The Price of Time Page 12

  Tory reflexively flexed his left pec to confirm the presence of his Glock 42 slim subcompact, but it wasn’t there. He’d left it in the car on account of the metal detector. Suddenly his situation felt like a setup.

  If it was, he might have to make the cremation a twofer. He hoped it didn’t come to that. Killing Murdoch would lead to an investigation, and those were something Tory worked very hard to avoid. Just because he could kill, didn’t mean he liked it. What he did like was this arrangement. It worked well with his CIA recruitment scam, which was by far his favorite.

  There were other funeral homes, of course. But Murdoch’s murder would make their owners overly wary. They’d be more likely to report Tory than accept his unconventional offer.

  Paying Murdoch extortion money wasn’t out of the question. It wasn’t Tory’s money, and his clients clearly didn’t sweat their checkbooks. Pride was the primary consideration. Pride over practicality.

  He glanced back toward the mouth of the oven. The SS Pride had sailed.

  Tory decided to confront the crisis head on. “Come out, Murdoch! This is no time for games.”

  30

  Tough Choice

  WATCHING TOM’S MERCEDES whisk Skylar away, I found myself wishing that I’d opted for less surveillance and more sleep. I had spent much of the night going back and forth between the Brown Pelican and The Williamsburg Inn, alternatively spying on Skylar and Tom.

  It had been unproductive, but not entirely uneventful. I returned to the Brown Pelican shortly after sunrise to find that Skylar was neither in her room nor in any of the neighborhood restaurants. She returned three hours later, covered in sweat from what must have been a very long run.

  My time spying on Tom had started with hope but was soon filled with frustration. His laptop employed a privacy screen. It could only be viewed by a perpendicular observer. I drilled a second hole with the proper perspective, but then Tom’s body blocked my view. The two glimpses I stole when he rose to stretch and use the restroom were of Facebook pages, not documents or, better yet, email.

  The blue Facebook banner proved to be another tease. Tom was not logged in. He wasn’t checking his own feed. He was doing anonymous research. In one case on a woman called Sandy Wallace, in the other on a man named John Maxwell.

  That was all I got. The sum total of a dozen hours’ worth of surveillance was two Facebook profile sightings.

  With the moon and stars again above, I was back behind the wheel of my BMW. I shifted into drive but waited for Tom’s Mercedes to disappear from sight before accelerating in pursuit. My plan was to remain half a mile behind since I could follow the red GPS dot just as easily as the car itself—with no risk of being seen.

  As I pressed the gas, my knee reminded me that it was time for another pain pill. I pulled one from my pocket and swallowed it dry. Then I thought about what likely lay ahead, and took another.

  I’d altered my appearance from the various versions Tom had glimpsed. The me he’d brushed past while leaving the bar. The me he’d seen sitting on a bar stool. The me he’d encountered exiting the elevator. And the me he’d tried to kill on a motorcycle. Gone now was the entire mustache I’d worn as a biker at the bar and a guest at the hotel. Gone also were my do-rag and side-parted hairstyle. I’d slicked my hair back with pomade and donned lensless horn-rimmed glasses, producing an entirely different look. Somewhere between Wall Street’s Gordon Gekko and Agent Smith from The Matrix.

  About ten minutes after exiting the parking lot, Tom pulled off the main road onto a private drive. I zoomed in on the tracking map to identify the destination. The Good Graces Chapel and Mortuary.

  I had not seen that twist coming.

  An icy finger traced the length of my spine. Was I too late? Had Tom blown Skylar’s brains out in the car? Should I have confronted the killer last night? Would I ever forgive myself if she was dead?

  I tried consoling myself with logic. A bullet hole in the windshield or blood spatter on the upholstery would attract all kinds of unwanted attention. He was too polished to make an amateur mistake like that.

  The answer struck as I pounded the wheel. Pretending that the mortuary was the FIFO HQ was part of Tom’s con. He’d told her he would take her there.

