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Authors: W. Michael Gear

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BOOK: The Athena Factor
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Sid did a double take when she stopped at a slick gold-painted Chrysler. “This is your ride?”
She was grinning. “It's just a rental. Job perk, you know?”
“I'm in the wrong business.” He slid into the passenger seat, watching Christal out of the corner of his eye as she backed out, drove to the exit, and handed the ticket to the attendant. As they followed the signs to 405, he added, “I haven't seen you look this happy in a long time, Chris.”
She ran fingers through her thick black hair. “I don't know why. Twenty-hour days can't be good for me.” Then she flashed him a sexy grin and her eyes sparkled. “But, yeah, I'm having the time of my life. How about you?”
“Screwed,” he muttered. “This abduction thing, if it is an abduction, is driving me nuts.”
“So, tell me.”
“What's to tell? I've got a graduate student, female, from over in Georgetown who just drops off the face of the earth.
One day she's there, about to defend her doctoral dissertation on manipulating phases of the cell cycle. What do I know about cell cycles? Hell, if a cell has a cycle, I assume it's a Suzuki, right?”
“What do you mean, ‘dropped off the face of the earth'?”
“I mean, zero.
Nada.
She leaves her lab to go for a job interview with a biotech firm and never makes the appointment. She's gone. Keyser Soze gone.”
“So why are you involved? It's a missing persons report; you don't have probable cause to make a kidnapping determination. Fifty-fifty says she got burned out and skipped, willing to give up the pressure-cooker bullshit of a Ph.D. program in return for sitting on a beach somewhere selling T-shirts.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He put his arm on the seat back. “Thing is, there's a pattern of this. Goes back five years. Over that time, no less than twenty-two hotshot young geneticists have vanished. Risen like smoke and drifted away. In each case there hasn't been a thing. Nothing. Not a body, not a ransom note. No sightings by acquaintances.” He chewed at his lip. “Then, last Friday, just before you did the tango with that menstrual thief, a white male, Mike Harris, age twenty-four, leaves the UCLA genetics lab to take a whiz. What should have been a three-minute exercise has stretched into almost seventy-two hours now.”
“Yeah, well a word of warning: You gotta watch out in these LA bathrooms.”
He smiled. “Seriously, what do you think?”
“Seventy-two hours? That's a long time for a man to pee, and he's way too young for prostate problems.”
T
he place was called Al's. Lymon had stumbled across it several years ago. The atmosphere was nice, with walls paneled in dark wood, and classical folk music played on the speakers. Not only that, Al had a deal with some Wyoming
buffalo ranchers. He got a frozen package twice a week. Al's jalapeño-cheddar buffalo burgers were handmade, cooked to perfection, and melted in the mouth. He also made what he called “Sioux soup,” which was buffalo meat, sunflower seeds, pumpkin seeds, squash, potatoes, blue corn flour, piñon nuts, and Anasazi beans. In addition to chili powder, he used fresh poblano peppers and cilantro. It could knock your socks off.
Lymon leaned back in the barrel-shaped chair and grinned at Sid as he finished his burger and washed it down with a glass of Anchor Porter. “Not bad, huh?”
“I could live like this.” Sid made a face. “Those jalapeños, though, whew!”
“Homegrown.” Lymon copped a glance at Christal. There were advantages to being raised New Mexican. You didn't break a sweat over something as innocuous as garden-raised peppers.
“So,” Christal asked, “do the guys on the squad still hiss when they speak my name?”
Sid shrugged. “Yeah, some. Everybody's pissed because Gonzales got away.” He paused. “The son of a bitch knows just how close we came to busting his ass. That's worth something.”
Christal's eyes had clouded as she stared at her plate. She'd eaten a tender buffalo steak, medium rare. “If we can link him to the celebrity heists, we'll give you the goods on him.”
“He's not into Michael Jordan's jockstrap, thank you.” Sid wiped his lips with the napkin and sipped more beer. He glanced at Christal. “I don't know. You've got a nose for these things. What do you think? Trophies?”
Christal shook her head. “It's not right. Trophies suggest a victory. Taking something as a memento of a contest. If that's the case, what's the contest? Just breaking security? Why not take Roberts' Oscar, or Gibson's whole razor? Trophy taking by its very nature is the removal of something the target values. It indicates assertive-oriented behavior.”
“So,” Sid countered, “if it's not trophies, it's souvenirs.”
