Flash Point

by Thomas Locke

  Their descent took them through heavy clouds, then Reese caught glimpses of a rain-shrouded city with tall buildings by a large body of water. She assumed it was either Jacksonville or Savannah, but because she did not know their air speed she couldn’t be certain.

  They transferred from jet to limo. The city was indeed Jacksonville. Reese recognized the landmark Mathews Bridge as they crossed the St. Johns River. She had been there a few times, back in her former life, the one where she regarded the backseat of limos with the same bored tension as Vera apparently did now.

  Reese completed her third read-through on the ride into town. They pulled into the Omni Hotel, then continued over to a small side entrance with its own green awning. When Reese saw the spa sign, she could not hold back the sigh.

  Her evident pleasure only made Vera more sour. “There’s a Neiman Marcus two blocks down on the left.”

  “I saw it.”

  “Go to the private shopper’s department on the fourth floor. An account has been set up in your name. Get a business suit and whatever else you need.” She checked her watch. “I’ll be back for you in exactly five hours.”

  Reese’s only response was another electric alarm in her gut. She rose from the limo and stood there under the dripping awning, staring at the empty space where the limo had been, running through Vera’s final comments, knowing there was an underlying current. She was missing a vital clue. When it continued to elude her, she turned and entered the spa.

  The receptionist was young, lovely, and clearly unsettled by something she saw or sensed about Reese. “We have you down for a facial, hair, nails, and a massage. Do you have any preferred order?”

  “Sauna and rub, then the rest together,” Reese answered, pleased that she managed the foreign words so easily. “And make sure the masseuse has fingers of iron.”

  Reese fell asleep almost as soon as the woman started working on her. Then something in her lizard brain shouted alarm, and she jerked so hard and came upright so fast the woman slammed into the side wall. The masseuse was big, well over two hundred and fifty pounds, and had skin the color of aged mahogany.

  Reese said, “Sorry.”

  “Did I hit a nerve? Ma’am, I’m so sorry. They told me you asked for a deep-tissue massage.”

  Reese could lie, but she had to tell the woman something. She decided there was no reason to hide the truth. “I just got out.”

  The woman showed a knowing awareness. “You mean . . .”

  “Federal pen. Fourteen months and three weeks. I’ve been out seven days.”

  The woman humphed a sound that was more sympathy than laugh. “You just lie back down, honey. Let Keisha work her magic.” She stepped back to the table and said, “No wonder you’re tight. I’ve felt steel bands that were less wound up.”

  The cosmetician was the last to finish and so the one to ask, “Will madam be wanting anything else?”

  Reese had no choice then but to examine her reflection. The mirror covered the entire wall and had such brilliant lighting the somber truth glared at her.

  Reese Clawson stared at a feral beast.

  Her eyes had retreated into tight caves. But their positioning was slightly off because of the scarred indentation over her right eyebrow where Charlie Hazard had hammered her. Her jaw was somewhat askew from a second blow that had shattered bone. The prison doctor had been utterly unconcerned with preserving her beauty, and the result was a slightly off-kilter cast to her features and scars like angry valleys. The cosmetician had done her best, reducing the scars down to a pair of shadows. But they still served as arrows to the flawed bone structure.

  Elements of her former beauty were still present, but only as hints to how far she had fallen and how hard her landing. No degree of professional shading could hide the cavernous depths to her cheeks. Prison life had turned her blonde hair both limp and semi-transparent, so the stylist had sheared it down to an almost military length. Her mouth had become permanently compressed, as though her full lips were a weakness she could no longer afford. Prison food and her workout regime had honed Reese down to all sinew and bone. Combined with her pasty complexion and rage-filled gaze, she looked like a throwback to some primitive race that devoured their enemies.

  She smiled, and even before it was fully formed, Reese knew it was a mistake. The cosmetician was a young beauty and could not quite hide her wince of fear.

  Reese said softly, “I believe we’re all done here.”

  The private shopping department in Neiman Marcus was a carefully designed tactic to separate rich people from a great deal of their money. The central parlor was domed like a Grecian temple and lined with bar and buffet and eager staff, all of whom were slender and beautiful and perfectly groomed. What they thought of Reese arriving in sweatshirt and cargo pants was hidden behind polished smiles and words of welcome. She declined the champagne and accepted a plate of delicacies. She was not genuinely hungry, but Reese had lost her ability to turn down food. Young women brought in one outfit after another. Reese pretended to be interested. But in truth her focus remained internal.

  There were mirrors everywhere. She could not escape personal examination, so she gave herself over to the inevitable. She did not feel the anger that was so embedded in her features. She searched hard and could only say she really didn’t feel much of anything. Perhaps that was the purest essence of rage, she decided. To swallow it like a dark pill, have it become a component of her cellular form. It no longer needed to be felt. It simply was.

  As she selected three complete outfits that she deemed worthy of corporate boardrooms, Reese gave over to digesting what she had learned. She mentally swam through the depths of figures and facts contained in the files. She made two decisions. She formulated a three-stage attack.

  Then she focused upon the real mystery.