  So what was his plan? Drug her in the car, then dump her body in the bottom of a freshly dug grave? Toss some dirt on top and hope nobody noticed before she was covered by a coffin? It was a possibility. But that scenario would be a clunky conclusion to the symphony of subterfuge Tom had been conducting. I expected more from him.

  Anxious as I’d just become, and eager as I was to intervene before he severed her head with a shovel, I couldn’t risk following them up the mortuary drive. I parked on the side of the road and proceeded on foot, knowing the next few minutes would be a tightrope race. I had to move quickly but quietly and carefully, balancing the downside of detection against the consequences of a late arrival.

  I stayed in the shadows while sprinting as best I could around the building. The mortuary was the size of a small elementary school, sans playground. I stopped and dropped as soon as Tom’s car came into view. It was one of seven.

  While counting the cars, I looked down at the Sig Sauer P320 in my hand. “Seventeen rounds.”

  There in the grass, I saw no movement and heard no activity. I studied the Mercedes to be sure they weren’t still inside. It appeared empty, but I made a low dash to confirm the fact with direct visual inspection. The other cars were also empty, but a common detail caught my attention. All seven had rental car barcode stickers on their windshields. Only the Mercedes’s hood was warm. Interesting. Had Tom ordered a car company to deliver the other six as window dressing? Or was I about to wish I had more than seventeen rounds?

  And now what?

  I could call the police and report an abduction. But how long would they take to arrive, and what would happen to Skylar in the interim?

  I took a deep breath and ran for the back door.

  It proved to be a typical industrial contraption, with a metal skin and a lever handle. Would it be unlocked? For Tom’s ruse to work, he would have needed either an unlocked door—presumably picked and left open in advance—or a key. Fifty-fifty. Except he would have wanted the lights inside to be on to augment the appearance of activity. Assuming, of course, that the drivers of the other six autos were back at a rental car office rather than waiting inside with shovels and duct tape.

  I put an ear to the door and heard nothing. I pressed the lever, slow and steady. It yielded.

  I slipped inside and froze. The hall was arched with a metal detector of the airport variety. A green LED indicated its operational status. That added quite an extravagant touch of authenticity to the HQ ruse. And it meant the mortuary owner was in on Tom’s plan.

  Metal detectors like the one before me didn’t act like Geiger counters. Proximity didn’t matter. They only detected disruptions to the field directly between their sensors. While the installation sealed the hallway so as to prevent one from slipping a firearm around the arch, I was able to wedge enough of my Sig into the shelf-like crevice between detector and ceiling to hold it in quasi-concealment until I left. I slid my car key, cell phone, and watch up over the lip as well, both to be certain it wouldn’t beep, and to remind me to retrieve my gun.

  I slipped past the detector without audible protest and found myself faced with half a dozen choices. There were doors to the left, right, and straight ahead. I strained my ears but heard nothing. That was both good news and bad. The odds that the other six cars were window dressing had just improved. A large group would be hard pressed to remain so silent. But the lack of noise left me without any auditory clue as to which way to go.

  I could see lights coming from beyond the glass double doors at the back but knew there might be lights on behind the solid side doors as well. I cracked each, smooth and slow, just enough to check for a lack of lighting. After confirming that each was dark, I pushed through the double doors.

&nbs
p; They dumped me into a covered glass walkway that left me totally exposed. I ran to the outbuilding on the opposite side and quickly but quietly slipped inside.

  What I found was more doors. Double doors to the left, double doors to the right, a double door straight ahead. The central one had a curtained window beside it, and lights shining on the other side. I’d been in a place like this before. It was the observation room for a crematory.

  I crept toward the curtains, ears straining, heart racing.

  “Come out, Murdoch! This is no time for games.”

  Damn! I’d been detected. My eyes flew to the curtain but saw nothing. Of course not. Tom had called me Murdoch, which meant he hadn’t seen me. He must have heard me. I’d been quiet, but the door still made a few slight clicks. Perhaps Tom had simply sensed the pressure change during its operation. I wouldn’t put that power beyond the capabilities of the fitness freak I’d observed practicing tai chi and extreme calisthenics.

