Cold as Ice (30 page)

She was still nattering on. "These children get so few treats—I know they'll love a visit to your estate at Lake Arrowhead for the carnival you've arranged. They don't get out of the hospital, much less out of the city, and I know a day in the mountains will be wonderful for them."

"The pleasure is mine, Miss…" He deliberately let the sentence hang, just so she'd know how little he'd noticed her. She was expendable goods. But then, in the end, so was everybody.

Her bright smile faltered a bit. "Miss White. Jennifer White."

He didn't like the name. Jennifer was too much like Genevieve, and it was hard to keep his charming smile in place when he thought about her.

"I consider it an honor to escort these little tykes around for the day. If things run too late I'll have my staff see that they're well taken care of and they'll be back in the morning."

Jennifer White's face creased in sudden worry. "But I thought we were talking about the afternoon only, Mr. Van Dorn?"

"Hell, it takes an hour to get up into the San Bernardino Mountains from here. You needn't worry about them, Miss White. I have a fully qualified staff to look after them."

"But I'm coming with—" she said.

"I'm afraid not. You've got orders to report back to the hospital—some kind of crisis." It hadn't taken much to ensure that. St. Catherine's Children's Hospital received a very large sum of money from him, and in the past couple of years they weren't even forced to turn a blind eye to the damaged children he'd eventually given up to them. His tastes had changed, but one could never tell when he'd want to enjoy a bit of childhood innocence, and he always kept his resources in place.

"Then perhaps I should take the children back and we could do this another day," she suggested nervously.

"Miss White, do you seriously believe these poor little munchkins aren't completely safe with me and my fully trained staff?" He used his best aw-shucks grin, and she melted, the silly cow.

"Oh, of course not. I just thought…I mean, it's too much of an imposition…"

"Not an imposition at all," he said grandly. "One of my drivers will get you right back to the hospital so you can take care of things, as I know you're so capable of doing. In the meantime, these poor kids will have the treat of their life up at my place by the lake."

She was still protesting as one of his men hustled her out the door, and he waited until the sound of her voice died away before turning to the children.

He clicked his fingers to his film crew, and they began rolling. In Los Angeles you could find anything for a price, and the one for having a live-in film crew who could record anything he wanted to preserve and relive, no matter how nasty, was surprisingly cheap. Drugs and whores and elegant surroundings kept them pretty well satisfied, and when that began to pall it was easy enough to dispose of one and replace him. It tended to keep the others more compliant.

"It's a beautiful spring day here in L.A.," he said, addressing the camera. "April nineteenth, in fact. You people know I had a lot of plans for today, but for some reason those have all fallen through. I'm not particularly worried about any fallout—suspicions are one thing, proving a damn thing would be just about impossible. Not with my resources backing me up.

"So I accept defeat gracefully." He bared his teeth in an affable grin. "You managed to put a spoke in my wheels, all without understanding what I was trying to accomplish. It may have seemed harsh, but in the end the new order would have been better all around."

He looked at the unpleasant children. Not that he tended to like children in general, except the very pretty ones who didn't cry too much when he touched them. They never seemed to respond to his famous Van Dorn charm. It was almost as if they could see through him, past the smiles and the jokes.

Dogs didn't like him either. Maybe dogs and kids were smarter than the rest. Or maybe he just didn't care enough to try to fool them. Either way, the handful of scrawny, ugly kids were looking at him with deep distrust.

"I'm a man of many charities," he continued. "This here is an important one to me—looking after dying kids, trying to make their last few months on earth a little brighter."

The camera moved, panning the children's faces. He didn't know children well enough to guess how old they were—probably all under twelve—which made them even more pathetic. Heart-wrenching, to the right people.

"Now, we'd hate to have anything happen to these kids, but the roads up in the mountains can be very treacherous, and there aren't even guardrails in some places. The van they're driving in could go over the edge if someone isn't careful, and I like to think of myself as a very careful man."

He half expected the kids to start weeping and wailing at that veiled threat, but none of them even blinked, the stoic little bastards.

