Cause For Alarm (19 page)

As she rocked her daughter, gazing down at her perfect face, it grew, took shape. And then she saw the fear for what it was.

That Emma's birth mother had somehow sought them out. Because she wanted Emma back.

By the time she had finished giving Emma her bottle and had changed her into her pajamas, Kate had worked herself into a state of complete terror. Afraid the child would pick up on her distress, she tucked her into her swing, then went in search of Richard.

She found him in the kitchen, seasoning a steak for the grill. “Richard?” She stepped into the room, hands clasped in front of her, barely able to speak so great was her fear.

He looked up, his smile dying when he saw her expression. “What's wrong?”

She hugged herself. “I…I have this terrible feeling, Richard. What if…what if Emma's birth mother has found us? What if she's the one…the one who—” Kate bit the words back, unable to verbalize her darkest fear. The one that fueled her nightmares and kept her up nights.

“Who what? Broke in and stole the picture of Emma?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice shaking.

“And why would she have done that?”

“You know.” Kate's eyes flooded with tears. “Because she's changed her mind. Because she wants Emma back.”

“And she came here today in a bizarre quest to steal Emma away?”

“I couldn't bear to lose her, Richard.” Her tears brimmed, then spilled over. “I couldn't.”

“Come here.” He held out his arms and she moved into them, pressing her cheek to his chest, and he folded his arms tightly around her. “You're being silly, love. That's not going to happen.”

“How do you know?” She tilted her head back to meet his eyes, her vision blurred with tears. “How?”

“Because it's not logical.” He smiled. “First, she chose a closed adoption. She knows nothing about us, not our names or where we live. Second, if she wanted the baby back, she would go through Citywide. She'd call Ellen, she'd hire a lawyer. Not sneak into our house and lurk about, for God only knows what reason.”

He was right, she knew he was. So, why didn't she feel reassured?

“Where's the picture, Richard?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “It got knocked into a drawer. The cleaning service moved it.”

“But I looked at it this morning! I know I did.”

“You could be mistaken.” As she opened her mouth to protest, he laid a finger against her lips. “It'll turn up, Kate.”

“What if it doesn't?”

“We'll take another,” he said, amusement coloring his tone. “Or get a copy made of that one. Buy a new frame.”

“Very funny.” She rested her forehead against his chest a moment, then met his gaze once more. “Earlier today, when I had that feeling I was being watched, that I wasn't alone, it was so creepy, Richard. And then, when Joe told me about that woman…”

She drew in a shuddering breath. “She was the right age. And it just seems like such a coincidence…I mean, what was she doing inside our gate?”

He cupped her face in his palms. “Don't read so much into this, Kate. It could have been anyone. The gate's not locked, we live on a well-traveled street. There's a park directly across from our house, for heaven's sake. Someone saw our swing, thought it looked inviting and helped themselves.”

“But she knew our names. She knew we had a baby.”

“So do a lot of people in the area. Could be someone we knew who was embarrassed at having been caught. Who was afraid Joe would tell us.” Richard bent and dropped a light kiss on her mouth. “Your imagination is running away with you. Trust me, love. There's no cause for alarm here. None at all.”

L
uke spent the hours after his meeting with Kate wandering through the French Quarter, refamiliarizing himself with the sights, sounds and smells that were New Orleans. He enjoyed beignets and café au lait at the Café du Monde, walked along the moon walk, sat on a bench in Jackson Square and studied the people who passed.

As he did, he was swamped with memories of his days at Tulane, of the young man he had been back then, of the force of his dreams. Kate resided at the heart of each of those memories: the things they had done, the way they had laughed, how she had made him feel without doing anything but being at his side.

A part of him regretted the things he had said to her earlier that day, the way he had hurt her. That same part had longed to chase after her, apologize, make some hollow excuse for his behavior and beg her forgiveness.

He had quelled the urge, reminding himself that she had come to him for an airing out of the past. That she had come to him for honesty, and he had simply and frankly given her what she wanted.

His publisher had booked him into a suite at the Royal Orleans Hotel, one of the French Quarter's grandest establishments, built and maintained in the tradition of the Old South.

When he entered the hotel, he was struck by both the cool and the quiet. Out on the street, the shift in the French Quarter crowd had begun, the day-trippers being replaced by the night owls, the shoppers by the partiers.

Luke crossed the sweeping lobby with its massive crystal chandeliers, heading toward the front desk. Helena had arranged a dinner at Commander's Palace with the company's regional sales rep and the local book distributor. She had promised to leave a message at the front desk confirming the place and time they would meet. He glanced at his watch. If he was lucky, he could take a quick shower, change and still put in two hours at the laptop.