Christal gave him a censorial glare. “You never were much for criminal psychology, Sid. Souvenirs are generally
linked to reassurance-oriented behavior. The woman I dealt with in the ladies' john at the Wilshire didn't need much in the way of reassurance. Trust me on that. My abs are still tender to the touch.”
“Really?” Sid asked with animation. “Can we feel?”
“I thought you had to be on a plane in three days.”
“It won't take three days to feel your abs.”
She gave him a look that would have warped titanium. “You'll be that long just getting out of intensive care.”
“Meanwhile—getting back to the case—are we dealing with a symbolic action?” Lymon asked. “Taking someone's tampon has got to make some kind of point.”
“Yeah?” Christal asked. “Symbolic of what? That Sheela Marks—along with most every other woman in the world—has a functioning reproductive tract?”
“At least you know she's not pregnant,” Sid mused.
“We weren't worried about that,” Lymon answered. “And if you assume these things are related, I don't think Mel Gibson was, either.”
“If that's the case, there are way too many people for a sociopath to be involved.” Sid fingered his beer glass.
“Unless it's a rich sociopath.” Christal was staring into the distance. “Sid, I've just started to understand the things someone with money can do. If you pay enough, you can hire anyone to do anything. I mean, damn, how much does it take to get a camera into an FBI surveillance van? What's a tampon and some urine compared to that?”
Sid shook his head. “I don't know. Does stealing the kind of stuff we're talking about fit into any of the standard typologies?”
“It's definitely one hell of an invasion of privacy.” Lymon pushed his empty bowl back and placed the spoon in it. With a finger he indicated to the waiter that the plates needed busing.
“Another round,” Sid said as the man picked up the dishes.
Lymon noticed that Christal was on her second Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. “I'd started to come to the conclusion that she didn't drink. Sid, you're a good influence.”
“Who? Chris? When she gets wound up, you need a funnel with a tube just to keep up with her.”
“I don't do that anymore.” Christal had lowered her eyes. Was that an embarrassed flush at her throat?
Sid shrugged. “No, I guess you don't”
“Want to fill me in?” Lymon asked gently.
“It was just a joke,” Sid said bluffly. Hell, he didn't lie any better now than he did in the Corps.
Christal turned her dark eyes on his. “The last time I had too much I crawled into a surveillance van. Just me and my AIC.”
“You don't have to do this,” Sid said gently.
“Nope.” Lymon sensed her discomfort.
Christal shrugged, fingering her beer. “It's all right. I made a mistake. Would I have made the mistake if I'd been stone-cold sober? I don't know. Maybe. Probably. I liked the guy.”
“He was scuzz.” Sid muttered, and gave Lymon a meaningful glance. “I don't get it. The guy's a dickhead, but women always fawn over him.”
“It was his eyes,” Christal told them. “The way he smiled. How he listened.” She gave Sid a disapproving look. “It's a trick you might want to learn. When Hank is listening to a woman, he pays complete attention to her. He treats her like at that moment she is the single most important thing in his world.”
“So? I listen to women.”
“Yeah, Sid. With half an ear.”
“But the guy was gutless!” Sid ended with a snort of derision as the waiter laid down another round.
Christal shrugged. “We didn't know that until the shit hit the fan. When it did, he took it like a whipped puppy.”
Sid poured rich dark Anchor into his glass, studied the brown head, and said, “I think his time with Marsha was running out anyway. She was married to him. She knew what a loser he was. Flashy, with no guts. I'd bet he was whining when she threw him out.”
“Whining is underrated,” Lymon offered. “I whine a lot. It helps me get my way.”
In the middle of a swallow, Sid laughed—and almost puked as he coughed and pawed for a napkin.
“You whine?” Christal asked. “When? Can I watch next time?”
“Sure. I think I have a whining session scheduled for next week. Check with June. She does the calendar.”
Sid coughed again, belched, and placed a hand to his stomach. “Excuse me. Damn. You shouldn't do that, Lymon. Not when I'm vulnerable.”
“You're always vulnerable. Speaking of which, when are you going to get off the government dole and come work with us real professionals?”
“If you're going to tempt a federal employee,” Christal said, rising, “I'm off to the ladies' room.”
“Keep an eye out for Copperhead,” Lymon called.
Christal shot a look over her shoulder. “I hope she's there. She and I have this little thing that we need to settle.”
They watched her walk to the hallway in the rear.
