be great, Leonidovich, but I’m better than decent, you can bet on that.”
That he believed, though more information than he cared to ponder. “I’ll take your word for it.” He pushed open the door. She was propped up against a mountain of pillows, the bed covers pulled to her chin. She gave him the squinty eye, a feigned look of displeasure. “Don’t you ever sleep, Leonidovich?”
“Five good hours. What more does a person need?”
“Six would be nice.”
Meaning she hadn’t gotten in before 2 A.M. “Six!” Though he had no right to be jealous, he couldn’t help but envy the time she was spending with the suave James Atherton. “Six is for wimps.”
“Don’t pick on me, Leonidovich. I know things.”
“Lies and rumors,” he fired back, feeling better now that he knew she was alone. “Exaggerations and innuendo.”
“That’s what I thought. It was all too good to be true.”
“Exactly. They don’t call me bad-to-the-bone, for nothing.”
“Ha! You don’t know the meaning of bad, Leonidovich.” One naked arm snaked out from beneath the coverlet. “Coffee! I need coffee.”
He handed over one of the containers. “What’s with the new guard dog.”
“That’s Robbie.” She took a small sip of coffee, carefully checking the temperature as she always did, then sucked down a healthy gulp. “He’s my new body man.”
Body man, now there was a job a man could get into. “What happened to Paul?”
She shrugged, exposing her bare shoulders. “No idea. The manager of the security company called yesterday. They lost a couple of men, the only ones on my detail who spoke English. Told me to expect a couple of new faces.”
“Lost…?”
“That’s all I know. Robbie showed at seven o’clock.”
“Robbie?”
“Robert Joseph Kelts.” She cocked her head toward a profile sheet laying on the nightstand. “Don’t you just love his accent?”
“Heterosexual men never admit loving anything about another man. I read it in the Rock Hudson Guide to Machismo.”
“Men have such silly rules.”
“Don’t get me started on the female species.” He picked up the profile sheet and began scanning through the particulars. “I thought he looked young. Only twenty-four.”
She smiled, a wicked little grin. “What you call ‘young,’ I call eye candy.”
“I thought that was Atherton.” He regretted the words instantly—a foolish, shoot from the hip remark—but they were already gone and he couldn’t retract them.
She cocked her head to one side, a puzzled expression. “You don’t like James?”
Afraid he would sound like a jealous schoolboy, he ignored the question, keeping his eyes on the profile of Robert Joseph Kelts, aka R.J., aka Robbie. “He does seem to have plenty of experience.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she answered, as if they were still talking about Atherton. “We’ve only had dinner.”
Was she purposely providing information, checking his reaction, or was he reading too much into too little? “He’s been with the same security service since his discharge from the SAS. Moved here from Hong Kong about a month ago.”
“I saw that. What’s the SAS?”
“Special Air Service. It’s a division of the British military. Small commando units. Very elite.”
“Guess you’ll have to start being nice to me, Leonidovich. He sounds tough.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The playful twinkle faded. “You talk to my mother yet?”
“An hour ago. The flight went well; no complications. She likes the hospital and all the doctors.”
“And…?”
“No change.”
She emitted a long sigh, the sound of hope fading. “I should be there.”
“No, you shouldn’t. This competition between you and Billie isn’t going to help your father.”
“Competition?” She gave a little snort, as if the word gave her a bad taste. “Believe me, I’m not competing with my mother. It’s just that—”
“Come on, Kyra, it’s obvious. You were both out of Jake’s life for years, and now you’re competing for his approval and affection.”
She stared back at him, as if trying to decide whether to be insulted or angry, then simply shook her head. “You really do piss me off, Leonidovich.”
“Sorry.” But he could tell she was only being sarcastic. “It’s a special gift, the ability to say exactly the right thing at the wrong time.” He hesitated, feigning a look of confusion. “Or is it the wrong thing at the right time? I can never remember.”
“You’re too damn smart is what you are.”
“Yup, I hear that a lot. Smartass this, smartass that. It’s all very gratifying.”
“I can only imagine. Okay, smartass, I need to take a shower. Turn around.”
He did as ordered, fixing his gaze on a molded duplicate of the Crest of Ch’in, a framed adornment in all of the executive suites. “Don’t take forever, Rynerson, we need to talk. I may have discovered something important.”
“I’ll be quick,” she answered, her voice fading toward the bathroom. “Five minutes.”
Bathroom. Female. Five minutes. No way that was going to happen. He snapped on the television, a fifty-inch plasma with a wireless keyboard and Internet connection, and settled into a comfortable armchair, but before he could get halfway through his e-mail messages she was back, scampering across the room in a fluffy white towel that barely covered her féminin délicieux.
“Didn’t think I could do it, did you?”
