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Authors: W. Michael Gear

BOOK: The Athena Factor
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“Executive security?” she asked, slightly baffled. “Me? Like a bodyguard?”
Sid nodded.
“Forget it! The first time some skinny rich Anglo mouthed off, I'd bust the teeth out of his head.”
“You'd probably be making twice what you are now.”
“Was.”
“Huh?”
“Twice what I
was
making.”
“Oh, right.” He proceeded cautiously. “So, what's your plan? Go back to Albuquerque to set up a legal practice? Christal Ayana, attorney at law? Maybe handle some divorces? Draw up estate plans?”
“Hey, I got the degree. A little study and I can re-up on the bar.” Her lips twitched. “Even in New Mexico.”
Sid grinned at her, reading her defensive smile. “I know. So, you graduated law school third in your class. And what? You slap an application on the FBI's desk first chance you get. You breeze through the qualification and zap, next thing, you're at Quantico; then you're graduated, and sworn in with rave reviews.” He cocked his head. “You could have waltzed into a fancy law firm with a starting salary somewhere around a hundred grand. But you took the Bureau. Why?”
Christal studied the card between her fingers. “Do you know what's in all those law books that you see in a lawyer's office, Sid?”
“Cases, right?”
“Law,” she answered. “Lawyers, at least good lawyers, spend most of their lives buried in those books. Applying their client's situations to those cases, working up alternatives based on legal decisions.”
“Sure.”
“I did the books all the way through law school.” She glanced up. “And you know what?”
“What?”
For the first time, she actually smiled. “I
hated
it!” She laughed out loud. “Oh, I was good at it, because that's what I had to be. Hour after hour, I sat and read and memorized. I could quote so-and-so versus what's-his-name and The People versus Whozits. But to do it for the rest of my life?” She made a face.
“Do me a favor?” Sid asked.
The waiter appeared and set Christal's salad in front of her.
“What?”
“Just call the guy. I think he could provide you with enough excitement to keep you from gagging.”
As the waiter departed she poked at her Caesar with a fork, turning one of the brown anchovies over and over. “You're not trying to set me up or anything, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Where do you know this guy from?”
“We were both Marine recon. Kosovo, Persian Gulf, Afghanistan. He went private while I stayed on the government's payroll. I think you'd like him. He's a no-bullshit kind of guy. Not only that, unlike some of the people in that room the other day, he works in the real world.”
She was staring thoughtfully at the card, chewing. He could see her mind working. She asked, “Every job has its downside. What gives here?”
“Boredom. Fatigue.” Sid shrugged. “Nothing you're not used to in the field. Hours of sitting on your butt, staying alert, followed by moments of frenetic action. Sometimes horrible hours, sometimes travel. Not that different than investigation, actually.”
“He'll ask why I left the Bureau.” He could see the air going out of her. “He'll want references, to speak to my supervisor.”
Sid speared a bit of carrot. “Nope. He won't need to call anybody.”
“What kind of guy is this? He'd just hire someone for a job like this without references?”
“Never.”
“But you just said—”
“I've already called him about you. He knows the score,
Chris. Like I said, he's been in the real world. He could give a good goddamn what the AD or SAC have to say. I vouched for you.”
Her eyes glistened, tears held back by force of will. “Why, Sid?”
He gave her a crooked grin. “Because you're too good to waste. Besides, who knows? Maybe someday you can save my ass.”
R
eading traffic was an art. Lymon checked in both directions, made eye contact with the guy in the Chevy truck, and eased the clutch out as he made a right onto Wilshire Boulevard. Traffic was still light. The time 6:38 displayed on the fairing-mounted clock as Lymon tapped his BMW into fourth.
The light changed to yellow and Lymon slowed, downshifting before putting his right foot down. The 1150 RT puttered happily, sending soft vibrations through the seat and bodywork. A motorcycle could be a godsend when it came to Los Angeles traffic. The Japanese crotch rockets might have been faster, but the ass-in-the-air seating position was excruciating. What was the point of looking racy if the position reminded you of a bug snuffling under a cow flop?
When the light turned, Lymon motored past familiar businesses and took a right for a half block to the alley. Turning in, he passed the Dumpsters and waved at the two homeless guys, Stewart and John, who lived under a blue polytarp behind the bakery. They weren't bad for homeless. They peed and crapped in the storm drain, kept their lash-up neat, and even did odd jobs for the street-front businesses.
Lymon idled into his small parking lot and killed the engine. Pulling off his gloves, he locked them in the tank-side compartment, flipped out the sidestand, and locked the forks.
He pulled his helmet off as he climbed the steel steps to his second-floor offices. After unlocking the door he disarmed the security system and let himself into the back hallway.
He passed the small storeroom to his right, and then walked past the line of cubbyhole offices where his associates held court when they weren't on the job.
