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Authors: W. Michael Gear

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BOOK: The Athena Factor
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“Bridges. I'm Lymon Bridges.”
“Mr. Bridges, the point I'd like to make is that I'm not in the market for a job right now.”
“Previous offer? How much are they paying?”
She gave the phone a deadly smile, figuring,
What the hell?
“I don't think you could touch it.”
“If you're as good as Sid says you are, and if everything works out, I'll start you at ten thousand a month plus expenses.”
Christal stopped short. “What?”
“I think you heard—although the slip over my name doesn't lend credence to your investigative abilities.”
“That was meant to irritate you.”
“
It worked
.” A pause.
“Are you as good as Sid says you are?”
She shook her head, confused. “I don't know. Ten thousand a month? Just to keep some stuck-up spoiled movie star out of trouble? I don't have the ten-ton-gorilla physique. I'm five six and weigh one-fifteen.”
“But you broke the Enrique Gonzales case open? Sid says you did that where the rest of the Bureau couldn't.”
And blew it all!
Aloud she asked, “Do you pay all of your bodyguards ten thousand?”
“No. Most of them are off-duty cops trying to make their bills. But you're not exactly
going
to be a part-time agent.”
She felt her hackles rising. God, he hadn't seen the photos, had he? She tried to keep the rage out of her voice. “Just what did you have in mind?”
“Did you hear the news today? About Mel Gibson's razor?”
That left her off balance. “Yeah.”
“There's an open E-ticket for you at Dulles. Delta counter. I'll have someone meet you at LAX soonest. Just give a call with your, flight number and arrival time.”
“Just like that? Fly to Los Angeles?”
“I have some people here I would like you to meet. There are things I want you to look into for us. If you are as good as Sid says, maybe you can do it. Then again, maybe you can't. Which is okay”
A pause.
“Let me know which flight.”
Then the son of a bitch hung up.
Christal stared at the phone, listening to the dial tone. What the hell? Did he think she was just going to drop everything and fly to Los Angeles?
She cocked her head. Mel Gibson's razor? She could feel curiosity twirling around her spine like growing ivy.
“Bullshit! It's all bullshit.”
 
 
June arched a critical eyebrow. “You didn't even give her our phone number.”
Lymon leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “She's an investigator, isn't she? If she can't find our phone number, what the hell good is she?”
“She's not coming.”
“She'll be walking off a jetway by noon tomorrow.”
June shook her head. “Twenty bucks says no.”
“You're on.”
She gave him that suspicious look. “I don't get it. All you've got is Sid's word on this woman. She's just been canned at the FBI, so what makes you think she might be capable of doing this … whatever it is you're doing?”
Lymon shrugged. “One, I know Sid. He knows me, and he knows talent. I know what she did at the FBI, and Sid still vouches for her. That tells me that she might have fucked up, but it's not a genetic predisposition. Two, if she's not walking out of that jetway by noon tomorrow—or on the phone telling me she's delayed for a damn good reason—she's not the right person for the job. For twenty bucks it's cheap at twice the price.”
“I don't want you around my boys,” June told him as she started down the hall. “I'm trying to raise them to be decent and normal human beings.”
“What? You think I'm like a lawyer or something?”
“More like a politician, actually.”
“Hey! There's no reason to get ugly.”
“
I
n preparation for landing, please place your tray tables in their stowed position and return your seats to the upright position. All personal items must be stowed under the seat in front of you or in the overhead bins. At this time all personal electronic devices must be turned off. Thank you.”
Christal found the button that made the footrest retract and brought her seat upright. She folded the table into the seat arm and turned off the reading light that hung by her ear. Once her laptop was zipped into its bag, she used her toe to shove it under the seat in front of her.
She glanced around, handing her used glass to the stewardess who walked past. If Lymon Bridges was trying to impress her, he was definitely on the right track. She'd almost
gaped like the village idiot when the ticket agent told her that a first-class ticket was confirmed.
“Christal, what do you think about the Secret Service?”
Sid had asked when she'd called him from Dulles. “
I mean the guys that oversee the president's safety. The real agents that do the actual work.”
When she'd given him an affirmative answer, he'd said,
“That's Lymon Bridges. That's the kind of work he does. He's one of the best, working for the best. I personally vouch for the guy. Trust me, if you don't think he's square, I'll buy your plane ticket back.”
She wondered if Sid knew he would have to shell out for first class.
Christal leaned her head back. Since seeing her belongings loaded into the van for New Mexico, her time had been spent on two subjects. First off, she caught herself wondering if this was such a good idea, and second, she had bought every news magazine in the WHSmith stand at Dulles to read up on celebrities. During the flight, she had used the first-class Internet access to do further research on her laptop.
