“Did I?”
They entered the hotel lobby and got in the elevator. Their room was on the tenth floor. Tom opened the door with the keycard and made a beeline for the laptop. After logging onto Wifi, he went to the site he’d discovered last night after they got in. Surveillance Technologies.
“You’re not taking your lures again, are you?”
“Everywhere I go.”
“Can’t you put them in the hotel safe?”
“I don’t trust safes.”
“But you trust the airlines? What if they lost your luggage?”
“Then they pay me the market value. I insure them every time I board.”
Tom took the tracer he’d liberated from Bert’s deodorant from his pocket and attached the lead terminal to the battery. Just below the battery, on the circuit board, there was a serial number followed the tiny word BigTrack. Rather than sleep last night, Tom had used these to trace the tracer back to its manufacturer.
Surveillance Technologies was an upscale spy store that sold bugging, tracking, and detecting equipment online. Their home page proudly advertised that the US government was one of their top customers. A disclaimer in somewhat smaller font stated that many of these products were illegal for civilian use.
The BigTrack series were tracers. By accessing the private area of the Surveillance Technology website, you could access the global positioning satellite to plot the tracer on an overlay as large as the western hemisphere, all the way down to a street map.
BigTracks were off limits for the public sector, and the tracking page required an ID and a password to access. Tom had spent almost two hours trying to get in. He used combinations of ATTILA, JACK, RIPPER, HUN, CLONE, GENES, STANG, BARNETT, and so on, hoping to luck into the right combination. He hit the jackpot with ID MARY and password KELLY. The Ripper’s final victim.
He tried it now, and then punched in the serial number on the tracer. The screen loaded a map of the United States, with a small blip on the West Coast. He zoomed in to California, then to LA, then to Chinatown, and finally down to the street the hotel was on. Tom wondered if zooming in further would show a floor plan of their suite, but it was already maxed out.
“We call each other every four hours, starting when you arrive. I can trace you guys with this.” Tom tossed the BigTrack to Bert. “Keep it on you.”
“Yes, Mom.”
Bert placed the transmitter into his thick wallet. Roy picked up Tom’s carryon—Roy’s had been lost in the fire in New Mexico. After the excruciating car trip back from Springfield, they’d stopped at their apartments to shower and change. Curiosity had prompted Tom to sweep his place with the Foxhound, and he found three bugs identical to Jessup’s. Trying to sound natural, they openly telegraphed their trip to California, hoping one of the bad guys was listening. To make the trail even easier to follow, they purchased their plane tickets with credit cards.
Tom logged onto a travel site and searched for the next direct flight to Lincoln, Nebraska out of LAX.
“Got one. Southwest, leaves in two hours.” He faced Roy. “Shall I also reserve a rental car for you, sir?”
“If you’d be so kind.”
“I’ll need a valid driver’s license and a major credit card, please.”
Roy tossed him his wallet. Tom followed the links and wound up at Hertz. He found an appropriate automobile and several keystrokes later, they had wheels.
“How did we survive before we had the Internet?” Tom wondered aloud.
“They were called telephones.” Roy took his wallet back and placed his gun in the fire box. “Now don’t be getting into any kind of trouble without me.”
“You guys be careful. The bad guys will be watching. Good luck.”
Bert offered Tom his hand, and they shook. “We’ll be fine. We’re gonna grab Lincoln, then maybe go see a play.”
It was funny, but Tom didn’t laugh. He felt uneasy all of a sudden.
“I don’t know if splitting up is the smart thing.”
“Why not?” Bert winked. “It always worked on Scooby-Doo.”
“You just worry about your end, partner. Not that it’ll be too hard guarding that body. She’s a looker, that Joan.”
“You think so?”
“Open your eyes, Tommy. If you’re so preoccupied you can’t see a beautiful woman right in front of you, it’s time to reevaluate your life.”
No kidding, Tom thought.
“Call when you get there, Roy.”
They left the suite, leaving Tom alone.