"I have to admit my pride is wounded. And it really burns my hide to think I have to let go of everything I've worked for. But I will, no fuss, no ugly publicity, I'll just slink back and keep giving my money away to hopeless causes and you won't need to worry. But I need one thing, and if I don't get it, these children aren't going to be happy. Accidents are bad enough. Burning to death's a sight worse—real painful, I've heard. And if a van goes over a cliff somewhere up in the mountains there's a good chance it'll catch fire just in case there are survivors. I always carry extra fuel in my vans, just in case I need it." He smiled at the camera, feeling very benevolent.

"So I'm taking these children up to my place in Lake Arrowhead, and don't make the mistake of thinking you can get there first. It's an armed fortress, and anyone who tries to get in will blow themselves to kingdom come. Oh, and you may not know which place I'm talking about—I own a number of properties around Lake Arrowhead and Big Bear, most of them so tied up in dummy corporations that it'll take you too long to guess which one.

"So here are the details you've been waiting for, Ms. Lambert. We'll have a little trade. You bring Ms. Genevieve Spenser, Esquire, back to me and I'll hand off the children, clean and neat. Now, why would I want Ms. Spenser, you ask yourself? Because I've already killed every motherfucker who tried to mess with me on this, and she's the only one still walking around. And I don't like that. It's kinda salt in the wound, you know what I mean?

"I will kill her—don't try to fool yourself into thinking otherwise. The Rule of Seven is just going to have to be the pissant Rule of One, and I don't like it, I can tell you that. So you have your choice. Half a dozen little brats who are going to die anyway, or one less lawyer in the world. You know that old joke—What do you call a hundred lawyers at the bottom of the ocean?'—'a good start'? I know what your choice is going to be, because you really don't have any choice at all. I'll let you know where the trade-off is going to be."

His cameraman was well trained—he knew a closing line when he heard it and he shut off the camera, the bright klieg lights going out.

"You'll get that where it needs to go? Find out where the she-wolf that runs them has gotten to, and get an answer. You understand?" he said. It was a foolish question—they all knew what would happen if they failed him, and Takashi's unfortunate death had been a recent reminder.

There was an absolute jumble of hurried reassurances, and Harry flashed them all his brilliant smile before turning to the ugly little children. "Come on, little ones," he said. "We're going on a journey."

The one he liked least, a tall, skinny black girl, had clearly appointed herself leader. "We don't want to go with you," she said, stubborn.

"Well, now, ain't that too damn bad?" he said, actually amused. "Because you're just a bunch of sick little kids and I've got twenty big strong men who live just to see that everything I want happens. So do as I tell you and get in the fucking limo."

A smaller child spoke up, the feisty little shit. "You're not supposed to swear," he said sternly.

"Well, hot damn, you're right. I do beg your pardon. Follow my men and you'll get a nice ride in a big white limousine up a big tall mountain."

"And if we don't?" the leader demanded.

It would be so easy to snap her scrawny little neck, he thought dreamily. Maybe, when the deal went through, as he had no doubt it would, he'd return five kids instead of six.

"What's your name, little girl?" he asked.

"Tiffany Leticia Ambrose."

Tiffany. That was the funniest damn name he'd ever heard for a ridiculous little piece of trash. "Well, Tiffany, if you don't shut your mouth, your little friends are going to pay the price for it. Understand?"

Any other child would have dissolved into tears. She simply nodded, and stepped back, and Harry flashed his benevolent grin over all of them. "So, we're all agreed? Off to the mountains?"

And without waiting for an answer he took off, leaving them to trail behind him, like sheep to the slaughter.

When Genevieve woke, it was mid-morning—she could tell that much because the infomercials had switched to mindless cartoons. Not even decent Americanized anime, she thought foggily. And then she heard the sharp, staccato footsteps, the firm knock on the door, and she knew it was time to wake up. A good day to die?

She certainly wasn't expecting what waited patiently at her motel-room door. The security hole had been blocked by some previous inhabitant, but she figured Peter wouldn't let anyone dangerous up to her door. Or if he did, then she was screwed anyway.