Despite the taunting implorations of the horny little devil whispering in his ear, Simon managed to keep his attention glued to the screen. “Never doubted you for a second.”
“You’re not only a smartass, Leonidovich, you’re a smartass liar.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“You take your eyes off that television, you’ll be singing soprano at the Temple of Lost Jewels.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Rynerson, I’ve seen you naked, remember? Nothing special.”
“Yeah, but back then I looked like a refugee from Dachau. Now I’ve got some meat on my bones.”
Well-toned meat, but this time he was smart enough to keep such insightful commentary to himself. “Yes, ma’am, eyes front, mouth shut.”
“What’s the weather like?”
Despite his good and honorable intentions, he could see her nude reflection in the television. Very well-toned.
“Earth to Simon.”
“What?”
“Is it still raining?”
“Yeah. I mean no. It was.” Damn, he sounded like a junkie on crystal meth. “It stopped about an hour ago. Supposed to be dry for the next couple of days.”
“Hallelujah.” She turned an
d disappeared into the closet. “You said you may have found something important.”
He tried to refocus, to erase the vision of her naked body from his mind, but knew it was hopeless, the image forever frozen in the occipital lobe of his brain. “I went to the hospital last night.”
“Oh…?” Her reflected image—now covered in a bra and boy-short panties—reappeared in the closet doorway.
“I wanted to talk to Dr. Yuan. Some things about the shooting didn’t make sense to me.”
“How’s that?” She pulled on a pair of wheat-colored slacks.
“Your father was hit twice, once in the chest, once in the side. I assumed…I think we all did…the impact of the first shot spun him around before the second bullet hit his side.”
“I didn’t really think about it,” she admitted. “But sure, that makes sense.”
“Except that’s not what happened.”
“How…” Her voice momentarily faded as she pulled a sleeveless top over her head. “…know that?”
“Because the bullets came from different guns. One from a 9 mm. The other from a 22.” There was more, odd things he couldn’t explain and didn’t feel comfortable discussing—not with her. Not yet. “Two bullets. Two shooters.”
“Mother didn’t say anything about a second gunman.”
“No. She didn’t.” He could have said more, but wanted to give her time to work through the information.
She stood there, frozen in the doorway, the wheels turning. “Maybe she didn’t see the other guy; it must have been pretty frightening.”
“Probably,” he agreed, though he didn’t believe it. Billie Rynerson didn’t frighten, and she didn’t miss much. “But that’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“Two shooters from two different directions. That doesn’t sound like a botched robbery to me.”
“You’re saying—” She hesitated, thinking about it. “A professional hit?” She shook her head, rejecting the idea. “No. You’re wrong. If it was a hit, Daddy would be dead. They would have made sure.”
It didn’t take her long to identify that inconsistency, but that was only one of many, and only a small part of the wild-ass theory he wasn’t about to share. “There’s more.” He pulled Jake’s smartphone from his pocket, switched on the power, and navigated over to the appointment calendar. “Look at this.”
She came across the room and leaned over his shoulder, her scent soapy and fresh, her damp hair slicked straight back from her forehead. “What?”
“It’s your father’s cell phone. I retrieved it from the hospital.” He navigated over to the appointment calendar, tapped June 27, and pointed to the 10 P.M. entry: Mei-li Chiang. “That’s Jake’s last appointment. The day he was shot.”
“Uh-oh.” She stepped back.
That was not the reaction he expected, not even close. “You know her?”
“No, of course not. I just…never mind.”
Never mind wasn’t on the agenda—he was getting enough evasion from Billie. “What? You recognize the name?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just—” She sucked her cheeks into hollows and rolled her eyes. “It’s just that…it looks like Daddy might be up to his old ways.”
It took Simon a moment to process the remark. “Are you talking about another woman?” Stupid question, of course that’s what she was talking about. “Don’t be crazy, Billie was with him.”
“Unless she wasn’t. That would explain why she didn’t see a second gunman. She’s trying to cover up for that horny old bastard, make excuses for him, just like she always has. He was out tomcatting, you can bet on it. Why else would he be meeting a woman in that neighborhood? That time of night?”
“You’re way off base.” At least that’s what he hoped. “I knew something was wrong with the story, and I pressed her about it. She finally admitted Jake was trying to set up a meeting.”
“It sounds like she’s feeding you a line. Why would she have lied in the first place?”
“She was embarrassed. Said she didn’t want to admit that Jake was willing to pay a bribe.”
“Mother? Embarrassed? Are we talking about the same person? That woman has balls like the Jolly Green Giant. Please, don’t tell me you believe that embarrassed crap?”
Actually he didn’t. Billie was still holding back, still waffling around the truth, but he couldn’t believe Jake was on the prowl—he loved his wife too much. “It was a trap. He was lured into the area.”