Tom shut off the computer and closed his eyes, picturing Joan. Short blond hair. Blue eyes, small nose, full lips. Tom couldn’t get a sense of her height, as she’d been sitting down, but she looked in shape and had filled out that blouse nicely.
Roy was right. She was attractive. Tom frowned. Now, in addition to keeping her alive, he also had to make sure he looked his best.
He checked his reflection in the bathroom mirror and winced. Stubble, baggy eyes, rumpled suit. A butter stain on his shirt from the breakfast bag on the flight in. The facial bruise from where Attila hit him was fading to an ugly yellow. Tom tried a smile on, and found some food stuck in his front teeth. How long had that been there?
“You’re not living up to your potential,” he told the mirror.
The mirror agreed. Tom decided to postpone his breakdown until later, and got back to work. He had formulated a quasi-plan to deal with Joan; follow her around and keep his eyes open. Since she would probably still be jumpy from the attack, the smart thing would be to inform her of his intention.
Tom fished out the business card he’d taken while visiting her office and dialed it.
“JDP, how may I help you?”
Tom tried to sound important. “Gimme Joan.”
“May I ask who’s calling.”
“Mike Douglas.”
“Just a moment, Mr. Douglas.”
So far, so good.
“Mike? I haven’t seen you since Cannes. How are you?”
“Actually, this is Tom Mankowski again. I figured you wouldn’t take my call.”
“You figured right.”
“Please, just two seconds. I know you don’t believe me. But you’re still in danger.”
“Thank you for your concern, Detective. But I’ve taken care of that.”
“Call up the 29th Precinct in Chicago, talk to Lieutenant Daniels, or anyone else there. Ask them about me. I’m a good cop.”
“I called Chicago. I was told you’re on vacation. But yes, they did vouch for your character. I’m still not going for the Joan of Arc thing, though.”
“That’s fine. I don’t blame you. I’m struggling with it myself. I just don’t want you to freak out, because I’m going to be following you for a couple of days. Don’t worry, I’ll be discreet, stay out of your way. But Vlad is going to try again. Soon.”
“That’s hardly necessary. I just hired a personal bodyguard. He’s one of the best in the business. Did security for the artist formerly known as Prince, who is known as Prince again.”
“That’s great. The more, the merrier. If you can just tell him I’ll be hanging around, and ask him nicely not to shoot me. One more thing—your place is probably bugged. Maybe your office too. I don’t know. Your security guy probably has a detector, have him check it out.” Tom waited for a response. “Hello, are you there?”
“Bugged?”
He noted that she’d lost a bit of composure.
“That’s what they did to my place, and to one of the guys they killed. It’s been going on for a few months.”
“A few months.”
“Probably longer. We’ve been under surveillance for our entire lives. The guy who started this project is rich and powerful and has government backing. He’s also a real nut job. Hey, for what it’s worth, I didn’t mean to come in and disrupt your life. Hopefully, it will all be over soon.”
Joan hung up. Tom wondered if he could have told her about the bugs in a subtler way.
It was a freaky thing to deal with. On a completely inappropriate note, Tom found that he enjoyed talking with Joan. Even if she thought he was crazy. Maybe if the circumstances were different…
If the circumstances were different, she wouldn’t give him a second glance. She probably had a string of movie star boyfriends with perfect looks and tons of money.
Tom reverted back to acting like a professional. Hiring a bodyguard was an honest reaction on Joan’s part, but he didn’t believe it would do anything to deter the Unholy Trio. If someone really wants you dead, there are too many ways to get the job done. There wasn’t much a rent-a-cop could do if Vlad flew a helicopter over Joan’s house and dropped napalm on it, or sniped her from three hundred yards away, or put plastic explosives in her TV remote. The only way to be truly safe was to get the bad guys before they got you.