She opened the door, staring at the creature in front of her. Elegant, ageless, with a cool, serene beauty that was almost eerie, the woman met her shocked stare with a smile. "I'm Madame Isobel Lambert," she said, pronouncing her last name the French way, even though her accent sounded British. "I'm Peter's boss, the current de facto head of the Committee. May I come in?"

Without a word Genevieve opened the door wider, resisting the impulse to peer over the walkway and see if Peter's car was still there, with Peter in it. Madame Lambert was about five foot four, though her stiletto heels brought her up higher, but even in bare feet Genevieve felt as if she was looming over her.

"Sorry I can't offer you a chair or some coffee," she said, her voice brittle. "But I'm not equipped for entertaining."

Isobel Lambert looked at the bed, the one she'd shared with Peter, and Genevieve wanted to scream. Did all these people have some kind of sixth sense? Why didn't she look at the other bed where people had slept alone?

Genevieve sat, claiming the other bed, and let the woman think what she wanted. Hell, it was probably simpler than that—Peter had doubtless given her a full report. Or even worse, he'd been following her instructions in the first place.

She couldn't go there. Not if she wanted to make it through the day, though that was already not a sure thing. She'd slept in her clothes—stupid, when she only had one change—and she was feeling rumpled and grungy. Then again, she might only need one change of clothes.

Madame Lambert had taken a seat on the other bed, crossing her elegant legs at the ankles and taking out a cigarette. "Do you mind? I've just started again."

The room already smelled of stale smoke, and Genevieve didn't care. "I don't know that I'm going to have to worry about dying from secondhand smoke," she said. "Go ahead."

"You aren't going to die, Ms. Spenser."

"Call me Genevieve. No need to stand on formalities when you're turning me over to a murderer."

Madame Lambert smiled. "Peter told me you were a fighter. That's very good. If you were a useless crybaby I wouldn't have even considered this option."

"I could cry," Genevieve offered instantly. "Give me a minute and I'll be a useless, sobbing wreck." In fact, it was true. For the past twenty-four hours, for the past God knows how many days, she'd been on the edge of it, ready to start crying and never stop, but she was far too pragmatic to give in.

"I thought Peter said you agreed to this." Her perfect, unlined face managed to express concern. How many face-lifts, how many Botox injections had gone into making that perfect, ageless mask?

"Do I have a choice?"

"You always have a choice. I'm not sure the same could be said for the six children Harry's planning to kill if we don't deliver you."

She felt sick inside. Could things get any worse? "No choice at all," she said.

Madame Lambert nodded. "The trade-off is going to be at his place up in Lake Arrowhead. I don't know why he's chosen it—there are only two main roads down out of the mountains."

"Maybe he thinks you'll just let him just walk away."

"It's happened in the past. We have to make some uncomfortable moral decisions in this business, Genevieve. Sometimes evil gets to walk away untouched. But he's not walking away with you or the children, I promise you."

"Have you found Takashi yet?"

Again that faint, imperceptible shadow. "No," she said. "But he's a hard man to kill. If anyone could make it then O'Brien could. I haven't given up hope."

"He saved my life."

"So did Peter," Madame Lambert pointed out. "Several times, in fact."

"He was also going to kill me. Your orders?"

The woman didn't even have the grace to look embarrassed. "Yes. Trust me, it was a difficult order, and I'm glad he chose to ignore it."

"And now I get a brand-new way to die."

Madame Lambert rose and stubbed her half-smoked cigarette out in the ashtray. "You aren't going to die," she said again. "Not if I can help it. We've got a Kevlar vest for you, just as an extra precaution, there'll be snipers all around, and the moment someone gets a clear shot they'll take it. You won't get anywhere near him."

"How about having a few paramedics around, just in case."

Madame Lambert looked at her coolly. "We always do."

"Did he tell you my conditions?"

" 'He' meaning Peter? Yes. He said you didn't want him anywhere around. You shouldn't let adolescent emotions interfere with something that could make the difference between life and death. Peter's a crack shot—you couldn't have anyone better watching out for you."