“And just how did you arrive at that conclusion?”
He toggled over to a text entry linked to the appointment. “Look at these directions. It took me over an hour to trace the route. Someone was running them in circles.”
She stared at him, incomprehension in her eyes. “Why?”
“To make sure they didn’t have security.”
“That’s a pretty big assumption.”
No, it was experience—El Pato had done the same thing to him in Cali—but mentioning the man who had killed her husband didn’t seem like such a brilliant idea. “Call it intuition.” Something most woman considered completely reasonable. Assumption, no. Intuition, yes. The logic was beyond his neolithic comprehension.
“So you’re saying…?”
“I’m saying the shooting wasn’t a random street crime. Maybe they were trying to kill him, maybe they only meant to scare him off, but it’s all connected. We find out who’s behind the shooting, we’ll find out who’s behind the accidents here at the Pearl.”
“And just how do you plan to do that?”
He tapped his finger on Big Jake’s last appointment. “Mei-li Chiang.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Central Macau, the old village
Wednesday, 4 July 21:18:12 GMT +0800
James Atherton pushed open the door to the underground bistro and stepped aside. “This okay?”
Kyra nodded, her saliva glands reacting instantly to the smell of grilled lamb and fresh mint. “Smells great.” She paused, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light before stepping inside. “Looks even better.”
The place was subdued and intimate, with lots of candles that cast soft flickering shadows across the tables and up the dark brick walls. He seemed to know all the good places. Not the ones found in guidebooks, but small and quiet. And very dark. With each successive night the places seemed to get smaller and darker and more intimate. If things got any more intimate, they would be eating breakfast in bed, and the thought of it scared the bejesus out of her. Was she ready? Was Atherton someone she could build a life with? He certainly had the assets: sophisticated and smart, with a good sense of humor and impeccable manners. All the important stuff. And it didn’t hurt that it came wrapped in such a nice package. So why the hesitation?
He stepped forward, peering into her eyes. “Is everything okay?”
“Of course. Why?”
“You looked, uh…confused, I guess.”
You have no idea, but before she could think of an appropriate response, they were facing a small man wearing a crisp white apron wrapped high across his stomach. He bowed, his wrinkled skin the color and texture of old leather, then led them to a corner table at the back of the room. He waited patiently as they settled into their seats, then took their drink order, and withdrew. Atherton leaned forward over the small table, his amber eyes sparkling in the candlelight, his voice barely a whisper. “You look especially beautiful tonight.”
She smiled, trying her best to look pleased. Such compliments always made her nervous. And suspicious. Was it her, or was it the Rynerson money? Atherton was different, she knew that; he had money, had his own company, and hadn’t shown the slightest interest in the Rynerson empire. Loosen up, lady, the guy likes you. “Thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself.”
He smiled, a slow tentative smile that ended before it reached his eyes. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t.” Was it that obvious? “It’s just—” She
could feel her face growing warm with embarrassment. “I don’t take compliments very well.”
“I understand. I’m sure you’ve heard that one a thousand times.”
“It’s not that. It’s…”
“They make you suspicious,” he said. “Does he like me, or that I’m the daughter of Big Jake Rynerson?”
She nodded, feeling foolish and transparent. “Something like that.”
The smile expanded to his eyes. “Maybe I’m just trying to get you into bed.”
“Are you?”
“Absolutely.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“Patient.”
That she believed. Despite all the time they had spent together, the only thing that had passed between them was a good night kiss on the cheek. “Patience is good.”
He nodded and sat back. “You’re not ready. It’s a big step.”
It aggravated her—the fact that he was so right. “It’s been a while.”
“I understand. It was easier when we were young. No baggage. No pressure. No instant appraisal.”
“Instant appraisal?”
“That’s the way I see it. After a certain age, there’s no such thing as a casual date. No time for that. The clock is ticking. You need to bag someone. Would this person make a good partner? What are his assets? What are his liabilities? By the second date most women are asking, ‘where is this going?’” He shook his head, amused at the thought. “Hell, I was thinking dinner, a little conversation, maaaybe a romp between the sheets. She’s thinking dinner, a white picket fence, and babies.”
She could barely suppress a sigh of relief. Not only was he right, he was clearly in no rush to bag her, or the Rynerson fortune. “I get it, you don’t like babies.”
Though she meant to be funny, he seemed to take her seriously, his expression stony as he rolled his hand from side to side, a comme cí, comme ça gesture. “Depends how they’re cooked.”
The words, delivered in such deadpan fashion, caught her so completely off guard that for a moment she thought she might actually lose control of her bladder, but somehow managed to hold on through an uncontrollable onslaught of laughter. She had barely caught her breath when the waiter appeared with drinks and menus. Eyes still swimming, she slid her menu across the table to Atherton. “Surprise me.”