So that’s how Tom decided to play it. First things first; he had to follow Joan around, get an idea of her schedule. He mentally began to check off all the things he’d need for a stake out—food, water, a plastic jug, binoculars, sunscreen, a flashlight…
Tom went to the desk for a pad of paper and caught sight of himself in the dresser mirror. Maybe the very first thing he should do is shave. And do something about his wrinkled suit. He wrote down his list of items and added a new shirt. And some cologne.
Couldn’t hurt.
This was worse than being attacked.
Joan watched as Rod removed another listening device, the third, from the electrical outlet in her bedroom.
“I think that’s the last one.” The bodyguard got up from one knee and eyed the bug in his palm.
“How long do you think they’ve been here?”
“Hard to tell. Could have been a while. To be honest, I’ve never seen a device this high-tech before. I’ve done a lot of corporate work, rival companies stealing secrets and such, but this is a different league.”
Joan was sick. The thought that someone had been listening to her every word, her every private moment, was a violation unlike any she’d ever known.
“I know, it’s a shock. These are some real bad people.”
“I don’t even want to live in this house anymore.”
“A perfectly natural reaction. It will pass. Sometimes the truth is hard to take, but knowledge is power. We’re on to them.”
Joan didn’t feel empowered. She felt helpless.
“Maybe I should call Tom. He’s the one who told me to look.”
“Bad idea. He showed up at the same time all the trouble started. He also knows the man who attacked you. It’s likely he’s involved.”
“Then why would he tell me about the bugs?”
“To gain your trust. Believe me, I’ve seen it all in this line of work. Stay away from that one, he’s bad news.”
Joan glanced out the window, into her back yard. Earlier, she spotted Tom poking around through the woods behind her house. There was no sign of him now.
“So I can’t trust anyone anymore? How am I supposed to run a business?”
“Someone is trying to kill you, Ms. DeVilliers. You can still go about your day to day life, with some slight modifications. As for trust, the only person you need to trust is me. That’s the service you’re paying for. I’m a professional.”
No kidding. Joan had been with Rod for almost two hours now, and hadn’t seen him smile once. She had no doubts he was formidable—the man was tall, muscular, proficient in six different martial arts, a weapons expert, a former Green Beret, extremely expensive, and serious as cancer. But his presence felt more like an invasion than a relief.
“Your intruder bypassed the alarm panel by manually disarming the system. He probably hid somewhere in the backyard and got the code by watching you through the window. That was a bad place to put the keypad. The new system will be much harder to beat.”
Joan heard a beep. Her pager, in her purse on the kitchen counter. It was Marty—his home number, followed by 911. She picked up her phone and found it still wasn’t working.
“Can I borrow your phone? Mine’s in the car.”
“Sorry, I have to keep it free for emergencies.”
A glance at his face showed Joan he wasn’t kidding. Irritated, she went into the garage and got her cell phone.
“Marty, it’s Joan.”
“Joan? Is that you?”
Marty was breathy, seemed out of it.
“You sound terrible.”
“You remember, I had a checkup last week?”
“You did? What’s wrong?”
“I got the results. Joan, it’s bad.” Marty started to cry.
“What is it, Marty? Cancer? HIV?”
“Can you come over?”
“I’ll be right there.”
Joan ended the call and wanted to scream at the universe. Marty was more than her longtime assistant—he was her best friend. She couldn’t bear to have anything happen to him.
“Marty just called.” Joan grabbed her purse. “I’m going over to his place.”
“I’ll come with.”
“I’d rather go alone.”
“Joan, I can’t protect you if you fight me. If this is going to work, you have to be able to follow orders. When I say duck, you duck without question. Whenever you go out in public, either I or one of my people have to be with you. That’s just the way it is.”
“Fine.” Joan turned on her heels and went back into the garage. If Rod insisted on driving, she would fire him on the spot. But he slipped into the passenger seat without a word.
Joan drove too fast. Part of it was urgency, but it was also an effort to make Rod uncomfortable. It didn’t work. Even when she blew a red light, he didn’t so much as blink.