  I swiftly considered three responses. I could stay silent and prepare to pounce. I could rush the room. Or I could attempt to bluff my way into striking position.

  Could I bluff this man? Not if he recognized me. My disguise was good, but not great. Of course, even if it passed initial muster, the last thing I wanted to do was engage in hand-to-hand combat with a guy whose bedtime routine burned more calories than a mini-marathon. But Skylar’s life, if not already extinguished, was at stake. And I had my ceramic knife.

  I went with the bluff. “It’s not Murdoch. It’s Vondreesen. I thought we should talk.”

  31

  Breathless

  I WALKED INTO THE CREMATORY like I owned the place—which was precisely the impression I wanted to give.

  Tom was alone. Alone and empty-handed and standing across the room beside the control panel of a stainless-steel cremation retort. I had no doubt that Skylar was already inside. But was she unconscious or dead?

  If unconscious, there was still hope. The machine was silent. My objective crystalized in that split second. I had to prevent Tom from pressing the ignition switch.

  “You need any help getting the retort working?” I asked.

  “What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you came to help me push a few buttons.”

  So far, so good. I put on a crafty look and took a step closer. “A man of your means deserves impeccable service. Discreet service.”

  I could see the calculations churning in Tom’s mind as his taut facial features made microexpressions. Was this a shakedown? Had Murdoch betrayed him? Should he kick me in the nuts? Snap my neck? Or was this all BS? “Who are you, really?”

  It was my turn to calculate, but I had no time. One couldn’t waiver while bluffing. I had to either stick with the greedy partner scenario, or go in an entirely different direction. Which was the more likely to get Skylar out alive? “Casey McCallum,” I said, using the name of a character in the book I was reading. “FBI. I’d show you my badge, but I had to leave it in the bushes outside the door to avoid alarming the metal detector.”

  “Along with your gun,” Tom replied.

  I flicked my forearm toward the floor, sending the stiletto to my palm where it snapped open with a swish and locked with a click. “Along with my gun,” I repeated.

  I was an even six feet tall and weighed 190 pounds, much of it muscle. I was well trained to fight and armed with a familiar weapon. But I didn’t give myself even fifty-fifty odds against the smaller, older man with chiseled cheekbones.

  Most men wear suits to hide their flaws. This guy wore suits to camouflage his perfections. The strength and discipline Tom had demonstrated as part of his daily routine were Olympic level. Nobody would confuse me with an Olympian.

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me backup is on the way?” Tom said, his gaze on my eyes, rather than the knife. Would we launch at each other, or pursue alternative actions? The answer to both was yes. We were each preparing to pounce while pretending to explore other options.

  We both knew it.

  But we both played along.

  “Would I have exposed myself if backup wasn’t coming?”

  “You would if you wanted to save the girl.”

  Save her! That implied she was still alive. Alive in an oven that had yet to ignite.

  “What led you here?” Tom pressed.

  Time to delay. Not because backup was coming, but to make Tom think that was my tactic. “We’ve been getting reports of a man posing as a CIA recruiter. Calls that coincide with missing-persons reports. It’s amazing how far you can get these days by harnessing the power of big data. The tools are lightyears ahead of what we had even six months ago. Now we can cross-reference airline records with rental car reservations and hotel receipts. Add in IP addresses, voice recognition software, and cell phone calls, and it’s almost like having a crystal ball. It’s not perfect yet, but hey, here I am.” I waved the stiletto.

  “You’re awfully talkative for an FBI agent. Makes me think either you aren’t one, or you’re playing a game. In either case, game’s over. You have a choice to make.”

  I tested my hold on the hilt of my blade. It was texturized to add friction, but slim. During combat, I had to grip with gusto to keep it from slipping.

  I rehearsed my next moves.

