She always awoke then. And she could never get back to sleep.
At times Tess believed that the trail was real, and she and Paul would climb it someday. At other times she believed in nothing but darkness and the damp earth enclosing an urn of ashes.
Bereavement leave and therapy had not healed the hurt. Nothing could heal it.
She checked her watch. Five minutes had gone by. Time to go.
Leaving the bathroom, she walked down the hall to the door with the DO NOT DISTURB sign. The door was unlocked, a violation of normal procedure, but necessary if she was to enter unannounced.
So this was it. Open the door, enter, and meet William Hayde.
It seemed like such a simple thing, yet for a moment she wasn’t sure she could do it. She remembered a parachute jump years ago, the final seconds of standing in the airplane’s open hatchway, waiting to leap into space.
Then, at least, she’d had a parachute.
She opened the door, entered the room.
Everything slowed down. The world grew big around her, its small details looming large in her perception. The glare on the steel tabletop, the creak of the straight-backed chairs, the handcuffs securing Hayde’s right hand to the table, his head lifting, his eyes—brown eyes, ordinary eyes—locking on hers.
She met that gaze and held it, and held her breath also.
And saw…nothing.
A flicker of curiosity, perhaps. No surprise, no hostility, no recognition.
He did not know her. He had never seen her before.
"Agent Starling’s older sister," Hayde said. "Pull up a chair, join the party."
"I’m Tess McCallum," she said.
"Bill Hayde."
Her name had drawn no reaction. He looked bemused at her arrival, her rigid stance and staring eyes.
She tried one more time, though she knew the effort was wasted. "You sent me postcards in Denver."
"I don’t think so. I’m not much of a correspondent."
"Novelty postcards."
He shook his head. "Must’ve been some other perp."
She said nothing. She turned and left the room, shutting the door.
Larkin was in the hall. "Nothing on voice-stress," he said.
"Right."
"He didn’t seem to know you."
"He doesn’t know me."
"So you think…?"
"He’s just a jerk who likes to tie women up. That’s all he is. He’s not Mobius. He’s not anybody."
A moment later Michaelson joined them. He looked at Larkin, ignoring Tess altogether. "I’m kicking him loose," he said.
Larkin nodded.
"There’s nothing for us to hold him on. The circumstances of his sexual play with Agent Tyler are too ambiguous to permit prosecution. Mr. Hayde himself seems to have understood as much from the start."
"He’s a cool customer," Larkin said.
"I’m not ruling him out yet. Not totally. I want you and DiFranco to look into his background, see if his story checks out. If it doesn’t, we can set up surveillance or bring him in for more questions."
"Will do."
"If we talk to him again, we need some facts to trip him up. Another staring contest"—he still didn’t look at Tess—"isn’t going to get it done."
Michaelson disappeared inside. Tess leaned against a wall, worn out.
When the door opened and William Hayde emerged, she straightened up. The FBI had an image to maintain, and so did she.
"Pleasure doing business with you guys," Hayde was saying. He turned to Tess. "You seemed pretty anxious to see me—and even more anxious to get away."
"I thought you were someone else," she said, her voice flat.
He surprised her with a sympathetic look. "The Pickup Artist?"
She said nothing.
"You’ve been after him awhile," Hayde said.
"What makes you say so?"
"The way you stared at me when you walked into the room. Like you’d been waiting for that moment a long time."
"You’re very perceptive, Mr. Hayde."
He shrugged off the comment. "You’ll get him eventually."
"I’m sure we will."
"In the meantime…hang in there, okay?"
She actually smiled. "Considering what we put you through tonight, you seem awfully solicitous toward me."
"I have a weakness for pretty women."
Her smile vanished. "Oh."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "I don’t suppose—"
"I’m not into tie-up games, Mr. Hayde."
"Your loss, baby."
He walked away, whistling. Michaelson and Gaines escorted him out. Tess stared after him, wishing he’d been the one.