Lymon's empire consisted of twelve hundred square feet of the second floor. The rent wasn't bad, considering the location on Wilshire. He was minutes from Beverly Hills, Brentwood, and Pacific Palisades, where most of his clients lived. The second floor wasn't a deterrent to his business. He didn't need a high-traffic location, and most of his clients sent representatives if they came at all.
He stopped in the cubbyhole where the Capresso machine sat, pushed the button, and watched the lights glow to life. A faint wisp of steam rose from the grate on top. He retrieved his cup from his desk, filled it, and had just settled in to go through the mail in the in-box when a knock came at the back door.
He frowned at the clock—still ten to seven—and walked back. To his surprise, Mark Ensley stood on the narrow landing.
Lymon opened the thick security door. “You're about the last person I expected to find hanging out at my back door. Let me guess, you decided to give up on that two-by-twice outfit you run and come looking for a real job.”
“Work for a chickenshit like you? Not a chance in hell. I'd rather hire on as watchman at a junkyard.” Ensley stood five ten and appeared to be in his midthirties when in reality he was a fit and well-preserved forty-two. He wore an expensive silk sport jacket over a powder blue button-down shirt. Lymon supposed that the bundle in the right-hand coat pocket was the missing tie. Ensley jerked a nod as he stepped into the hallway. His dark eyes looked tired, and his hair was slightly mussed.
“That coffee I smell?” He had a smooth baritone.
“Yeah, and it looks like you need it.” Lymon led the way. “Long night?”
“Yeah, weird.” Ensley was rubbing the back of his neck. “I was headed home. Took a chance that you might be in early.”
“Hey! Glad to be of service. Anything for the competition!” Lymon pulled a cup from the rack. “Strong?”
“Yeah. I need all the horsepower I can get.”
While the machine ground, steamed, pressed, and dribbled, Lymon cataloged the stress reflected in Ensley's face. Handing him the cup, he led him to the conference room and snaked out a chair before dropping into it backward so he could rest his arms on the back.
The room was paneled in oak veneer with bulletin boards, chalkboards, a screen for PowerPoint and slide projections, as well as a foot locker full of toys. Actually they were props, used by Lymon's people for planning purposes. With the assortment of blocks, cardboard, and toy cars, they could create most any kind of scale model for route or location briefings.
Ensley flopped into one of the cushioned chairs and stared into his coffee. “What happened in New York? What's your side of the story?”
Lymon detailed it yet again.
When he had finished, Ensley looked up quizzically. “He tried to poke her with a needle? No shit? Like, to inject her with what? HIV? His sperm?”
Lymon shrugged. “You got me.”
Ensley sipped at his coffee and raised an eyebrow. Lymon could see faint freckles on his skin. “Hey, that's good. If you keep losing clients, you can go head-to-head with Starbucks.”
“I didn't lose my client,” Lymon groused, irritated. “But the guy came awfully close.” He met Ensley's eyes. “I can't swear to it—I just got the briefest glimpse—but it looked like the plunger was down on the syringe. Flipped out as it sounds, it was like he was going to try to suck something out her, not shoot it in. When he finally figured out that the attack was blown, he dropped a flash-bang and ran.”
“Huh?” Ensley was skeptical.
“Standard CTS 7290. You might say he was fully committed to escape.”
“Maybe it was drugs? Some wacko wanting to share his favorite high with his favorite actress?”
“Or maybe he wanted to inject her with something contagious, something only he had the antidote for? I don't know. Like I said, it looked to me like the plunger was down. Things were happening fast.” Lymon settled his chin on his forearms. “So, what brings you to my door? Sure you're not looking for a job? I'll start you at five-fifty an hour taking out the trash.”
Ensley grinned, but lost it too fast. “Julia had a break-in last night.” Julia was Julia Roberts, Sheela's competition for highest-paid top-grossing female star and American icon. “Weird thing. Doesn't make any sense. It was a professional job.”
“Julia Roberts has some of the best technology in the business. Sheela's thinking about upgrading to her system.”
“Yeah, well, what if I told you some guy parachuted onto her roof last night? He left his chute dangling off the satellite dish just so we'd know for sure. He also left the pitonlike things he screwed into the roof under the tiles and the rope and harness he used to drop over the edge. He cut the screen out of an open third-floor window, and he was in.”
“Where's Julia?”
“She had just left the house. She's got a six a.m. screen call and has to be out for costuming and makeup.” Ensley turned the coffee cup in his hands. “The thing is, the guy must know this. You got me as to how. Maybe they were watching from the chopper. When her car pulled out of the drive, the guy dropped out the hatch.”
“So what did he take?”
Ensley looked up. “That's the weird thing. He took her sheets. Right off the bed, still, like warm, you know? That, and the trash out of the bedroom wastebasket. What kind of guy steals dirty sheets and bedroom trash?”
