The Athena Factor (28 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear

BOOK: The Athena Factor
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He tightened his hold on her arm as he walked her toward her trailer. His BMW was perched on its center stand just under the trailer's awning. “You worry me.”
She gave the motorcycle a hollow-eyed stare. “That was one of the most memorable days of my life, Lymon. No matter what, never forget that.”
“It was just a ride, Sheela.”
“Yes … pure paradise.”
As they walked by the silver machine, the trailer door opened and Rex leaned out. “Good! Back before I'd thought you'd be.”
“What are you doing here?” Sheela's voice reflected weary acceptance.
“Tomaso wouldn't let me see you last night,” Rex muttered. “You're going to have to do something with that guy, Sheela.” He jammed a thumb into his chest. “I'm
not
the hired help. I'm your manager, not some pastry chef he can … Hey, you okay?”
“Tired,” she said, leaning harder against Lymon. “I just need a nap.”
“Too many twenty-hour days,” Lymon added, knowing it wasn't his turf, but unable to keep his trap shut.
Rex cued on the protective tone in Lymon's voice, his eyes sharpening as he noticed the way Sheela had clamped onto Lymon's arm. “Yeah, well, I've got business. Tony's had two offers. One from Jerry Bruckheimer, another from Donald Petrie. They're both casting for projects that you attached yourself to. Preproduction starts for both within the week. We've got decisions to make.”
Lymon almost lifted Sheela up the steps and walked her back to the small bedroom, elbowing Rex to the side in the process.
“Sheela? You hear me?”
“Later,” Lymon said gently, but shooting Rex a look that would have chilled milk.
“God, give me a break, Rex,” Sheela added. “I almost didn't get through that last scene. Bernard's pushing like a maniac. I owe him in return for scrapping that bullshit he'd written into the script.”
Rex made a sweeping gesture to include the two brad-clipped scripts and a clutter of paper that he'd placed on the table in the small booth. “Yeah, well what about—”
“Later!” Lymon snapped, and maneuvered Sheela into the small bedroom.
She smiled up at him. “Thanks, Lymon. Wake me a half hour before my call, all right? Hot coffee? And maybe time to run through my lines before I have to walk over for makeup?”
“Yeah, you've got it.” He smiled at her, running his thumb over her eyebrow. “For now, you sleep.”
“You'll be here?” Her fatigued eyes pleaded with his.
“I'll be here. And the coffee will be ready. Strong and black.”
“See you soon,” she murmured, and turned before flopping on the bed. He wasn't sure, but he thought she was already asleep as he pulled her pumps off of her feet.
He closed the door, passed the mirror-lined dressing room, and found Rex in the small kitchen. The manager was seated half out of the booth, his tie loose over a powder-pink shirt, his suit coat hanging open. Rex was watching him as if seeing him for the first time.
“Cut her some slack, Rex. She's walking wounded.”
Rex's eyes had turned a cold blue; the set of worry and distaste lay on his lips. “Lymon, what the
hell
are you doing here?”
“Doing?”
Rex waved a hand at the bedroom. “You acting as her assistant now, as well as her bodyguard? Maybe thinking a little Whitney Houston and Costner gig is going to fall into your lap?”
Lymon managed a narrow smile as he bent, opened the fridge, and pulled out a can of the nasty light beer that Sheela kept there. He popped the top, took a swig, and made
a face. He tapped the can with a finger. “You know, if it wasn't for marketing, they'd never sell this swill.”
“Is that a fact?” Rex was looking even more hostile.
“Yeah, but you hire a firecracker ad agency, pay some big-name football players enough, write a cute script for them, and you can even convince all those hardworking blue-collar stiffs that watered-down pilsner tastes good.”
Rex might have been looking at a bug. “So, just what are you trying to sell me?”
“Nothing, Rex. Not a single thing.”
“Right. What is this shit you're pulling with Sheela?” His expression hardened. “You're the hired help, Lymon. The muscle. Period. You getting me?”
“You're not telling me anything I don't already know.” Lymon took another swig of the beer and sat down across the table from Rex, meeting his eyes across the scripts and paperwork.
Rex broke contact first, leaning back and slapping his hands on his legs. “I don't want her hurt.”
“Then give her a break,” Lymon indicated the paper cluttering the table surface. “Come on, tell me the truth: Can't that wait until next week? The lady is killing herself. She wasn't kidding. She was like shredded paper in that last scene. She could barely manage her lines. She was on the verge of collapse. Bernard didn't notice. He thought she was spot-on—given that she was supposed to be whacked-out after running from the police for days—but everyone else in the room was holding their breath with their fingers crossed.”