She felt someone watching her. Turning, she saw Larkin in the doorway of the observation room.
"Anything from the other undercover ops?"
"Nothing so far."
She glanced at her wristwatch. It was one A.M. "We’ve missed him."
"He could be getting a late start. Or maybe he’s not out there tonight."
Tess didn’t answer. But she knew Larkin was wrong.
Mobius was out there.
He was always out there.
12
The agent’s name was Dante, he was a young hotshot from the Portland office, and he was excited.
"Got it," Dante told Tennant as he slammed down the phone. "Driver for America’s Best Cab remembers picking up Pierce at LAX. He delivered her to the Century Plaza Hotel."
"When did she get there?" Tennant snapped.
"Twelve-fifteen."
The clock on the wall read 1:05. She’d had fifty minutes to meet her contact. Too much time.
"Let’s move," Tennant said, hoping for the best.
The two unmarked bureau cars were parked in a passenger loading zone outside the terminal. Tennant and J&B took the first car, accompanied by Dante and another Portland man named Wilkins. The others followed in the second sedan.
Jarvis drove, Tennant riding shotgun.
"I’m betting she’s still there," Dante said from the backseat. "Probably checked in for the night, stupid bitch."
"If she’s so stupid," Bickerstaff pointed out, "how come she gave us the slip?"
Tennant cut off this conversation before it could become even more of a waste of time than it already was. "We go into the lobby and fan out, then proceed to the coffee shop, the pool area, and any other public spaces. Remember, she may still be waiting to meet someone, in which case, wherever she is, she’ll be watching the door. We know she’s already made some of us, so when she sees us coming, there’s a good chance she’ll run for it."
"Any dark-haired lady breaks into a sprint, we’ll tackle her," Dante said, trying to be funny.
"I don’t care if it’s a dark-haired lady or a blonde or a little kid with a lollipop. Anybody does anything suspicious, we hold them for questioning. If we’re lucky, we’ll get her and her contact."
"And the suitcase," Jarvis said under his breath, his voice low enough that only Tennant could hear.
Tennant nodded. Amanda Pierce wasn’t important. Even her contact would be a lower-echelon operative. The suitcase was what really mattered.
"Let’s say she starts shooting," Bickerstaff said as the car sped north on Sepulveda Boulevard.
"She used a knife on Kidder." This was Wilkins. He reminded Tennant of what used to be called a preppie, complete with an Ivy League law degree. "There’s no reason to think she’s packing a firearm."
"No reason to think she isn’t, either," Tennant said. "Maybe she just didn’t want to fire off a gun in the rest room and alert the rest of us. Anyway, if her contact is with her, he’ll be armed for sure."
"This turns into a shooting match, it’ll get ugly." Dante, stating the obvious.
Tennant didn’t hesitate. "If she or her partner draws a weapon, return fire—and go for a kill shot."
"Then we lose the chance to interrogate." Wilkins the boy lawyer.
"The
re are worse things to lose." Tennant hesitated, then added, "Don’t wait to see a gun. If she even opens her suitcase, light her up."
Jarvis glanced at him and nodded. They both knew what was in the suitcase, even if Wilkins and Dante did not.
Her contact still hadn’t arrived, and Amanda Pierce was getting scared.
True, she’d been waiting only about an hour. But she shouldn’t have had to wait at all. She was the one who’d been delayed. Her contact should have been the one waiting for her.
Unless he’d left already. In which case, she was seriously fucked.
She looked around at the hotel lobby, the high chandeliers, the arched windows framing tropical plants. Nice place to hang out, but not for her, not now.
She pressed one leg against the suitcase that rested by her own stool, holding it protectively. She had to stay upbeat. The feds hadn’t been lying in ambush for her at the hotel, so evidently they didn’t know where the rendezvous was scheduled to take place. Even if her contact never showed, she might still have a chance to arrange another meeting—if she could elude capture long enough.
