The Echo of the Whip (27 page)

Mira Kersten hated to admit it, but she felt anxious returning home after making a trip down to Anaheim to verify the intruder’s claim that her embryos were, in fact, being stored there. They were. That was a big relief, but she didn’t want to leave them anywhere a thief had put them. The SOB might have a way to take them back. She also didn’t want to send them back to the facility from which they’d been stolen in the first place.

After a quick online search, she settled on a fertility clinic in Brentwood. The director there assured Mira their security was the best. It wasn’t far from her home either. They sent a special vehicle with cold-storage capacity to fetch the embryos. Mira trailed it all the way to make sure nothing went wrong. She wrote a check to the new clinic for the next twelve months.

With all that out of the way, she went out to dinner, eating alone.

It wouldn’t be long now before she moved to New York and her new job. She had mixed feelings about that. She’d grown up in Connecticut, had made frequent visits to Manhattan and Boston as a child and teenager. By the time she went to college at Brown University, those places were old hat for her.

Still, New York was where the big TV news jobs were, and WorldWide News had promised her a plum slot. Way better money than she’d ever made before. Only it wouldn’t come close, she felt sure, to the money that would flow her way after bearing two children for Hollywood’s hottest male actor. Sitting back, hiring a really good nanny, and enjoying the more relaxed California lifestyle would be more to her liking.

She paused to wonder if that was her flood of pregnancy hormones talking.

Did she really want to give up being a go-getter for a life of indolent affluence?

Right then, yeah, she pretty much did. At least for the moment. If things changed later, she’d do a turn-around. It was only after leaving the restaurant, on the drive to the Palisades, that she remembered her home had been violated. Even with an armed bodyguard and a dog on hand.

Now, she had neither of those safeguards, and for all she knew the guy had returned because he’d thought of something else he wanted to know. Or steal. Or maybe just kill her to make sure she could never testify against him.

Within minutes, Mira was scaring herself silly.

Problem was, things might get complicated if she called the police to check out her house before she entered it. She’d have to explain why she was fearful and needed protection. The police wouldn’t like it that she’d let a home invader go without even reporting it to them. Or tell them she’d recovered her embryos.

The uniformed cops might even check
her
out and wind up bringing those two prick detectives in to question her. She didn’t need that shit. Gritting her teeth, she pulled into her driveway, popped the trunk and took out the lug wrench. Just gripping the thing made her think its only value was symbolic. If she tried to bash the guy who’d broken in that morning, had he returned, he’d probably take it away and turn her into tapioca with it.

Still, she couldn’t leave the wrench in the car.

As a tool for self-delusion, if nothing else, it had value.

She crept up the curved, landscaped path to her front door. It was only when she came to within a few feet of the threshold that she saw a note taped to the front door. That was enough to paralyze her. She wanted to turn and run, hope she could make it back to her car before anyone grabbed her. Petrified as she was, though, she took the opportunity to read the message.

Honey, I’m home. Your first love, Ed.

The heart that was already hammering in Mira’s chest took it up another notch, now stoked by anger. Her sonofabitch ex-husband, Edmond Whelan, had broken into her home, too? After he’d had her embryos stolen? The nerve of the bastard.

Mira’s grip on the lug wrench tightened.

She was sure now that she’d be the one to use it; she’d turn Ed’s skull into pulp.

The front door was unlocked. She threw it open and stormed inside. Stopping dead in her tracks when she saw a man who appeared to be a total stranger. Some geek with a shaved skull and a struggling attempt at a goatee.

Then he said, “Surprise, I’ve come to give you your embryos back.”

That was Ed’s voice, all right, and when she looked closer she recognized his eyes, too.

“What the hell happened to you?” she asked. “Where’s your hair?”

Whelan frowned and looked as if his umbrage might be expressed physically.

Until Mira slapped the lug wrench on an open palm and shook her head.

“Unh-uh, pal,” she said. “Anyone kicks ass around here, it’s gonna be me.”

She took a step forward and it thrilled her to see her ex-husband retreat two steps.

“Hey, come on, Mira,” Whelan said. “I’ve come to make peace between us. Really. I’m going to tell you where the embryos are … and sign a release, too, so you can use any of them any time you want.”

“Except for the one you destroyed and photographed trying to intimidate me, right?”

Mira started forward again. Whelan backed right into an armchair and plopped down onto it. Before he could regain his balance, Mira gave him a nice little rap on a shin bone.

“Ow, shit! That hurt, Mira!”

“Damn right it did, just what you deserved, ruining that embryo. Ending a potential life.”

She saw he was about to make a wisecrack. Something along the lines of conservatives being the ones who were pro-life. When they weren’t advocating for capital punishments. Or shilling for the right to own assault rifles. Only he’d thought better of saying any of that.

She honestly had him scared.

“I ought to ring this wrench right off your head,” she said, “only it looks like you’ve already done enough damage there. Christ, did you lose all your hair at once or what?”

In a sullen voice, Whelan said, “I
shaved
my head … I only had a bald spot.”