“I'd start watching eBay. Maybe Julia's trash sells for a whole lot.”
Ensley didn't look amused. “So, the guy bags up the sheets and trash, then climbs out the window. Up to now it's been a perfect job. Julia's people find out she's been hit because
the helicopter comes in low, drops a line, and snags the guy off the roof. Woke up half the neighborhood.”
Lymon rubbed his chin. “Like he didn't care if anyone found out that he'd been there?”
“Yeah. The police have already been in touch with the FAA. Did you know there were a hundred and thirty-seven helicopters flying in the LA Basin? Traffic control actually had the chopper on their screens for a while until they lost it against the San Gabriels.” Ensley made a waving gesture. “Do you know how many private heliports there are up in those multimillion-dollar estates? He could have gone anywhere.”
“I'd start checking with the rental companies. Not just everyone has a copter for hire. What about the house? The thief leave anything?”
Ensley sipped his coffee. “Police just finished going over Julia's room with a microscope. Nothing.
Nada.
Not a print, nor hair, nor bit of fabric. Nothing on the ropes, pitons, or parasail. It's all clean. You'd think it was the CIA or something.”
“How's Julia?”
“I hear she's freaked. You got any idea how this is going to line out for her security guys?” He looked up, grinning weakly. “You may be up to your neck in job aps when she cans her protection.”
“Once she settles down, she won't fire them, Mark. They couldn't have known some creep was going to parachute in, for God's sake.” Lymon cocked his head. “It was too well planned. Not just some obsessive fan.” He paused. “Shit.”
“What?”
“I don't know. Just shit. Who'd want dirty sheets? I mean, why not take something really personal, like her Oscar, or jewelry, or a dress, or something?”
“I'm stumped, Lymon.” He tossed off the last of his coffee. “I just needed to talk it over.” He glanced at his watch. “For now, I'm headed home for a nap. Julia's got a meeting with her people at three this afternoon. This shit's gonna be
all over the tube tonight, and I'd better be sharp enough to stick in the floor when it happens.”
“Yeah.” Lymon stood. “Listen, if there's anything we can do for you?”
Ensley grinned. “Nah. But if she cans her security team, I'll put in a good word for you. She's got to go somewhere.”
 
 
The waiting was driving Christal mad. She had packed most of her small Alexandria apartment. The boxes sat in neat stacks in her living room. On the TV, the talking heads on Headline News were reviewing the sports world. For something to do, she'd taken up pacing both the length and breadth of her small apartment. She'd liked it here, had considered it home while she built a nest egg bank account in preparation for down payment on a real house one day.
Christal paused by the breakfast bar to stare at the phone. She tapped her fingernails on the countertop and sighed. Lifting the receiver, she punched the familiar numbers.
“Harness
,” the voice on the end said.
“Hey, Sid.”
“
Christal? What's up?
”
“What are you doing?”
“Kidnapping. Young woman. Graduate student at Washington. Real hotshot. Hey, did you know there
's a string of unsolved kidnappings going back five years?
”
“No, Sid. I didn't know that.” She glanced at the TV. “Most of the news is about Yoko Ono. Someone ripped off her penthouse. Took a lock of John Lennon's hair, can you imagine?”
“You haven't
called
Lymon yet.”
“I've been packing.”
“
Where you going?
”
“I don't know.”
“Call Lymon. Me, I've got three more interviews to conduct. You wouldn't believe some of the things they can do with genetics these days.”
He chuckled.
“In theory, at least
.”
“Sounds like fun.” She hesitated. “Wish I was there.” She meant it.
Sid heard the undertones. “
Call Lymon. I mean it. Meanwhile, I've
i
to figure out
if
my missing person is related to the sixteen priors.
”
“Sixteen?” she asked, amazed. “God, why haven't we heard about this?”
“We're just
putting it together.
Call
Lymon. I
gotta
go.”
She heard the line go dead. Glancing at the television, she saw the camera was giving a shot of the street in front of Ono's ritzy building in New York.
 
 
Lymon really appreciated Sheela Marks' pool. It was huge—like everything else in the house—but when an A-list star like Sheela made twenty million a picture plus residuals, she could have a lot of perks.
The pool might have been a bit short of Olympic size, but the fitted-stone patio with its ivy-shaded trelliswork and overhanging live oak made for a cool and delightful sanctuary. A full-size Richard Greeves bronze of Sacagawea stood to the right, her face lifted to the sunlight. The few muted sounds of civilization—traffic and airplanes, mostly—that managed to seep past the high wall were drowned by the bubbling fountains that dominated the flower beds to either side.
Lymon stepped out of the double French doors after checking to make sure the wires to the security sensors were still attached and unfrayed. Old habits and all that.

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