“Wait just a fucking minute! Who appointed you as her keeper?” He blinked, as if struck by something. “God, you're not in love with her, are you?”
“Fuck you, Rex.”
“You poor deluded idiot! You listen to me, and you listen well. If you're in over your head, it's time for LBA to move on, and I'll find someone else to see to Sheela's security.”
Lymon felt himself starting to bristle. “I don't work for you, Rex.”
“Oh, yes you do, buddy. I'm the guy who brought you in, remember? It's my signature on your check. I run Sheela's affairs.”
Lymon rolled the fragile aluminum can between his fingers. “Okay, go ahead and fire me.” He glanced back at the closed bedroom door. “But do it after she finishes shooting, will you? Like, maybe after the cast party? The studio has rented Dan Tana's for all of Friday.”
“Then, you're history, pal.”
Lymon arched an eyebrow. “We'll cross that bridge when we get there. But, I don't think so. You're forgetting, you may sign my checks, but the lady back there brings in the bucks. In the end, we both work for her.”
Rex smiled thinly. “You don't want to push this, Bridges. When it comes right down to where the shit hits road, she'll back me. She
needs
me a hell of a lot more than she needs you. She might be the talent, but I'm the brains behind her business empire.”
“What? Make her choose? Me or you? Bullshit! I stopped playing that game in the fifth grade. She needs both of us. Just as we are, not fighting over her like twelve-year-olds.” He leaned forward, pointing a finger. “So, here it is. You do what you do, and I'll do what I do, and we'll both do what's best for the lady, all right?”
Rex watched him in distasteful silence for a moment, then said, “Yeah, right.” He used his left hand to scoop up the stack of papers, pointedly leaving the screenplays behind. “When you think it's all right, could I make an appointment with Sheela to go over her investment portfolio? And maybe you could schedule those two scripts into her free time? Bruckheimer and Petrie really need an answer … if you think you could get around to it.”
Lymon shook his head. “You're being an asshole, Rex.” “And you're not?” He stopped at the trailer door. “Who's the asshole here? Me? You're the one who thinks you can romance Sheela. Let me remind you of something. If you remember Houston and Costner in
The Bodyguard
, you'll recall that it didn't end well for either of them.”
H
ank was walking down yet another hallway to another meeting. This time it was a hallway at the Hilton, but the eerie feeling of trouble had started chewing on his gut. He stopped at the door and knocked softly as he glanced up and down. A maid stepped out to the cart he had passed and gave him but a cursory notice as she lifted a stack of towels.
Hank hesitated for an instant when the door opened. Instead of Neal Gray, a striking woman stepped back, saying, “Come in.”
Hank walked past her, fully aware of her fascinating gray eyes and hair like freshly spun copper. She had pulled it back into a French braid that hung partway down her back. She wore an elastic tank top that flattered her breasts and tight brown cotton slacks were molded to her legs in a way that left little to the imagination. Expensive sandals hugged her feet.
The lady-killer smile he gave her was instinctual. She smiled back, eyes measuring, but interested. Ah, she was one of those—one of those few women who were completely satisfied with themselves. She knew just who and what she was, and God help the man who tried to play silly games with her. She'd shut him down like a Disney ride in the rain.
“Hank Abrams,” he said as she closed the door behind him.
“April Hayes,” she returned. Her accent was cultured, educated, perhaps with a hint of Midwestern twang, but he couldn't be sure.
He entered the room to find the couch occupied by a short-statured dark-haired woman with an intense face. She wore a white blouse and gray jeans. Her shoes were loafers. “Gretchen Smith,” the shorter woman told him as she stood to shake his hand. Her dark brown eyes were probing, antagonistic. He pegged her as just the opposite—a woman who
had never found herself. The intense expression was meant as cover for a deep-seated insecurity.
“My pleasure.” He looked around, trying to keep from glancing at April again. “Is Neal here?”
“In a moment,” April told him easily as she walked to the small bar. “Drink?”
“Scotch, if you've got it.”
“We do.” She shot him a knowing smile that sent a tingle along his backbone. “Single malt, neat, with a water back, right?”
“Right,” he agreed, playing along with the game. He tried to ignore the head-to-toe scrutiny Gretchen was giving him. “How long have you been with Verele Security?”
