The Mayan Apocalypse (11 page)

C
andy Welch was tall and curvaceous with raven hair and permanently puckered lips boasting a red lipstick the color of a stop sign. She slipped into the back of the limo like she had practiced it a hundred times. Perhaps she had.

Morgan smiled, complimented her on her little black dress, and held out his hand. She brushed it away, leaned close, and kissed him on the cheek. Fire rose in his face.

“Oh, look, I left a lip print on you. Let me get that.” She removed a white, initialed hanky from the Gucci clutch she held, licked it, and began to rub his skin.

“No, please, let me. I can get it.” He pulled away.

“I don't mind.”

I do.
He tried to pull away again. There was no stopping her. Morgan looked forward, through the opening in the glass divider that separated the front seat from the back. He saw Donny, his chauffeur and bodyguard, glancing in the rearview mirror. He raised an eyebrow and let slip a thin smile.

“Let's get going, Donny.” He couldn't conceal his frustration, not that Candy noticed. He was sure Donny had.

The limo pulled away just as Candy finished scrubbing away the top layers of Morgan's cheek. “There, all better. Wow, this is a beautiful limo. How many do you have?”

“How many what do I have?”

“Limos, silly. Isn't that what we're talking about?”

“I don't own the limo—my company does.”

Candy looked surprised. “Really? I would have thought you would have a fleet of limos.”

Morgan blinked several times. “Why would I want several limos? I only need one.”

“Oh, if I had your kind of money, I'd own several, all different colors. So where are we going?”

A dozen harsh comments buzzed in his mind, but he swatted them down. “Do you like Indian food?” Morgan asked.

“You mean like maize and stuff?”

A chuckle rolled back from the driver's seat. “How about a nice steak?” Morgan offered.

“I love steak.” She leaned back and crossed her legs. Morgan guessed the shoes ran a couple hundred easy.

As the car pulled onto the freeway, Morgan wondered how long an evening could last. Albert Einstein once quipped that a minute spent sitting on a hot stove passed much slower than time spent with a pretty woman. Albert hadn't met this woman.

Benito's Italian Steakhouse was upscale, uptown, and a favorite haunt for people who didn't mind dropping at least a hundred dollars a plate. She asked for wine, and he ordered a San Pellegrino sparkling water.

“Don't you like wine?” She shifted in her seat, her eyes scanning the crowd as if looking for someone famous.

“Alcoholic.”

“Excuse me?”

He had gained her attention. “I spent a short time living inside a bottle of booze.”

“Really?” Her eyes widened.

“I mean that I was a drunk for a short time.”

“Most men would never admit that, especially on the first date. I'm honored you trust me so much.” She reached across the table and patted his hand.

“It's not a matter of trust. I'm just honest about it. I spend a portion of each day reminding myself how far I slid.”

“You know, it's genetic.” She nodded as if she was revealing a hard-to-believe secret.

“I've heard that, but genetics had nothing to do with it.”

“How do you know? Did a doctor tell you that? Because I wouldn't believe that unless a medical doctor told me.”

“Yeah, I'm sure.” He took a breath, afraid to speak the words. “So tell me about yourself.”

Candy perked up. What followed was the longest monologue Morgan had heard. She was thirty-two, which she didn't mind mentioning like some women do; she was the only daughter of a man who owned several car dealerships but nearly went broke in the last recession and soon died after that; a hefty insurance payment kept her and her mother fed and clothed, but not at the level she'd like; fortunately people (which Morgan took to mean boyfriends) liked to give her gifts…

Morgan stopped listening. He wasn't ready to date. He told Aunt Ida that when she called. “You'll love this woman. She's pretty and witty and different from…you know.”

“My wife?”

Aunt Ida, his mother's sister, had crossed the threshold of her seventieth birthday and had left all sense of decorum behind. “You need to get out, Andrew. You've had plenty of time to grieve. It's time to get your life back.”

Morgan hadn't wanted to argue. Now he wished he had. He removed his smart phone to check the time and thought of the unanswered messages from Lisa Campbell.

The thought of her surprised him. He felt warm inside.

Lisa reclined on her bed, her stomach full of frozen lasagna, which she had heated in the microwave. She was tired. She was frustrated. She was angry with herself. And she couldn't stop thinking of Andrew Morgan. How could she reach him?