The results had perplexed her. Mel Gibson's razor, John Lennon's lock of hair, Julia Roberts' sheets, Sheela Marks' odd assault—they all reeked of the bizarre. The thing that really aroused her curiosity as an FBI … okay, an ex-FBI agent, was that each of the crime scenes was clean. No clues had been left. Nothing. That, more than anything, made her whiskers quiver.
So, were they related? If so, how? What was the point? How much value did Julia Roberts' sheets have on the street? Christal made a face. She was definitely a Mel Gibson fan, but she wouldn't give a dented quarter for the chaff in his electric razor. Very well then, if you threw out cash, what was next?
It's some pervert with big bucks who's intent on sending them some kind of message.
Then why didn't he call, write a letter, or e-mail? Pranksters liked to taunt in words as well as action.
A prank? Perhaps it was someone in the movie business?
Maybe some director or producer—one who had inadvertently misplaced his life somewhere along the way and had nothing better to do than think up weird nonsense like this?
She mulled the notion as the 767 banked on approach. Looking through the window she could see Los Angeles baking under the morning sun. Brown haze was packed up over San Bernardino and Riverside.
The sheer size of the sprawling megalopolis surprised her. She'd never seen it from the air before. The last time she had been in the city was as a little girl, when Mama had driven to Anaheim to see Aunt Maria. She remembered that trip as an eternity between potty breaks. She'd been hot, stuffed in the backseat with her unruly brothers. Aunt Maria had lived in a crowded apartment building. Christal and her brothers had been bored the entire time, fighting constantly and being yelled at. On top of it all, they hadn't gone to Disneyland.
She winced as the big jet touched down. A curious anticipation built as the plane taxied to its gate. She had that sense that her life was changing. Usually, when she felt this way, it was for a reason. She'd felt it the moment she submitted her application to law school, had felt it again when the FBI sent her a letter of acceptance, and felt it yet again the night she and Hank had made love in the surveillance van—though that had been one hell of a misinterpretation of presentiment.
As the bell rang and the seat belt sign went off, she stood, retrieved her laptop and carry-on from the bin, then filed out
She didn't really expect anyone in the gate area, post-9/11 security being what it was, and LAX having been a constant target. To her surprise, she immediately saw the woman with the hand-lettered ANAYA sign.
She walked up, set her carry-on down, and extended her hand. “I'm Christal Anaya.”
“June Rosen.” Her smile had a wry quality, her handshake firm. “Welcome to LA. Do you have any other bags?”
“Just these. I travel light.”
“This way then.” She reached for the bag, but Christal snatched it up.
“I can carry it.”
As they walked, she glanced sidelong at the woman. “I would have expected Mr. Bridges.”
“Lymon, damn his hide, is in an advance meeting with Universal. They're ironing out the details for
Jagged Cat
.”
“Excuse me? Why ‘damn his hide,' and what's a jagged cat?”
June gave her a crooked grin. “Second question first.
Jagged Cat
is the client's new picture. They're in preproduction right now. That's costuming, building sets, and all the stuff that's got to be done before filming. The studios have pretty good security, but Lymon has to make sure that our people interface with theirs so that we can pick her up and drop her off, have the right passes, and so forth. We need to know the shooting schedule and where, if anywhere, we're going on location.”
“Huh?”
“Are they shooting a scene in Portugal? If so, we have to be ready, advance the location, check the hotels, establish a relationship with local law enforcement, make reservations for our people, and book travel.”
Christal thought about that. “Doesn't the studio do all that?”
“Sure, but what if Sheela wants to go sightseeing between scenes? Does she have transportation? Do we need local security? Special permits? Are there areas she shouldn't travel through? High-crime zones? What if she gets sick or is injured, maybe has an allergic reaction to something? That's our responsibility.”
“I didn't know it was that complicated.” She wondered who Sheila was.
“Sometimes more so.”
“And the ‘damn his hide'?”
“I bet the bastard twenty bucks you wouldn't show.”
Christal smiled, deciding she liked June Rosen. “And what do you do for Lymon Bridges?”
“In official terms, I'm the secretary. In blunt actuality, I'm the business manager. I run the company.” She shot Christal a communicative glance. “Fortunately for him, he's never asked me to sit on his lap, iron his shirts, or make coffee.”
“How long have you been with the company?”
“Three years now.”
“Is it a good springboard?”
June led her out through security. “Sure. But why would I go anywhere else? My boys are in good schools, and I get paid to work my ass off. Paid
well
.”
Christal considered that as they passed the ticket counters and stepped out into the warm day. A black Lincoln sat at the curb, its four-ways flashing. June pressed a button on a key fob, and the lights flashed.