In the meantime there was another problem, ridiculously trivial, yet one that threatened everything.
She had no money.
Nearly all of her cash had been used on taxi fare and as payment for the overpriced ginger ale she had ordered at the bar. She could not check in, because doing so would require using her credit card. The card was part of an identity kit she had put together over the past two months, under the name of Lucy Mallone. She had used the card to check into the motel last night—but with her cover blown, she couldn’t rely on the card any longer. If she used it again, her whereabouts would be instantly traced.
Nor could she use her legitimate credit cards or her ATM card. Same problem. Charging a purchase to a card registered to Amanda Pierce would be like firing a signal flare to guide the feds straight to her.
Her wallet contained less than one hundred dollars in hard currency. Anyway, she couldn’t pay cash for a rental car, and that was what she needed—transportation.
Amanda, God damn it, you are up a frigging creek….
Wait.
A man had entered the lobby, tall, casually attired. His age was difficult to judge. Forty or a little older.
As he approached the bar, she studied him. He wore a sport jacket—useful for concealing a weapon—but no necktie, which could be used by an opponent to gain a stranglehold in a fight. His eyes were masked by dark glasses, another good sign.
Her contact might have made an appearance, after all.
There was no way to know, not yet. She had never seen him. He might be anyone, of any description.
The man reached the bar area and stopped, looking slowly around. She gave him a momentary glance before averting her eyes. If he was her contact, even this brief signal should be enough.
Movement. On the periphery of her vision he rounded the bar and slipped onto the stool beside her.
He must be the one.
The bartender appeared. The man ordered a gin and tonic. When the bartender turned away, Pierce tensed, knowing that now was the moment for him to initiate the conversation.
"Beautiful hotel, isn’t it?" he said.
She looked at him. Behind the shaded lenses, his eyes were as blank as a baby’s.
"Yes," she answered, hearing her own voice from a great distance. "Very beautiful."
"My name’s Donald Stevenson. From Aurora, Illinois. In town on business."
"Lucy Mallone."
"From?"
"Seattle."
"Great city, Seattle. Rains a lot, but I wouldn’t mind that. I like the rain."
"Me, too," she said absently, trying to decide what to do.
He was not her contact, obviously. He was just some asshole looking for a little action.
The bartender delivered the drink. "Put it on my room tab," Donald Stevenson said, opening his wallet to take out his electronic room key.
Pierce glanced inside the wallet and saw credit cards and a thick sheaf of bills.
Suddenly she was glad Donald Stevenson had chosen to sit beside her. She’d been wrong to think of him as useless. Quite the contrary.
She began to think he could be very useful indeed.
13
The two bureau cars turned east onto Pico Boulevard and rushed toward the skyline of Century City, an upscale complex of office buildings and shopping malls built on what was once the backlot of Twentieth Century Fox.
"Ever been to the Plaza?" Bickerstaff asked Tennant.
"In ’eighty-four, when Reagan was reelected. He held his victory party here."
"And you were on their invite list?"
"Fat chance. I was working out of the LA office at the time. Secret Service brought some of us in for extra manpower on election night."
He remembered that night—the tidal wave of votes crushing that wuss, Mondale. Afterward, he had shared a drink with some friends at the hotel bar….
"The bar," Tennant said with a snap of his fingers. "If she’s waiting to meet somebody, the bar is where she’ll be. It’s smack in the middle of the lobby. Gives her a way to watch the front doors without being noticed. And it offers more avenues of escape than any other part of the hotel."
"If she’s in the lobby," Dante said, "she may see us as soon as we enter."
"Right. So we go in fast, and we stay alert. Got it?"
They got it. There were no more smiles from Dante, no more smart comments from attorney Wilkins.
Jarvis hooked left onto the Avenue of the Stars—only in LA did they have street names like that—and steered the sedan into the curving driveway of the Century Plaza Hotel. A parking valet approached their car as the doors flew open. Tennant badged the guy. "Official business, stay back."