She wasn’t sure exactly when it happened, but sometime in the past couple of minutes the bodyguard had become the enemy. Joan resented his lectures, his lack of emotion, and most of all his very presence. Now, with Marty in trouble, she felt as if he were mocking her with his stoicism. The big, strong man was here to save the poor, emotional little girl.
Joan parked in Marty’s lot, slipping the Jaguar in between a Mercedes and a Beemer. Nice neighborhood, great apartment, famous friends, lots of money—both Joan and Marty were just as wrapped up in Hollywood culture as everyone else living here. But none of it ultimately mattered, did it? So many things were more important. She killed the engine.
“I’d like to be alone with my friend.”
“I’ll wait outside after I check the place out.”
Joan kept her composure. “Can’t you just stay here?”
“It’s natural to resent me. I’m an intrusion in your life, and the very fact that I’m here reminds you that you’re in trouble. If it’s any consolation, you’ve taken it much better than most people. After what happened to you, I’m surprised you even had the courage to leave the house.”
“Because I’m a woman?”
“Because you’re a human being who was almost killed, twice. I’ve had years of training, and it’s never easy having your life threatened. Remember, you didn’t hire me because you’re weak. You hired me because you’re a fighter.”
Joan’s resentment toward the man eased a tad.
“Fine. If you could just give us some privacy, after you do your thing.”
“Of course.”
Marty’s apartment building was new, but the architect had gone for that retro 50s look—lots of red brick and right angles. They walked to the security door and Joan pressed the button next to Marty’s name on the intercom. He buzzed them in without a word.
The lobby was large, carpeted, home to several floor plants and framed prints of flowers. To the right was the rental office, closed at this hour. To the left were the door to the stairs and the hallway to the first floor apartments. Directly before them was the elevator.
Rod’s eyes were scanning in so many directions that Joan was surprised he could walk a straight line. They took the elevator to the fifth floor, and Rod stepped out into the hall and checked both
ways before letting her out.
“I’ll go in first.”
Joan wondered if he was also going to taste her food before she did, to check for poison. They walked to Marty’s door and she knocked. No answer. Another knock, more urgent.
“Marty? Are you okay?”
Rod checked the knob. It turned. He pushed Joan aside and reached into his jacket. A gun came out, black and ugly.
“You’re going to give him a heart attack.”
“Stay here.”
“This is insane. He’s probably in the bathroom.”
Rod opened the door and went in quick, his pistol held alongside his leg. Joan watched from the doorway, her annoyance level rising, as he commandoed his way into the kitchen.
“I’m sure that…”
“It’s a trap. He’s dead.” Rod looked from the floor to Joan. “Run.”
The movement was so fast Joan couldn’t be sure what she saw. At first, Rod was standing there checking behind the counter. Then there was a blur and he was toppling over, his head coming off his shoulders and rolling in the opposite direction.
Joan backpedaled, her mind unable to grasp what she just saw. A man stood over Rod’s body and then glanced up at her. Short, muscular, and holding a long, thin sword. He grinned, exposing a single gold tooth.
Movement to her right. Another man, coming down the hallway. Dressed all in black, down to those leather gloves.
“Hello again, Joan.” Vlad’s voice was nasally. A large white bandage covered the bridge of his nose, and both of his eyes were bruised black. He had a gun leveled at her midsection. “No more fancy footwork this time.”
Joan couldn’t have imagined a worse scenario, even if she’d been paid to dream one up.
Both Vlad and the other man, the one from the picture that Tom had shown her, advanced. If they hadn’t killed her yet, it could only mean they planned on taking her alive.
There was no way Joan would allow that.
She turned and ran down the hallway, to the elevator, and smacked the call button.
“I should shoot you,” Vlad called after her, “but Attila and I have something else planned. A little menage-a-trois.”
J.A. Konrath / Jack Kilborn Trilogy - Three Scary Thriller Novels (Origin, The List, Haunted House) Page 38