“You can just leave it in the Arrivals lane?”
“Special permit.” June stepped to the trunk, opening it so Christal could place her bag inside.
Seating herself in the passenger seat, she looked around. Lincolns had never been her thing. She liked small, compact, and parkable. But then, she'd never had a special permit before.
June started the engine, fastened her seat belt, and waved at a cop who stopped oncoming vehicles to allow them into traffic.
“The special permit gets you into the concourses, too?”
“This is LAX. Lymon has done a lot of work fostering good relations with the TSA team here.” She smiled and tapped her purse. “It helps that I'm a special deputy with LA County.”
“Do I get a special permit?”
“You'll have to take that up with Lymon,” June said cryptically. Then she turned her attention to driving as she accelerated northbound onto the San Diego Freeway. Christal noted that the woman held the wheel professionally and handled the big car with confident ease.
“First class, special permits, Lincolns—you people don't exactly keep a low profile, do you?”
“In this town, Ms. Anaya, image is marketing.” She glanced at Christal. “How is your wardrobe?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Depending on the nature of the principal's appearance, you will be required to dress in anything from professional to very formal. The problem with formal is to still look good
but have freedom of movement in case things get, shall we say, athletic.”
“I don't get it.”
“Have you ever seen a Hollywood gala on TV?”
“Sure.”
“Could you pick the bodyguards out of the crowd?”
“Well, yeah, sometimes. They're the big guys who look unhappy.”
“How about the women?”
“I didn't know there were any.”
June smiled dryly. “That's precisely what we're looking for.”
 
 
“It's
not
going to happen!” Sheela's voice carried from the dressing room as Lymon walked onto the set where the wardrobe session was in progress. At first glance he saw Paul over in the corner under a stand of lights. The driver was sitting backward in a chair, a barely concealed grin struggling to creep past his iron control.
According to Lymon's watch, Sheela should be halfway through her fitting session. This was the first time the costume designers actually saw their creations on the stars.
Two assistants huddled to one side, slightly horrified expressions on their faces. Rex stood to the right, arms crossed over his belly and looking dour. Three different photographers were spotted here and there around the room with a plethora of cameras on tripods as well as hanging from straps on their necks.
The fitting room was studded with lights and reflectors focused on a raised dais. Mirrors were positioned so that the star could get a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of herself in costume. In the rear stood rack after rack of hanging dresses, blouses, suits, and jackets.
Lymon stopped short, seeing Sheela standing on the dais. Her face had that look of absolute disgust that he had grown passingly familiar with over the years. She was wearing a bright red sparkly gown with what he'd call “wings” sprouting
off of each shoulder. It fit glove-tight at her slim waist, advertised her rounded breasts, and clung to her thighs.
“It's looov'ly,” Fiona Borg cooed, a rapturous look on her wrinkled face. She had her gray hair tucked in a wretched hat—the sort of thing she would have paid a fortune to an obscure Italian designer for—and wore something that reminded Lymon of a silver sheet wrapped around her bony frame.
“I look like the princess in
Dune
!” Sheela countered. “The wings go … and the color can be anything but bright red.”
“But vee 'ave already chosen. Bernard loooves it!”
Sheela whirled, her finger like a dagger. “Change it! I could give a shit what Bernard loves. This thing makes me look like the vampire whore in
Blood Guzzler
.”
“But I—”
“Do I have to call Felix to read you the clause in the contract? The dress goes, or I do.” She reached back and struggled for the clasps in the back.
“The dress is out, Fiona,” Rex interjected with authority. “If Bernard's got questions, he can call.”
“So, vhat?” Fiona asked, waving her thin arms. “Vee got vhat? Two veeks to shooting, huh? You vant me to conjure from t'in air?”
One of the assistants had sprung up to help Sheela with the clasps and zippers. Lymon could see Sheela's frustration in the tight movements of her arms as she wiggled out of the fabric. In a bra and panties, she stepped free, and then with a toe, kicked the gaudy creation off the stage. She noticed Lymon for the first time, smiled, and rolled her eyes in an indication of frustrated endurance.
For his part, he tried not to stare. Sure, he'd seen her body before, at fittings, when she was in the pool, and during photography. That was before that same body had been pressed so close to his on the bike. Before she'd given him that haunting look.
“We'll figure something out,” Rex said, trying to placate Fiona. The woman had won two Oscars for costume design, which placed her in the sacred realm of the Hollywood gods.
“Ya, ya. You try dis, huh?” Fiona thrust a hand at the racks
of clothing. “You t'ink dis is easy? Making de dress, makes de scene, ja?”
BOOK: The Athena Factor
7.02Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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