He stopped at the desk. The clerk, an exotic-looking woman named Aimee, greeted him by name. He smiled. “Any messages for me?”

She returned his smile. “I think so, Mr. Dallas. Let me check.” She crossed to the message center, then looked over her shoulder at him. “Yes, you do. There's also a package for you. It's in the back. I can have it sent up, or if you have a minute, I'll get it.”

“I'll wait. Thanks.” She handed Luke an envelope, then disappeared through a door at the back of the registration area. Luke ripped open the envelope to see that he did, indeed, have several hours before his dinner engagement.

Aimee returned with a small shopping bag. She handed it to him. Inside was a copy of
Dead Drop,
autographed by him that very day, inscribed to Bird Man.

Luke frowned. He had signed so many books that morning, had seen so many faces. There had been at least a dozen Marys, a handful of Stevens and Daves—but only one Bird Man. He remembered signing the book—why couldn't he recall the man? With a name like that, he should be firmly fixed in his memory.

Luke drew his eyebrows together. He had been middle-aged and rather nondescript; Luke remembered looking right at him. But now, no matter how he tried, he could recall nothing else about the man's appearance.

“Mr. Dallas?” Luke looked up from the book, meeting exotic Aimee's eyes. She flushed. “I just wanted you to know, I love your books. I can't wait to read your new one.”

He grinned, pleased. “Thanks. By the way—” he held up the bag “—did you see who left this for me?”

“Sorry, I just came on.”

“There was no note with this? No message?”

“Not that I saw. But I'll double-check for you.”

There wasn't, so Luke headed up to his room. The phone was ringing as he let himself in; he hurried to catch it before the hotel message service. “Hello.”

“Meet me in the bar of the Vieux Carré Gun Club in twenty minutes.”

“Who is this?”

“Twenty minutes,” he repeated. “If you still want to talk.”

The line went dead, and Luke held the receiver for a moment before dropping it into the cradle. Condor, he realized, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Bird Man. Of course.

 

The Vieux Carré Gun Club was a private organization and judging by the building's address and facade, catered to an extremely wealthy clientele. The doorman allowed Luke in, directing him to the receptionist's desk. The woman, a beautiful blonde, immaculately dressed in a Chanel suit, stood as he approached, greeting him by name. She asked him to sign the guest register, then led him to the lounge.

Luke spotted Condor immediately. He sat alone at a corner table, his back to the wall.

“Bird Man, I presume?”

Condor smiled. “Corny, but I couldn't resist.” He motioned to the chair across from his. “How long did it take you to figure it out?”

“Too long, I'm embarrassed to say.” He settled into the leather tub chair. “That was you at the signing? I never would have guessed.”

Condor signaled the waitress. “Look at the eyes, they always give the man away.”

The waitress arrived to take his order, and Luke glanced at the other man's drink. As if reading his thoughts, Condor said, “I never consume alcohol. It dulls the senses and impairs reaction time.”

“Precisely why most people do drink it. Personally, I like the taste.” Luke smiled at the woman, ordered a beer, then turned to Condor. “Pretty fancy digs.”

“It ain't shabby, that's for sure.” The man raised his glass of tomato juice to his lips.

“And you're a member?”

“Let's just say, I have friends in high places.”

They chatted about nothing for a few more minutes; Luke sensed Condor was still sizing him up. Testing the waters.

“I'm curious,” he said, “why did you decide to talk to me?”

Condor shrugged. “I like your books. My wife likes your books.”

“You're married?”

“You sound surprised. Aren't I allowed?”

Luke took a swallow of his beer. “I suppose. It just doesn't fit the image of the hired killer.”

“Your image,” he murmured, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Hollywood's.”

“Does she know what you do?”

“Of course not. I'm a software salesman. I travel a lot.”

“You have kids?”

“Two. Age six and eight. Boys.”

Luke thought about that a moment. “Do you ever imagine how she would feel, if she found out? If your kids found out?”

“That's not going to happen. There's no reason they would.”

“And if you're killed on assignment?”

“The Agency would take care of my cover from there.” Condor stood. “You shoot much, Dallas?”

Luke followed him to his feet. “Enough to write about it with some authority.”

“Good.” Condor smiled. “Let's go have some fun.”

The glitz and glamour of the gun club's common areas ended as they entered the indoor range. Garagelike, windowless and well insulated, it was outfitted with six firing stations, each with a mechanical pulley used to move paper targets forward and back.

They were alone in the range. On the table at station one sat two boxes of ammo and a gun.

Condor crossed to the table and picked up the weapon. “Beretta 9mm, semiautomatic.”

While he spoke, he examined the gun, checking the magazine, pulling back on the slide, then releasing it, tipping it from one side to the other, running his fingers expertly over the metal. He handled the weapon with reverence and familiarity. Like it was an old friend.