“And what, you never thought of a transplant or a weave? You’ve always been pretty much of an asshole, Ed, but at least you were good looking.”

Mira sighed. Her anger was dissipating fast. All she felt was regret that she’d spent so much time with Edmond Whelan because, honestly, he had been something to look at. Made her damn schoolgirl heart race. She felt like tossing the damn lug wrench aside, but didn’t.

Doing that might turn out to be a mistake.

“I could still do that, you know,” Whelan said.

“What?”

“Let my hair grow back in, do something to cover the spot.”

“I don’t care, Ed. With any luck, I’ll never see you again.”

“I didn’t destroy the embryo, Mira. That was a stock photo. I did a cut and paste.”

She looked at him closely and saw the lie immediately.

“Okay, I did dispose of it, but I am sorry,” he said. Whelan drew himself up, sat in an erect posture. “What the hell did you expect me to do after you stole my work?”

Mira only shook her head. “You mean your brilliant scheme for wing-nuts
uber alles?
You know, there was a time when that actually worried me. I did think I’d have to do something about it. Only I started to see how often your predictions were wrong and your plans backfired. The only purpose for revealing your masterwork now, Ed? That would be to work up a comedy act.”

Anger flared in Whelan’s eyes, and Mira saw it.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Try something. We stepped away from each other far too peacefully. There should have been some bloodshed, but —” A thought struck Mira, taking her in a completely different direction. “I take it back. Beating on you physically would be a poor substitute for the idea I just had.”

Knowing better than to overlook his ex-wife’s intelligence, Whelan said, “What’s that?”

“I’m going to tell you who really stole your precious unpublished doctoral dissertation.”

“Who?”

She gave him the name, and the truth of her revelation made him wince more deeply than the rap on his leg with the lug wrench. Whelan got to his feet without any hint of intending to harm Mira. It was simply the prelude to his exit.

“I should have seen that,” he said.

“It’s easier to suspect enemies than friends.”

He nodded and gave her the name of the clinic in Anaheim from which she’d already retrieved the embryos. He’d come across with the information he’d promised. Mira thought Whelan’s honesty deserved some measure of recompense.

She told him about the intruder who’d visited her that morning.

“The guy wanted to know who hired him to steal the embryos. Seems like he should have figured out it was you, the ex-husband. Who knows? Maybe he did and just wanted me to confirm it. If so, that’s what I did.”

Edmond Whelan seemed to shrink before Mira’s eyes.

“What?” she asked. “You paid the guy for his work, didn’t you?”

Whelan didn’t say a word.

“Hell, Ed, if you didn’t, you better get him his money fast. This wasn’t some guy you want to jerk around.”

As in try to coerce him into killing James J. McGill, Whelan thought.

He realized that now it would be
so
much easier for Beck to kill him than McGill.

The echo of the whip ran from his ex-wife’s house.

Special Agent Abra Benjamin signed the registration form of the five-star hotel on the Avenida Alvear and had the bellman take her luggage to her suite. She headed directly to the lobby bar, taking a table with a street view and putting in an order for a Chivas Regal. After completing the 5,290-mile, 11-hour flight from New York, sleeping only intermittently, studying her new identity and getting up from her seat every hour to walk the length of the executive jet’s cabin so she didn’t develop a deep vein thrombosis, she was tired, wired and more than a bit cranky.

Normally, she was the most moderate of drinkers. It was always a matter of professional advantage to let everyone else get more soused than you did. Even so, you couldn’t forgo at least a little booze or you’d be looked at like you were a prig or some other figure of suspicion. Like most things in an ambitious woman’s life, deciding how much to drink was a balancing act.

But, damn, didn’t that glass of fine Scotch go down like something that would get you evicted from Eden. It warmed her from head to toe, loosened knotted muscles and made her feel two-thirds human again. One more might put her over the top and let her sleep like Mom was singing a lullaby.

She was just about to order a second drink when the waiter and someone else anticipated her. “The gentleman at the bar sends his regards,
Señora,
” the waiter said, presenting her with a second Chivas.

There was no confusing whom the waiter meant. At that late hour, shortly before closing, there was only one guy at the bar, whether he was a gentleman or not. He looked old enough, just barely, to fit the description and he was wearing a well-tailored suit. His hair was a bit oily, but who knew if that was the style south of the equator?

Abra told the waiter, “Thank you. Would you also do me a favor?”

“Certainly,
Señora.
”

“Tell the gentleman I said he should match your tip to the price of this drink.”

The waiter arched an eyebrow. “At one hundred percent?”

“More if he’s feeling generous.”

The waiter couldn’t quite hide his smile.
“Sí, Señora.”

Abra watched as the waiter delivered his message. The guy who’d bought Abra her drink looked across the room at her. She raised her glass in a salute. The big spender took out his wallet and gave the waiter a currency note that earned him a bow.

Then he took it as assumed that he was free to join Abra.

The closer he got, the more she liked his looks. He was a very handsome fellow. Might have been a telenovela actor for all she knew. Maybe she should let him know the wet-head was dead, even in Argentina.