  This entire episode, Reese decided, was designed with one thing in mind. Someone who could not contact her directly was determined to communicate with Reese. Now. Today. That was why she was here, being pampered and fitted. Whoever they were, they had designed this elaborate process to send her a message.

  The further she proceeded along this line of thought, the more convinced Reese became that Vera was part of the message. An unwilling component, most certainly. But vital just the same.

  The week in a motel, the limo, the Lear, the folders, the second limo, the spa, and now this. All of it intended to speak to her.

  Now that she was seeing this in the right perspective, the message was clear enough.

  All this boiled down to a four-word message that she finally understood.

  Reese was not alone.

  With the alterations to her new clothes completed, Reese packed everything else in her new Coach valise and left the store wearing a Lanvin suit that would have worked well at a fashionable funeral. She had no intention of attending anyone’s wake, most especially her own. But the client’s file had been perfectly clear on the people she needed to impress.

  When she returned to the spa, the limo was waiting. Vera was nowhere to be found. Reese settled into the rear seat and gave herself over to the mystery’s final component.

  Who could possibly care enough about her to want her to succeed?

  8

  The Waldorf Astoria was an art deco throwback, a nod to the good taste and flair of a bygone era. Some New Yorkers turned up their noses at the lobby’s inlaid mahogany walls and gilded columns and chandeliers and central clock shaped like an ornate pyramid. Twice Lena had come here for tea and a chance to pretend that she belonged among the moneyed crowd. This was the first time she’d arrived with any legitimate purpose.

  She paused in the front foyer to suppress her shivers and phone Don. When he answered, Lena told him, “I think it’s happening.”

  Beyond the main lobby was a second vestibule, guarded by a uniformed woman who politely asked her business. When Lena said she had been invited to meet with Charles Farlow, she was ushered into a discreetly hidden elevator that swept
her up to the thirty-second floor.

  Lena’s footfalls formed a swishing hush along the carpeted hallway. She did not look at room numbers after spotting the security guard outside a suite’s double doors. “I have an appointment with Mr. Farlow.”

  “Your name?”

  “Lena Fennan.”

  He swiped the lock, knocked, opened, and announced, “She’s here.”

  Charles Farlow was on the phone when his assistant led Lena into the main room. Farlow was as imposing as his photographs. He stood six feet six and moved with the lumbering grace of a grizzly. His voice rumbled smooth and low, thunder beyond the horizon. He paused long enough to wave a greeting and point Lena into a chair. Then he went back to pacing in front of the windows. A rampant beast of the financial jungle, claiming his domain.

  He cut the connection and tossed the phone to his aide. “Handle that thing long enough for me to get to know the lady here.” He walked over, swallowed her hand, and asked, “Do you pronounce it Lee-nah or Lay-nah or what?”

  “I prefer Lee-nah, but you can call me whatever you like, Mr. Farlow.”

  “It’s Charley, and that’s a good answer in my book. You take coffee?”

  “No thank you.” She waited until he seated himself to ask, “Why am I here?”

  “You’ve got something I want. What’s it called?”

  His aide offered, “Pueblo Holdings.”

  “Right. So I’ve got three questions for you. First, how did you know. Second, how did you come up with the plan. Third, how much will it cost me.”

  Lena was glad to hear her voice had somehow become unattached to her racing heart. “How did I know what?”

  “That the AG is coming out with a rule change.”

  “I didn’t—wait, he decided?”

  Farlow’s gaze carried an intensity that made his voice’s easy rumble a fable. “You know, I actually believe you.”

  “I’m an analyst, sir. I analyzed.” The tremors were too strong now to fully suppress. “The AG is really going to rule?”

  “He already has. I paid a fortune to be the first with that news, and you beat me by a week. The announcement is going to happen this afternoon. Which means I want to wrap this up before my competitors come a-calling.”

  “Really, sir, Charles, I didn’t know. I thought it had to happen. But I had no idea . . .” She felt a sweeping wave of dizzy relief so powerful she had to ask the aide, “Could I change my mind about that coffee?”

  He asked her, “How do you take it?”

  “Milk, no sugar.”

  She watched him pour from a silver thermos, took a sip, another, knowing Charles Farlow waited with growing impatience. But she needed the time. When she steadied, she set the cup on the side table and said, “My analysis suggested that the government had no choice. At the federal level, the threat of organized crime taking over the money side of legalized marijuana in an election year would be disastrous.”

  Farlow turned and told the aide, “Pour me one too. No, not those silly cups. Get me something my size.” He accepted the go-mug and slurped noisily. “We’ll come back to that. For now let’s move on to door number two.”

  “How much time do you have?”

  “Take as long as you want.”

  So she gave it to him step-by-step. Her preliminary analysis and being shot down by her boss and going to the Florida investment group and then traveling to Denver. She left nothing out, except of course the voice from beyond. The real reason why she was sitting here at all. Discussing a multimillion-dollar acquisition with the grizzly of American finance.

  When his aide insisted they had to leave, Charles led Lena into the elevator and out to the waiting limo. All he said was, “Keep going.”