Gretchen's face went sour. April's smile remained warm and welcoming as she said, “We're not. We work for Genesis Athena.” She poured from a bottle of Glenlivet. “I was in law enforcement. LAPD.” She handed him the scotch, their fingers touching for the briefest of instants. It felt like electricity.
He saw her pupils react. Interesting. For a moment their eyes held. “So, you didn't like LAPD?”
Her smile teased. “I was on the fast track to detective. A chance meeting with the Sheik changed my direction, my paycheck, and the amount of bullshit in my life.”
“Cool!” Gretchen quipped as she seated herself at the couch again. “It's life-story time.”
Hank turned, a pleasant smile on his face as he took in the woman. “And you? Been with the Sheik for long?”
Gretchen frowned as she looked up at him, trying, no doubt, to figure what he was angling for. “Three years. Genesis Athena hired me because of my brain.” She said it as if that was her only asset.
At that moment the door to the rear opened, and Neal Gray stepped out. Hank caught a glimpse of an ornate bedroom, the sheets rumpled and askew. So, did that mean that Neal and April were an item?
“Hey, Hank,” Neal greeted. He was wearing a white shirt, narrow gray tie, and wool slacks. His taffy-blond hair was mussed uncharacteristically as if he hadn't run a comb through it that morning. “Did you meet everyone?”
“I did.” Hank sipped his scotch. “I've got to confess, I thought it was you and me.”
“This is the LA team.” Neal was grinning, a secret in his eyes. “They handle some of our special operations. Counterparts to Salim and his group back East. April and Gretchen have collected some of our most promising specimens.”
“Specimens?” Hank asked.
“Like you were doing out here. At the time it seemed like you were a more logical choice to go after Anaya.”
“You might say we're proactive,” Gretchen declared. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“Uh, no.” Hank tried to keep his face neutral. God, what was she? The Wicked Witch of the West's evil doppleganger?
“Our mutual problem,” Neal said as he took a seat, “in this instance is Christal Anaya.” He glanced at Hank. “She was a pretty good investigator, wasn't she?”
Hank took a chair across from the coffee table, choosing the spot so that he would be in April's immediate line of sight. He smiled, affecting a knowing attitude. “Christal Anaya is one of the best field agents I've ever worked with. She has an uncanny ability to fill in missing data. It's … I don't know, almost like magic. The first time you hear her begin to fit things together, you'd swear she was nuts, but as the data begin to come in, you discover she's been right all along.”
“Intuitive?” Neal asked.
“Spooky intuitive,” Hank agreed. Then he smiled, using the boyish one that women found so attractive. “You know, her grandmother was a witch.”
“What?” Gretchen asked in a grating voice. “That's absurd.”
Hank glanced first at Neal, then at April. The woman was watching him with level gray eyes, her fine face betraying nothing. He shrugged. “Say what you will, but there are times when you work around Christal that you can't help but wonder. She does have an ability that almost goes beyond science when it comes to solving cases.”
“So,” Neal mused, “if she's digging at our corporate secrets, do you think it's a good bet that she'll figure them out?”
Hank shifted, affecting complete assurance. “If Christal were sniffing around doors that I wanted kept closed, yeah, I'd be worried.”
April shot a communicative glance at Neal and arched her eyebrow as if to say, “I told you so.”
Neal, for his part, frowned and laced his fingers together. “Maybe it's lucky for us that Hank's here.”
“I just hope I can help.”
“Do we know where she is?” Gretchen asked pointedly. “I'm tired of putting up with the bitch.”
“I'm on it,” Hank added. “It's just a matter of—”
“We've got her,” Neal replied softly. “She's staying at a Marriott Residence Inn near here. Word is that she's checking out next week. My sources say that she's probably going to be looking for an apartment on her off time.”
Hank started, jerking up straight. “How the hell do you know that? I've been chasing my ass off trying to get a line on her.”
Neal's smile was the Cheshire cat kind. “It's all right, Hank. We've got our sources. When you tailed Anaya to Colorado, you brought the seriousness of the situation to our attention.”
“Thanks for telling me,” he said dryly.
“I just tapped my source this morning,” Neal added. “It's not one I use except in extreme circumstances.”
“Maybe you should read your memos,” Gretchen muttered. “We've bumped into Anaya twice now. It was all in the reports.”
“But nothing that would have indicated a direct threat to Genesis Athena,” April amended, obviously to Gretchen's displeasure. “Our contacts with her have been in what we assumed to be the parameters of her job with LBA.”