In the world of boxers, there are heavyweight champions and “the other guys.” In the universe of actors, there are A-list names and “the supporting cast.” In the world of private detectives, there is Jasper Kinkade and “the wannabes.” That's how Jasper saw the world. Jasper Kinkade, Jaz to his friends, Mr. Kinkade to everyone else, was the head of the largest private detective and security firm in the country. If those who calculated such things knew of his other less visible operations, they would have to find a new designation.

His clientele included the upper echelon of the Fortune 500. His fees would cripple smaller firms. Kinkade Investigations had offices in most major cities in the Western world. Over two decades of operation, he had built a stellar reputation for confidentiality, speed, and unquestionable results.

Looking under stones was his specialty. His team worked efficiently and honestly. If dishonesty was required, he did it himself.

At twenty-one, he joined the San Francisco Police Department. Ten years later, he wore a detective's badge. He hated the work. In traditional police work, it was the cops who wore handcuffs. Laws, regulations, and procedures left many crimes unsolved. He also hated the city. Too crowded. Too cramped. And just too weird for his liking.

He realized all this early in his cop career and started law school at night. It took him six years to finish the three-year degree, but he finished at the top of his class. Along the way, he lost his desire to be a legal eagle. The thought of drawing up contracts, fine-tuning wills, or defending guilty people turned his stomach. Tort law was even less interesting. He couldn't imagine his face plastered on the back of a bus-stop bench advertising personal injury.

His goals were simple: freedom, a business that used his skills and training, and a way to make more money than he could count. A California private detective license later, Kinkade Investigations was born. He hired a PR firm and began making contacts. Five years later, he was on the speed dial of twenty city police departments
and had worked as a consultant to Homeland Security. He had also earned his first million.

He could sit in a large office and direct his empire, but that held no interest to him. This was the twenty-first century. He could lead from anywhere in the world, including his car.

Jaz motored slowly along Burlington Drive in the Nichols Hills section of Oklahoma City. The houses were huge and set on acres of manicured land. Each property sported a security fence. No surprises there.

He kept the speed of the Acura Sedan slow, but not so slow to draw attention. He had selected the luxury car to blend in. Most rich people had fancy, classic, or bank-busting cars, but generally also had midrange luxury vehicles that provided comfort and gadgets that made them feel pampered but didn't scream “I'm loaded— carjack me.” Nothing caught the eye like a silver Rolls-Royce or a red Lamborghini.

Jaz picked up his iPhone from the leather seat of his car and keyed it to life. The iPhone was off the shelf, but a few hacks later, it was a much-improved device. By entering a simple code, Jaz could erase all sensitive information it held. If he were stopped by the police, or if a TSA agent in an airport wanted to see what the phone held, he could turn it on, don an innocent expression, and hand it over, knowing that nothing but a handful of contacts and documents, all designed for this purpose, would be seen.

Yes, Jaz admitted, he was paranoid. To him, being paranoid was an essential attribute. Paranoid people were people with all the information.

The satellite photo on the phone showed the house he was looking for. He had the address, so locating the structure wasn't the issue. Seeing if anything had changed since the photo was taken was.

Andrew Morgan's estate was well-kept and large enough to house several families. His intel told him the man lived alone. Jaz imagined the guy knocking around in the place all alone. If Jaz still had normal emotions, he would have felt sorry for the guy.

He slowed the car, raised his phone, and snapped several photos. He also took note of the small blue sign that read A
LL
A
LERT
S
ECURITY
—Jaz recognized the company name. It was a decent firm with some of the better hardware in the business. Breaking in would be difficult for anyone, but Jaz had no intention of sneaking in.

He planned to walk up to the front door and ask for a few minutes.

And he would get it. Not tonight. Tomorrow would be soon enough. He still had a few more things to learn.

After dinner, Morgan had taken Candy to a nightclub that featured standup comics. Candy laughed a lot. She also laughed loudly. With every Appletini, she laughed louder; with every new comedian, she laughed longer. Three times she offered him a sip of her drink; three times he reminded her that he was an alcoholic. By midnight, he was seriously considering relapsing.

“I'm having the best time.”

Morgan looked at her and conjured a smile. “I'm glad. Just let me know when you're ready to call it a night.”

Her smile became lascivious. “You are a bad boy, aren't you? I can tell you have plans.”

Morgan hoped the dark room masked the blush in his cheeks. “No, that's not what I meant.”