  Finishing her story lasted most of the way to Teterboro Airport. Throughout Farlow examined her with a gaze intended to pry open a titanium safe. When they pulled up next to the private aviation terminal, Farlow said, “So now we’re down to my third question. I only deal in majority ownership. Tell me how, and tell me how much.”

  “You can have a hundred percent of the parent, which owns a majority share of all three subsidiaries.” Her voice sounded ghostly, surreal in its calm. “I want thirty-one million dollars.”

  “Do you.”

  “That’s the price.”

  “How many clients does your group have under contract?”

  “I’d have to call and check for the latest update, but by last night we’d signed on two hundred and seven retailers. Which represents seventy-eight percent of the state’s total trade.”

  “You have the power to make this agreement?”

  “Full authority was given to me by the investors. I am the lone signatory on any transaction.”

  He pursed his lips, nodded once. “We’ve got a deal. With one contingency.”

  She had to fight down another wave of giddiness to ask, “And that is?”

  “You come work for me.”

  The breath felt sucked from her body. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m working to buy another two financial groups, both a lot bigger than yours. I want you to come run a portion of this new empire.”

  “Sir . . . I . . .”

  He must have seen the decision even before Lena knew it herself. His eyes widened slightly. “You’re actually going to turn me down?”

  9

  Brett climbed the stairs and set his suitcase down on the townhouse’s broad front stoop. He pressed the sorest point on his back and straightened with a soft groan. He had strained it the previous day, then made it worse by falling asleep on the plane. When he finally managed to stand upright, he pressed the bell. To his right, traffic rumbled and swished through the misting rain. He had only been to New York a few times, but he knew a five-story townhouse a hundred and fifty feet from Park Avenue and four blocks from Central Park would be worth a fortune.

  The butler who opened the door was dressed in a black suit and bore the expression of a man trained to turn away mere mortals. “Yes?”

  “I am Brett Riffkind. I believe I’m expected.”

  “Dr. Riffkind. Of course. Do come in.” The butler stepped aside and observed as Brett painfully hefted his cases. “Shall I assist you with that?”

  “I can manage, thanks.” But each step only brought more discomfort.

  “Do let me take it, sir.”

  Brett gratefully released the handles. “I just need the briefcase.”

  The butler set his suitcase on the marble tiles. “Your personal belongings will be quite safe here.”

  Brett followed him into a palatial foyer and stared up at the gilded ceiling—or tried to, because when he tilted his head his left side seized up again. “Oh man.”

  The butler observed him, patient as only a professional servant could be, then set his pace to match Brett’s shuffle. The foyer opened into a grand gallery, eighty feet long and twenty wide, with four sets of sliding double doors, two to each side. The doors were carved and gilded to match the distant ceiling. “Wait here, please.”

  The butler knocked softly and slid open the right-hand door just enough to slip inside. An open door at the gallery’s end led into a vast kitchen. Just inside the door was a mesh-backed office chair and small writing desk, probably used as a nurse’s day station. Brett resisted the urge to walk over and sit down, as getting up was such a trial.

  The doors slid back. “Mrs. Lockwood will see you now.”

  Brett shuffled into what once had been a grand parlor and was now redone as a hospital bedroom. The old woman in the bed looked waifish, but her voice carried remarkable strength. “I would say you look like death, young man. But that would be in the poorest possible taste.”

  “It appears that Dr. Riffkind has an issue with his back, ma’am.”

  “When Doris surfaces, see if she can offer him some relief.”

  “Very good, ma’am.” The butler turned to Brett. “Dare you seat yourself, sir?”

  “I better set us up first.”

&
nbsp; “How can I assist?”

  Brett stood back and let the butler do the heavy lifting. The contents of his case were settled onto a hospital table fit with rollers and a foot brake. All the while the lady in the bed observed him with eyes bright and dark as a robin’s. “When did you last eat?”

  “I had peanuts on the plane.”

  “Frederick, fix our guest a tray.”

  “Certainly, ma’am.” The butler rose from plugging in Brett’s laptop and apparatus. “Scrambled eggs and toast and tea, sir?”

  “That would be great, thanks.”

  “Shall I have Doris join you, ma’am?”

  “She was up with me most of the night, let her rest. Besides, I doubt this young man has the strength in him to give anyone a hard time. When did you last sleep?”

  “I napped on the plane.”

  She sniffed. “I mean a proper rest.”

  “Yesterday.” Brett rubbed his face, then corrected, “Day before.”

  “Are you in the habit of destroying yourself like this?”

  “My last appointment asked me to stay until the end. The doctors gave her only a few hours to live—she lasted seventy-two.”

  “You came straight from one deathbed to another?”

  “I had already booked our appointment.” Brett lifted the headset. “Shall we get started?”

  “Put that thing away and sit down, young man. I am curious to know a bit more about you. That is, unless you’re already scheduled to watch another poor soul breathe their last.”

  Brett made no effort to hide his relief. “Not for another week.”

  “Then make yourself as comfortable as you possibly can. When we’re done, Doris will give you a good working over. She’s trained as both a nurse practitioner and a chiropractor. Done me a world of good.” She watched Brett brace himself on the chair arms and ease down. “What shall I call you?”