Diamonds Can Be Deadly (13 page)

He creased his forehead and gave the matter solemn consideration. “I think I can handle it. Just go easy on me.”

Smiling, she leaned into a loose embrace. The tension kicked up a notch. So did her hunger. But the overall sensation was one of deliciously heightened awareness.

Like in one of Bartholomew's meditation sessions, she thought wryly. She could almost hear him instructing her to close her eyes, free her thoughts, concentrate on her physical state.

Her lids drifted shut. Her world narrowed. Her pulse picked up speed.

Now Bartholomew would tell her to think about the world around her. Feel the breeze on her heated skin. Hear the surf pounding with the same relentless rhythm as her heart. He'd urge her to let the sounds and colors and shapes come to her. Broaden her. Stimulate her.

Suddenly, her eyes flew open. The urgent prodding against her belly told her she wasn't the only one who'd been stimulated. Feeling a distinct kinship with the horny Felicity Waller-Winston, Jordan pulled away.

“I think that's enough for phase one.”

Hardly!

TJ managed to swallow the swift retort. He even
managed to hook his thumbs in his pockets instead of hauling Jordan into the bedroom and streaking straight to phase four or five. The effort damn near doubled him over. His only consolation was that she looked as hot and bothered as he felt at the moment.

“That was good,” he said, eyeing her flushed face and disordered hair. “Very good. But it generated more energy than it burned.”

“Actually, I had something else in mind when I suggested burning up energy.”

“Like what?”

“I want into Bartholomew's treasure room.”

That took the P out of his Peter. Snapping back to reality, TJ shook his head. “Not possible.”

“You know the security system. You must know how to bypass it.”

“That vault is better protected than a Minuteman III silo.”

“Are you saying you can't get in?”

“I'm saying you don't need to get in. I've scoped it out, Red.”

“Ha! I thought so.”

“Aside from an emerald phallus, I didn't find anything interesting. Certainly no evidence that linked Greene to a pesos-for-dollars operation.”

“When was this?”

“Shortly after I signed on as director of security.”

“The Star of the East was stolen just two weeks ago,” she reminded him.

“I know. I was planning to go back in for another look when I could work it.”

“Work it tonight.”

“It's too risky, Jordan. I covered myself last time by scheduling a routine system check. I used the downtime to cross a few wires and slip inside the vault for a quick look around.”

“Bartholomew just acquired an expensive new toy,” she said, using that as a springboard. “You can advise your security monitor that you want to run an unscheduled system check to make sure his new bauble is secure. My marching orders come from the president,” she added when he shook his head. “Would you rather call him and explain why you don't want to cross a few wires for me?”

The polite query hung on the air for a good five seconds. Finally TJ unlocked his jaw.

“I'm beginning to think Esteban had the right idea.”

“About?”

“About keeping his woman naked and chained to a bed for the rest of her natural life.”

“Dear, God!” Jordan steepled her palms and rolled her eyes toward heaven. “
Puh-leez
let me be in the general vicinity if Luis ever says something like that to Claire.”

T
he timing worked out perfectly. The sleek little air force jet put Claire into LAX a good fifteen minutes before the jumbo jet from Hawaii lumbered in.

She was at the gate when the passengers deplaned and ID'd McShay immediately. He was thinner than he'd appeared in the magazine and newspaper articles she'd pulled up on him, but she could hardly mistake the bulldog face featured on the front cover of
Time
magazine.

She also ID'd the federal agent tailing him. Coordination between OMEGA and DEA had improved dramatically in the past few days, so she knew
to look for a tanned tourist in shorts, sandals and flashy tropical shirt.

The agent had reported no contact between Garcia and McShay at the airport in Hawaii. The Colombian had arrived, picked up a rental car and driven straight to the institute. McShay had waited in the first-class lounge for his flight to be called. He'd grown restless during the two-hour “mechanical” delay and made several calls on his cell phone. Now he faced another delay because of a missed connection to Oakland and his home in the Bay Area.

With an almost imperceptible nod to the agent, Claire joined the throng of passengers streaming away from the gate. As anticipated, McShay headed directly for the first-class lounge. She followed him in.

“My flight from Hawaii just arrived,” he informed one of the hostesses manning the marble reception counter. “I missed my connection and need to be rebooked.”

She checked his ticket and began clicking her keyboard. “We'll get you fixed up right away, Mr. McShay.”

Claire passed her ticket to the second receptionist and shared a smile with the man next to her.

“Aren't these delays annoying?”

“Very.”

“You're all set, Dr. Cantwell.” The second hostess slid Claire's ticket across the marble counter and checked the bank of clocks on the wall. “We should call the flight to Oakland in about forty minutes.”

“Thank you.”

The attendant assisting McShay clicked her keyboard again. “I've booked you on that same flight, sir. Here's your new boarding pass.”

“Thanks.” He slid the ticket into the pocket of his lightweight sport coat. “One of my associates flew out of LAX earlier today. He was supposed to leave a message here for me.”