“What about de Clerk's?” Gretchen shot back. “Why the hell was she there? Huh? His security was supposed to be off that night.”
“It was,” April snapped. “I think he made a date with her and forgot.”
Hank watched the interplay with interest, but Neal stopped it when he raised his hands. “Forget it, ladies. I've
checked. It's a matter of the right hand not knowing what the left was doing. So, forget it Let's move on to Friday night.”
Gretchen leaned down and picked up a cardboard folder. This she opened, taking a diagram out and spreading it on the table. It looked like a floor plan to Hank. He could see a unit, parking lot, stairs, windows, and doors marked. A big green mass was labeled TREE.
“This is Anaya's room at the Residence Inn,” Gretchen began. “It's a piece of cake. We can leave the vehicle in the lot here.” She pointed to the parking lot. “I've already called the manager. Two of the units on either side of Anaya's will be empty on Friday night. I took the liberty of renting them. The third room in the building”—she indicated the room diagonally—“is already rented, so we'll have to keep the noise down.”
Gretchen seemed to be enjoying this.
She continued, “We can enter at any time. The lock takes a standard magnetic card. The tree beside the walk will provide us with some cover from the main office. Even if we're seen, no one is going to pay much attention.”
Hank leaned forward. “Let me get this straight. We're going to break into Christal's room?”
Neal looked up. “Do you have a problem with that?”
Hank pursed his lips, aware that April was watching him with hawklike intensity. Did he dare let her think he was bothered by a little thing like breaking and entering? Besides, it was a hotel! And better yet, it was his chance to show Christal that she shouldn't be prying away at one of their clients!
He smiled as he imagined Christal's face when he stepped out into the room. “I think it would be wise to do this when she's gone. If you walk up and ring the bell, Christal's not going to let you in.”
Neal's expression was neutral. “According to my source, Sheela Marks and her cast are going to be at Dan Tana's for most of the evening. Anaya shouldn't be off shift until sometime in the very early morning, but we should be ready early—just in case.”
“Good.” Hank leaned forward, looking at the diagram. “Then I suggest that we have coffee ready when she walks in
the door. Not only that, but we need someone outside, to follow her up the stairs in case something tips her off and she bolts.” He pointed. “This unit next to hers shares the same stairway, right?”
“Yes,” Gretchen told him distrustfully.
“Good. And we've rented it?”
“Yes.”
“Then when Christal opens her door, it wouldn't be out of line for someone to step out right across from her as a blocker in the event she runs.”
“I like that,” April said as she leaned forward. “Good call, Hank.”
Gretchen looked even more sour.
“That's it, then,” Neal said, and glanced up at Hank. “Anything else about Anaya that I should know?”
Hank shrugged. “She's going to be really pissed about this. You'd better not count on her just taking a warning and backing off. She's not that kind of agent.”
Neal's lips puckered, and he nodded. “I'll keep that in mind. Any other questions? No? Then I'll see you at eight tomorrow. We'll do a drive-by and check in to our next-door rental as soon as we know Anaya's gone. See you then.”
They all stood, Hank feeling good about himself. He was headed to the door, his mind knotted on Christal and how she was going to take a rebuke from strangers.
“Abrams?” April asked, matching his step. “You got time for a drink?”
Something about her appealed to him. Maybe it was the danger that lurked in the corners of her dry smile. Or perhaps she was just a damn good-looking woman, and she was coming on to him. Or was it the hint of challenge that lay so deep in her smoldering gray eyes?
“Sure. They make a mean margarita here. Or, if you prefer, we could go somewhere else.”
“I know someplace private.”
Hank bowed. “It'll be my pleasure.”
As they walked out into the hall, she gave her head a slight tilt. It reminded him of Lauren Bacall. “You never know,” she said, “we might both enjoy it.”
 
 
A weary Sheela rubbed the back of her neck as she walked from the studio to her trailer. The lot was hot, baking under the sun. She had heard that a peculiar high-pressure system had built over the Mojave, that it was kicking the scorching desert air back over LA.
The weather guy didn't know what high pressure was.
A headache ground away at the back of her brain, and her eyes burned, perhaps from the smog, or perhaps from the fatigue that lay so heavily in her bones, blood, muscle, and soul.
She had finished her last scene, God willing, if some editor didn't find a flaw that would cause Bernard to recall her.
But that would be sometime in the amorphous future. On beyond zebra, in another lifetime that started after she woke up from a zombie's somnolence that would start after the festivities on Friday.

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