“Fifteen round magazine,” he continued, “weighs 2.52 pounds, fully loaded. Muzzle velocity 1280 feet per second, rivaling the .357.”

He loaded three clips, then slid one into the magazine. “You own any hardware, Dallas?”

“A .44 Magnum.”

Condor met his eyes. “That's a lot of firepower. More than I would have thought an author would need.”

Luke laughed. “I bought it when I was writing
Last Dance.
What can I say? I like Dirty Harry movies. I saw my lead character as a kind of Harry Callahan, a rugged loner. A renegade.”

Condor shook his head, disagreeing. “A renegade's an outlaw. Callahan was the ultimate lawman. He lived by a code of justice. Of an eye for an eye. Fight firepower with firepower, violence with violence. Simple.”

“Is it simple? Is that the code you live by?”

“Basically. We live in a violent society, Luke. No matter how big and bad someone is, they're made vulnerable by the same fragile physical shell as everyone else. Think of death as the ultimate problem solver.”

“And that's what you do? How you think of yourself, as a problem solver?”

“And a patriot, yes. Let's see what this baby can do.” He clipped a paper target, a black silhouette of a human torso, onto the pulley, sent it back fifty or so feet and slipped on a headset. He aimed and fired, one shot after another, the explosions near simultaneous, emptying the magazine.

Condor flipped the pulley switch, retrieving the target. He had blown away the target's head and riddled its heart with holes. He replaced the target with a new one, then turned to Luke, gun butt out. “Your turn.”

Luke took the weapon and reloaded. The gun felt heavier in his hands than the two and a half pounds Condor had quoted; it felt colder. He stepped up to the firing line, adjusted his target, aimed and fired, neither as quick nor, he knew without looking, as accurately as Condor.

He emptied the magazine and checked the target, grateful to see that it looked like most of his shots had at least hit the target.

“Not bad. For a civilian.”

Luke's lips lifted and he handed the weapon to the other man. “Thanks.”

“All that fancy hardware you see guys like me using in the movies,” Condor murmured, jacking another clip of ammo into the magazine, “that's strictly Hollywood. For the professional, simple is best.”

He slipped on his headset and approached the firing line. As before, he aimed, emptying the magazine in a matter of seconds. He slid the headset off and crossed back to Luke. “A gun, a knife, a garrote. Simple, effective, quick.”

He reloaded the clips, his movements economical, automatic. He had done the same thing so many times, Luke saw, he didn't even have to think about what he was doing.

“The thing is,” Condor continued, “the pro has to weigh firepower and effectiveness against practicality, traceability and cost. That .44 of yours has way more punch than I'd need, but it's not such a bad choice for you, if you can handle its kick. There's an intruder in your house, you want to blow as big a hole in him as you can. You might only have one shot, and who knows where you're going to put it.”

“Thanks for that vote of confidence.”

Condor laughed, then continued. “A weapon is a tool and nothing more. Not a lover or a pet. You can't get attached to your weapon—you never use one twice.”

“Never?”

“Never. The same weapon would link the hits. Any mechanic worth his salt disposes of his weapon after each hit. In the case of a gun, when possible, I dismantle it first. The pieces are disposed of in a variety of locations, the butt in a Dumpster, the barrel down a storm drain, you get the picture. That way I know the weapon will never be recovered.”

“Why not dispose of the body?” Luke asked. “That's evidence. No body, no crime to investigate.”

“Yeah, but tougher to get rid of, wouldn't you say?” He handed the Beretta to Luke. “Remember, all police adhere to the same theory of crime solving. Motive, means and opportunity. Statistics show that most violent crimes are committed by people who know one another, so that's the first place the local boys look. Get rid of the weapon and all of a sudden you have a crime, but no motive and no weapon. I'm long gone before the local boys have even finished interrogating the wife, business partner, best friend.”

Luke took the gun, replaced the clip and stepped up. He took aim, then fired. This time more confidently and with more accuracy. He slipped off the headset and handed the gun to the other man.

“Before the hit, what goes through your mind?”

“Getting in, getting the job done and getting out. The professional has two goals. Kill the target. And walk away. That's it.”

“What about after the hit?” Luke asked. “You don't think about the victim's wife or kids? You don't question whether you're doing the right thing?”

“They're not people to me, Dallas. They're targets. A name and a face on a piece of paper.” He laid the gun on the table. “I'm not a murderer. I'm not some amoral psycho. Those guys make me sick. They have no loyalty or self-control. They're selfish little bastards who act on whim and without honor.

“I'm a patriot. A soldier. I work for my country, and I don't question my orders.” At Luke's expression he laughed. “Don't be naive, every government in the world employs men like me. We're a political necessity.