  Tom would be expecting me to go for his throat. The quick kill. The arterial spray. That would be the smart move with a normal knife. That or the heart. But my stiletto was not a normal knife. It was four inches long and sharp as a master barber’s razor. It would part flesh faster than a guillotine. All I had to do was drag it along a limb. A forearm, a calf, a triceps, a hamstring. Didn’t matter. A single swipe could inflict a wound long and deep enough to be instantly crippling. Then blood would gush and consciousness would slip away. “What choice is that?”

  “What do you really want to do? Attempt to catch me or try to save the girl?” His left hand shot out fast as a cobra strike, flipping the incinerator ignition switch.

  After he struck, Tom stayed still. He didn’t run. He didn’t pounce. He just stood there blocking access to the Emergency Stop button.

  In my condition of heightened awareness, I heard the hiss as gas began flowing, then the click-click-click of sparkers bringing flames to life. When the ventilator began humming, I charged. I had no choice. I had never talked to Skylar, and she knew neither my face or my name, but I had studied her biography, and I had shared one of the most important days in her life. And nobody—almost nobody—deserved to die this way.

  Tom dodged at the last possible instant and put a powerful punch into my solar plexus. He’d set the trap, and I had leapt into it.

  I doubled over, struggling to remain on my feet and keep control of the stiletto. Even though I couldn’t stand, I could still slash. Still sever fingers and toes. Weren’t wounded animals the most dangerous kind?

  While I gasped for breath, Tom took my picture with his cell phone. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his prints from the ignition switch, and walked out of the room.

  32

  Custom Catering

  FELIX ANSWERED HIS FRONT DOOR rather than let the butler get it. He knew who it was, and experience had taught him that servants sometimes caused coeds to tense up. Even those spending summers working on Jupiter Island, the Southern Florida enclave where the average house cost $4.5 million and residents were more likely to see their neighbors on television than in person.

  Her dress was similar in cut and style to the one she’d been wearing when he propositioned her at the Seven Stork Steakhouse, and it immediately had the same effect. The sky-blue pattern even brought out her eyes. “Holly, pleasure to see you again.”

  “Likewise, Mr. Gentry.”

  Felix watched her process the revelation that he was dressed for tennis rather than business. “Please, call me Felix. You’re this way,” he added with a welcoming gesture.

  He escorted her through the grand foyer with its dancing waterfall and exotic bird aviary, across the sit
ting room housing Billy Joel’s grand piano and a Chihuly chandelier, then down a wide hallway lined with autographed celebrity photographs. The informal tour ended in a kitchen with an eighteen-foot ceiling and a chef who’d have looked equally at home on the covers of Maxim Magazine and Master Chef. “Holly, this is Amber. She’ll take it from here.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gentry. I mean Felix.”

  He headed upstairs to his bedroom and then out onto the deck. He’d furnished it with an intimate mosaic dining table and a marble sculpture of an angel and nymph about to kiss.

  This was the opening sequence of his latest game, his favorite new gig. When he spotted a hostess he wanted—which was most of them, given the profile for that demographic in the ZIP codes he frequented—Felix would hire her for a four-hour private event. A luncheon at his beachfront estate. Shocked but intrigued, they’d inevitably ask what it paid. His reply was always the same. “Name your price.”

  Holly’s first surprise would come when the chef handed her just two plates. The second would come when she learned that one of them was for her.

  Felix’s phone rang as he sat down to wait with The Wall Street Journal. Perfunctorily checking the display before hitting DECLINE, he saw that the call was forwarded from his Immortals burner phone. What could Pierce DuBois want?

  Felix, the CFO, and Pierce, the investor, were cut from similar cloth but dyed in different colors. Both were alpha males adept at numbers and politically savvy. But whereas Felix preferred Florida’s Gold Coast with its Michelin-starred restaurants and friendly hostesses, Pierce opted for the solitude of Montana’s mountains and big sky. This made them both friends and rivals. More rivals than friends now, Felix feared, with Pierce running for Senate and thereby putting all the Immortals in danger.