Tennant told the three agents from the second car to cover the hotel’s side and rear exits and monitor the tactical frequency on their Handy-Talkies. Then he led Wilkins, Dante, and J&B up the steps and into the lobby, his hand under his jacket, touching the Sig Sauer 9mm holstered to his hip.
She would have to kill him.
Amanda Pierce had never killed anyone, but she had no doubt she could do it. Survival was her imperative. Other lives were of no consequence in comparison to her own.
"You visit LA often?" she asked.
"Three or four times a year. I’ve got clients here. How about you?"
"First time in LA."
"Business or pleasure?"
"Pleasure trip."
Stevenson chuckled. "Well, we can all use some pleasure from time to time."
The lobby was spacious and elegant and nearly deserted at 1:15 A.M. The clerk at the reception desk gave Tennant a look that said, May I help you?
Tennant ignored him. The bar, identified as the Lobby Court, was straight ahead, its patrons in silhouette against the two-story windows that looked out on a spotlighted garden. Tennant led his team toward the bar, hardly daring to hope that Amanda Pierce would still be here, and then he saw her.
Dark hair, clipped in a bun. Brown blazer and slacks—the outfit she’d stolen from Agent Kidder.
She was seated at the far end of the bar, perched on a stool, a drink in her hand, chatting to a man who might be her contact or maybe some tourist trying to pick her up.
Her upper body was turned at an angle to give her full attention to the man beside her. She hadn’t seen them enter.
"Approach from all sides," Tennant said. "Remember your orders. You’ve got a green light."
A green light to take her out. Just like James Bond—a license to kill.
"Of course," Stevenson was saying, "if you’re gonna stay in LA, this is the place."
"It lives up to its reputation."
"Yeah—unlike a lot of things in this town. Hey, can I refresh your drink?"
"Sure."
"What’re you having?"
"Ginger ale."
"Nothing stronger?"
"I don’t drink." This was true,
but even if she’d been a drinker, she needed a clear head tonight.
Wilkins and Dante veered to the right. Tennant, with J&B, headed left.
"I don’t see the suitcase," Bickerstaff said under his breath.
"Could be against the bar, out of sight."
"Or she could’ve passed it on already."
Tennant shook his head. "If she’d made the exchange, she wouldn’t hang around."
Pierce still hadn’t looked their way. The man next to her might have registered their approach, but he showed no reaction. Tennant didn’t think he was the contact. Most likely Pierce’s contact hadn’t shown yet, and she was making small talk with this guy to be less conspicuous as she waited at the bar.
Wilkins and Dante were closing in. Pierce would see them any second now.
Before she could react, Tennant reached her from behind and clamped a hand on her shoulder.
"Don’t move," he said in a firm voice that brooked no argument, "you’re under arrest."
A twitch of surprise from her, and she swung around on her stool. Tennant almost drew his weapon, and then he was looking at her face.
The right hair, right jacket, right figure—but not the right woman. Not Amanda Pierce. This woman was ten years older, with too much makeup.
"What the hell?" the woman said.
"Anyway," Stevenson was saying as the bartender placed a fresh glass before each of them, "you come to the Pacific coast, you want to see the Pacific, am I right? I like to sit on the balcony and breathe in the salt air. I always get a room with a Malibu view."
"Malibu view?"
"Facing north—or is it west? The coastline zigs and zags so much, I don’t even know. But I like to see the lights of Malibu off in the distance."
"I’ll remember that for next time."
"You’ve got to ask for it special. That’s the thing about the MiraMist. They take care of their longtime guests. Treat you like family."
"That’s good to know."
"I’ve stayed at other places. The Beverly Hills, the Century Plaza—you ever been there?"
"The Century Plaza? Yes."
About an hour and a half ago, she added silently. But I didn’t stay long.
Next Victim Page 9