“Let me check.”

Claire's heart bumped. She moved away from the counter but kept the target in sight. When the receptionist passed him a folded sheet of notepaper, her heart thumped again.

Reining in her excitement, she waited while McShay slipped the note into his suit pocket and settled into one of the leather armchairs by the windows. She claimed a seat a short distance away, then sorted through the newspapers displayed on the coffee table. Pretending not to find the one she wanted, she glanced at the paper on the table beside McShay's chair.

“Is that the
New York Times?
”

He checked the banner and nodded. “Yes.”

“Are you going to read it?”

“No, you're welcome to it.”

He got up to deliver the paper at the same time a steward appeared to take Claire's drink order.

“I'll have a black Russian,” she told him. “Light on the Kahlúa, please.”

“And you, sir?”

McShay didn't respond. His expression had gone flat, his lips thin and tight. The overhead fluorescent lighting gave his fleshy face a grayish cast and emphasized the dark circles under his eyes.

“Sir?”

The computer mogul gave a little jerk, as if coming out of a trance. “Scotch,” he said gruffly. “Straight up. Make it a double. Here's your
Times.
”

Claire took the newspaper and voiced a gentle concern. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I just… That is…” He blew out a breath and swiped a palm over his face. “My wife rarely drank. When she did, she always ordered a black Russian.”

Claire had unearthed that bit of information just hours ago. She disliked using the details she'd dug up about his wife like this. Playing on McShay's grief went against her training and her natural instinct to comfort and heal. Unfortunately, death formed a common bond between them.

“I lost my husband eight years ago,” she said quietly. “I still bleed a little this time of year, whenever I catch the baseball scores on radio or TV. Bill and I met at a Yankees game.”

“Eight years. Does it take that long for the hurt to go away?”

“It never goes away. You just learn to accept it and understand that the loss of someone you love shapes you into a very different person from the one you were before.”

“That's what Bartholomew says.”

“Bartholomew?”

“My therapist. Dr. Bartholomew Greene.”

“Of the Greene Tranquility Institute?”

“Do you know him?”

“I know of him,” Claire said with perfect truth. “I'm a psychologist. I've studied his methodology. Did you find his combination of transpersonal meditation and stone therapy helpful in dealing with your grief?”

With a harsh laugh, McShay unbuttoned his suit coat and pulled back a flap to reveal a square-cut emerald tiepin. “I never go anywhere without this stone. Bartholomew made a believer out of me. He and his teachings are what got me through the past few years.”

“Really? I'd love to hear a firsthand description of his practices. Would you care to join me?”

He hesitated for several moments. Claire suspected the envelope she could see poking out of the inside pocket of his jacket pulled him in one direction, his urge to sing Bartholomew's praises in another.

“My name's Claire, by the way.” Smiling, she offered her hand. “Claire Cantwell.”

“Harry McShay.”

The human touch overcame his hesitation. Dropping into the chair next to hers, he launched into a paean to the guru of Greene.

* * *

Claire kept him talking until the hostess called their flight. They boarded the small commuter jet
together. Since first class consisted of only two rows, she and McShay were seated side by side.

She handed her folded raincoat and overnight bag to the flight attendant for stowing. Itching to get her hands on that note, Claire hoped McShay would do the same with his suit coat. Unfortunately, he declined the attendant's offer and kept the lightweight jacket on for the duration of the short flight, most of which was spent discussing Bartholomew Greene's methods and teachings.

When they touched down at Oakland, Claire made a casual offer. “I'm staying at the Radisson. If you're heading in that direction, I'll be happy to share a taxi.”

“Thanks, but I have a car waiting.”

Nodding, she draped her folded raincoat over her arm and slung her purse over her shoulder. She knew when to push and when to let common courtesy do her work for her. McShay made the counteroffer a moment later.

“The Radisson is right on my way,” he said with only the barest hint of reluctance. “I could drop you there.”

“Are you sure? I don't want to inconvenience you.”

“You won't.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Tucking a wayward silver-blond strand into the smooth coil at the base of her neck, Claire waited for the aircraft door to open.

They were the first passengers to deplane. McShay matched his stride to hers as they headed for the baggage-claim area. Two gates down she spotted the agent she'd been advised would pick up the tail in Oakland. He fell in behind them, looking very much like a college professor in his tweed jacket and neatly trimmed white beard.

Once on the escalator, McShay reached into his jacket pocket for the note. Claire caught the movement from the corner of her eye. Angling around, she watched him extract a folded sheet of paper.

Claire was one step down. She couldn't see what was written on it, but it had to be a phone number. Referring to the paper, McShay unclipped his cell phone and flipped up the lid.

Thank goodness for Mackenzie's high-tech wizardry. With seeming nonchalance, Claire aimed her purse strap at the cell phone. She knew the bug would pick up the faint beeps as McShay punched in the numbers and beam them back to OMEGA. Rigger would trace the number within minutes.