“Damn, that's a nice sight,” Sid said with a sigh. “I really miss having her around. Not only is she just a good kid, but I used to spend half the day dreaming about that body.”
Lymon chuckled. “You're married.”
“So? I can still dream, can't I?” Sid refolded his napkin. “Okay, yeah, I guess I fell a little in love with Christal. Who wouldn't?”
“Hank?”
“Shit! But for him, she'd have had a dynamite career.” Sid shook his head. “Weird thing. You and I both know it's not the first time a male and female agent made whoopee on surveillance; they just didn't do it when the target was Gonzales. We're still trying to figure out how the hell he got a camera into that van.”
“Someone in the Bureau?”
“Probably.” Sid looked up. “If Gonzales found out that Hank Abrams was in charge of the investigation, it wouldn't have taken him long to figure out just what kind of guy he was. Half the WMFO knew he was screwing around on Marsha.” He made a face. “Fucking pretty boy.”
“So why don't you ditch the bullshit? I could use a partner.”
“Me? A partner?”
Lymon made a gesture of surrender. “Well, maybe. We'd have to see if June would hire you.”
“That's the secretary?”
“Don't call her that to her face.”
“Right.” Sid paused, jerked his head toward the women's room. “So, how's she doing?”
“Good. You steered me right. If she likes the work, I'd like to keep her.”
Sid seemed fascinated by a spot on the tablecloth when he said, “You thought about asking her out?”
Lymon gave him the evil eye when he finally looked up. “Is that why you sent her out here?”
“You seen a more beautiful woman recently?”
“I work for Sheela Marks.” Lymon grinned at Sid's sudden discomfort and added, “I only owe you my life and my soul. Don't try to play matchmaker for me.”
Christal returned a moment later and dropped into the chair with an easy grace. “So, did you guys get an angle on the celeb hits while I was gone, or did you spend the whole time talking about me?”
“Talked about you,” Lymon said blandly. “You're a lot more interesting.”
Sid had recovered completely, saying, “Well, if it's not profit motivated, it's payback, right?”
Lymon made a helpless gesture. “Sheela's never done a movie with any of those people.”
“Any personal relationship with any of them?” Christal asked.
“Outside of bumping into each other at parties, no. Well, sure, there's the professional similarity, but that's about it. Are there mutual friends? You bet. It's the film business. Everybody knows everybody.”
Sid leaned forward. “Maybe it's someone who got stepped on. An actor who lost a key role to Marks, or one of the others? Maybe it's something simple like they were repped by the same agency or something?”
Christal shrugged. “I can start checking on that.” Her expression
dropped. “One thing about the Bureau. You can always get people to do the scut work.”
Sid cocked an eyebrow, lowering his voice. “So, Lymon. Assuming you find this guy, what are you going to do about him?”
Lymon tried to keep his voice calm when he said, “Paybacks are a bitch, aren't they?”
Christal was watching him, hearing more than he wanted to say. He tried to decipher the look she was giving him. Definitely evaluative.
“Be very, very careful, old friend.” No levity could be heard in Sid's voice.
 
 
Sheela Marks' filmography consisted of no less than thirty-three titles, and it didn't take Christal long to figure out that this research, like so much that she had done as a federal agent, was tedious, long, and monotonous. Having the dates when the films were made was just the beginning. From there she went to
Daily Variety,
flipping through the editions looking for Sheela Marks' name. Then she painstakingly had to figure out who was in or out of the deals. After eight hours she had a list of several hundred names and that was just the actors. Including directors, she could add another fifty. Factor in another twenty-two when the producers were included.
She considered her list, tapped her pen, and glared at the stack of weeklies as she considered having to repeat the effort for each of the other names.
“Ma'am?” the librarian asked as she walked up to the carrel. “Are you about finished? We're closing in fifteen minutes.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Christal stood, feeling the ache in her back, and began collecting her things. “I'll see you in the morning.”
Several names were rubbing against her thoughts as she stepped out into the tawny light of an LA sunset. One of them was Manuel de Clerk.
She pulled out her cell, dialed the office, and got the answering machine as it identified the company and stated the normal operating hours for Lymon Bridges Associates. June, it appeared, got to keep a normal human being's work hours. She called Lymon.
On the second ring he answered,
“Bridges.”
“Lymon? Anaya. I'm looking for Tony Zell's number.”
“Agency or personal?”
BOOK: The Athena Factor
11.92Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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