Of course, an old American TV commercial slogan might be regarded as offensive in another culture. Abra decided not to get too cute with the guy. She’d just play the part that was written for her. She was a well-off, headstrong woman from New York visiting distant relatives while waiting for —

The guy to surprise her by taking her hand and kissing it.

Abra laughed. It was either that or get to her feet and clock him.

“I have made a mistake?” the guy asked without looking at all embarrassed. “You are not European?”

“If I were, would you be speaking English? I don’t look like a Brit, do I?”

For just a moment, he looked to Abra like he realized he had made a mistake and she’d spotted him for a bullshitter. If he was the guy she was looking for, she didn’t want to scare him away. She gave him a wink and said, “Hey, I’m just joking. The last man who kissed my hand was my grandfather, that’s all. It caught me off guard, but thanks for the drink.”

His confidence restored, the guy asked, “May I join you?”

“Only if you’ll drink with me. Understanding this is my last one for the night.”

While he was still on his feet, the guy gestured to the waiter, who was monitoring developments closely.

“Lo mismo para mi.”
he said. The same for me. He took his seat.

His drink came quickly and he raised his glass to Abra.
“Salud.”

“L’chaim,”
Abra replied.

The guy smiled. They both sipped their Scotch, and the guy asked Abra, “You are Jewish?”

“I am,” she said, fighting off a yawn. “Is that a good or bad thing for you?”

“I am open minded on the subject of religion. I was raised Catholic, but I do not go to church very often any more.”

“No? You don’t want to go to heaven?”

“Yes, of course. Every day I train myself for a life of eternal bliss.”

Abra laughed and took another sip of her drink. “That’s pretty good.”

The guy gave her a charming smile and changed the subject.

“May I ask what brings such a beautiful woman to my beautiful country?”

Abra, sticking to her script, said, “I’m following my lawyer’s advice.”

“He said to visit
America del Sur
and be sure to start in Buenos Aires?”

Abra smiled broadly, as her stage directions said she should. “He told me to visit my most distant relatives and he’d get me the biggest divorce settlement any woman could want.”

“Bravo. This is a gentleman who clearly has your interests at heart.”

“His, too. He gets a cut of every dollar he squeezes out of that bastard I was stupid enough to marry.” Abra took a hit off her drink, an improvisation. “That’s the last time I ever let my mother tell me that a man is a great catch.”

Her new friend beamed in delight. “You followed your mother’s advice about choosing a husband?”

“I said I was stupid, right?” Abra started to slur her words, just a little.

“No, no. That I can not believe.” He shrugged. “It was only your mother who misjudged.”

“Yeah, well. She was right about him being rich, and I’m going to skin him good. So that part will work out all right.”

“Other matters were not so … fulfilling?”

“Hey, let’s not get too cozy here. I mean you bought me just the one drink.”

“Only because you set that limit.”

Abra squinted as if her vision had started to blur. “You know what, I’m not really stupid. I know when I’m tired and I’ve had enough to drink. It’s been fun, but I’m going up to my suite now, alone. Thanks for the drink.”

As if he were the perfect gentleman, the guy got up and helped Abra to rise. He placed a hand lightly on a forearm, nothing more. But still got a sampling of the merchandise. Nice firm muscle tone. Standing back at an appropriate distance, he asked, “May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?”

“Wendy Wasserman. That’s my married name. If we see each other again after my divorce is final, I’ll let you know if I change it.”

He nodded and smiled. “I am here quite often.”

“Yeah? What’s your name?”

“Guillermito Medianoche.”

Abra frowned, as if trying to concentrate. “I took some Spanish in school.” A true statement. “So your name is … Billy Midnight?”

With a small bow, he said, “At your service, Señora.”

“You’re not the devil, are you?”

Giving Abra a grin, he said, “Only on certain occasions. And you, by any chance, have you ever visited Israel?”

“Sure, several times,” Only once, in fact. “I have a cousin who lives there, married a local boy. Now, they have kids. A home in Tel Aviv and a house on the beach.”

“Why did you not hide out there?”

“My bastard, soon to be ex-husband, has family there, too.”

Her script had anticipated that question.

Billy nodded, executed a small bow and said, “It has been a pleasure to spend this time with you, Señora Wasserman. I hope we will have another chance to talk.
Buenas noches.
”

He turned and sauntered out of the bar.

Abra wanted to question the waiter about Billy Midnight, but decided that would be out of character for Wendy Wasserman. She only nodded at the waiter and gave him a small smile. Let him know she thought of him as a person not a menial.

Stepping very carefully, which due to fatigue and the two drinks was a necessity, Abra made her way to the bank of elevators and up to her suite. She kicked off her shoes and slipped out of her dress, fell on the bed and bounced back up to pee.

Returning to bed, her head spun as it hit the pillows …

Even so, she was sure Billy Midnight was the pimp she was hoping to meet …

If he knew American accents, he’d know she was from New York, and had connections to Israel, too …

A perfect substitute for the hooker who’d begged off banging Tyler Busby …

Still, she’d have to make Billy work to lead her into a life of depravity …

With that happy thought in mind, Abra fell asleep.