“This is McShay. I'm down. Bring the car around.”

Claire willed her expression to remain calm as her target steered her through the baggage-claim area toward the exit.

Once outside, they were met by a chilly April night. Fingers of cold, misty fog drifted in from the bay, forming a hazy halo effect around the floodlights in the passenger-pickup area.

Claire felt a shudder ripple through her. It was more nerves than cold, but she didn't argue when McShay suggested she put on her raincoat.

“Here, let me help you.”

“Thanks.”

He shook out the folds and held it up for her. Claire fished around behind her for a moment but couldn't find the armholes. When she glanced over her shoulder, the glare of oncoming headlights showed that McShay's face had gone dead white.

“Harry?” She whirled around. “What's the matter?”

“My daughter went nuts over pink.” The words came out raw and jagged, as though his throat was stuffed with shards of glass. His hand trembling, he smoothed a palm over the pink plaid lining of her Burberry coat. “I brought her gloves and a hat made out of this same plaid on our last trip to London.”

Guilt stabbed into Claire. She hadn't picked up that piece of information when she'd run screens on the man's wife and daughter. If she had, would she have used it as another weapon in her arsenal? God, she hoped not.

She laid a hand on his arm, driven by a need to comfort but distracted by the swish of a car pulling up to the curb.

“It's all right, Harry.”

The vehicle door opened. A figure dressed in black emerged from the idling car. With one eye on the driver rounding the front fender, Claire squeezed McShay's arm and repeated the age-old palliative.

“It's all right.”

“No, it's not!” Exploding into fury, he threw back his arm. “It'll never be all right again!”

His sudden fury was symptomatic of phase two in the grief process. At any other time, Claire would have responded with unimpaired calm to the “why me?” frustration and rage.

Unfortunately, she didn't have time to respond at all. McShay's violent movement had jerked her off balance. She pitched forward, ramming into his chest. A second later, all hell broke loose.

Seeing what he must have thought was a struggle, the driver spit out a curse and dropped into a crouch. Claire heard a shout, another curse, the thud of pounding feet. She shoved away from McShay and swung around an instant before the percussive shock of a .45 Magnum fired at close range assaulted her eardrums.

“Get down, Harry!”

She threw herself to the pavement, dragging her Springfield SD subcompact from her purse on the way down. Before she could thumb the safety, the driver had pumped out two more rounds. Answering shots came from behind Claire, pinging into the car's fender, shattering its windshield.

The gunfire stampeded the crowd waiting in the pickup area. They couldn't see who was doing the shooting, weren't sure where the shots had come from. Screaming and shouting, they ran for whatever cover they could find.

In the midst of the chaos, the driver jumped back into the car. It screeched away from the curb, accelerating wildly. Claire scrambled up and aimed at the rear tire, then bit out a curse as the tweedy college professor got between her and the fleeing vehicle. Assuming a two-fisted shooter's stance, the agent fired three quick shots. The first crystallized the rear window. The second plowed into the trunk. The third ignited the gas tank.

The car burst into a fireball. The explosion lifted the vehicle a good four feet off the concrete before slamming it back down again. Metal twisted. Hydraulic lines hissed. Flames leaped through shattered windows.

Seared by the heat, Claire whirled around to check on McShay. Her heart dropped to her feet when she saw him lying in a pool of blood and gore. The top half of his skull was blown away.

* * *

Jordan got the news as she waited for TJ to arrive at her bungalow with the schematics of the vault. He had insisted she wait until 4:00 a.m. to attempt the penetration. Everyone should be asleep at that hour, including Bartholomew, who had a habit of making late-night visits to the vault to fondle, drool over or otherwise play with his treasures.

The plan was for TJ to relieve the officer monitoring the security screens and send him to conduct a perimeter check. Monkeying with the system so a shutdown wouldn't trigger an alarm would take TJ a
good ten minutes. That left Jordan an estimated twenty to get in, snoop around the vault and get out again.

She was pacing the sitting room, impatient to get her hands on those schematics, when her earring began to vibrate. Excitement shot through her. This was probably Rigger, contacting her with the results of Claire's intercept.

“Diamond here. What have you got for me?”

“'Fraid you're not gonna like it,” Rigger responded. “The intercept went sour. Cyrene's okay, but she's got two DBs on her hands.”

Oh, hell! Two dead bodies. From the sound of it, the intercept went
way
sour!

“Was one of those DBs McShay?” Jordan asked.

“Roger that.”

“What happened?”

“Cyrene made contact with McShay at LAX. There was a message waiting for him in the first-class lounge. He opened it after they landed at Oakland and called to request a car be brought around.”

“Did Cyrene copy the number he called?”

“She did. It checks to a scumbag by the name of Rodrigo Herrera, who we assume is the crispy critter lying beside McShay in the morgue right now. Apparently Herrera got spooked during the handoff of the vehicle and started blasting with his .45. He put one of the rounds into McShay's head.”

“On purpose?”