Her hands moved methodically as she undressed
him, keeping her eyes averted from his, focusing her mind on the
leanness of his well-muscled body. She closed her eyes when he
kissed and caressed her, lifted her easily and laid her gently on
the sofa. He slipped one hand behind her head and coiled his long
finger in her raven hair. With the other, he removed her jeans. She
flinched when he ran his hand along her inner thigh and the moan
that escaped her lips was not from pleasure.
"Morgan," she whispered as his fingers
tightened in her hair and he ran his tongue between both of her
breasts and down her stomach. He knew. His touch stripped away the
protective layers of her soul she had so carefully fortified in the
last few hours. In the heat of passion Virginia's resolve melted
away like ice in the sun. The confession was on her lips. She ached
to admit her guilt and be free of this ordeal. Her mind screamed to
tell him where she had hidden Clarissa, where he would find the
jewels, her plans to run away. He suspected everything anyway.
Morgan always got what he wanted.
"Morgan...." The words would not come. They
were stuck in her throat, imbedded in her private terror. She lay
beneath him almost without feeling, empty except for the agonizing
apprehension and shattered nerves. When his touch was smooth and
tender, not the harshness she expected, she began to relax. She dug
her nails into the cushion of the sofa, felt him go rigid with the
intensity of his ecstasy.
He left her lying on the sofa, without a word.
She wanted to cry with relief in the silence of the den but could
not. Virginia could think of nothing except the last few minutes.
Their lovemaking had seemed no different than it had been for the
last decade. Morgan was no more loving or distant, he had been only
the Morgan she knew. She dared to believe that her secret was still
safe. The longer she lay there, the more she convinced herself that
her fear had been created in her own mind. Morgan may have
suspected she had heard from Clarissa but she was sure she had
given nothing away. Solace flooded through her like a cool
breeze.
Morgan watched the blue Mercedes as it went
out the gates onto the canyon road just as thunder rolled across
the darkened sky and the first spattering of rain dotted the
driveway. He leaned back in the leather chair at his desk and lit a
pipe. Smoke curled up and around the small desk lamp that burned a
yellow sphere, disturbing the grayness of the afternoon.
Marco dislodged himself from the shadows and
slid silently into a chair opposite Wolfe. Morgan's gaze remained
fixed on the rain dotted window. The stillness was long and
thoughtful. Marco waited, knowing not to disturb Morgan.
"I have the Steadman meeting on Tuesday,"
Morgan finally said. "I want this Clarissa thing cleared up by
then. It should not have gone this long. Call McKinnon."
"I can take care of this, Mister Wolfe. No
need to call in outside help.
"Clarissa knows your face, Marco. It'll take
longer to get close to her, where ever she's hiding. I need this
taken care of yesterday. We can't wait. Get McKinnon."
"That's risky," said Marco. "We haven't worked
before with that connection."
"McKinnon is the best and the fastest. That's
the word."
"But not controllable. Too independent. Works
alone."
"Right now, that's the best way. I don't want
you any more involved than locating Clarissa's whereabouts and
setting up McKinnon to do the hit."
"Yes, Mister Wolfe."
"When the job's done?"
"Mails you a body part from the victim.
Usually fingers, toes, something small and discrete. Gets the rest
of the money within twelve hours to a drop in a numbered account in
the Caymans."
"Or?"
"Your toes get mailed to your next of kin,"
Marco grinned.
Morgan laughed out loud. "We'll pay McKinnon.
I don't want any mementos. I want it done in no more twenty four
hours."
"I'll make the call."
"What's the price?"
"Quarter of a million last I heard. Half up
front to the Arizona drop."
"Make the down payment first thing tomorrow
morning. I'll advance the cash then make a cash transfer through
Jasper Electronics Monday morning."
"Do we have any idea where Clarissa might
be?"
Morgan's gaze turned again to the window and
he tapped the pipe against his lip pensively. "I believe we can
find out without too much of a problem."
"Mister Wolfe?" Marco said
questioningly.
"Pay a visit to Virginia tonight," Morgan
said. "Take Alex Rogers with you. See what you can find
out."
"Alex went to La Jolla to track down
Clarissa's friend Hugo from the hair salon," Marco told him. "He
ain't back yet."
"Don't wait for him. We need to know where
Clarissa is tonight."
"What do you expect me to find at Virginia's?
Those women weren't exactly friends."
"Whatever you can," Morgan said. "Do whatever
you have to."
“My pleasure, Mr. Wolfe,” Marco
grinned.
“Yes, I’m sure. Oh, and call that agency we
have a stake in. Have them send over someone Monday morning.
Paralegal skills and some accounting background are a must. Under
30, a redhead this time. Tell them they’ll be the usual employee
benefits.”
When Morgan looked from the window to where
Marco had been sitting only a second ago, the chair was empty. The
chief of security had made no sound as the deepening shadows
swallowed him. Morgan chewed on the end of the pipe and watched the
dark gray clouds drift slowly overhead. There was a slight
tightening of his gut as he reached for the phone.
Clarissa sat on the steel frame bed, her back
against the wall, the thin bed pillow clutched tightly in her arms.
One lamp burned dimly on a green metal, legless table bolted to the
cracked yellowed plaster wall. On a green steel night stand, bolted
to the floor, was a Bible. She had picked it up briefly to swat at
two cockroaches crawling across the bare green and white tile
floor. Otherwise, Clarissa and the Bible had not moved all
day.
A round old black framed clock mounted high on
the wall in a mesh cage read four thirty. There had been no word
from Virginia and Clarissa's stomach tightened from anxiety,
gnawing hunger, and the putrid odor of strong antiseptic. There had
been a hundred and fifty dollars in her purse. It was enough to get
some presentable clothes and purchase at least a bus ticket out of
the city. Virginia had to come soon. The waiting was agony.
Clarissa would have given anything for that money in her purse.
Yesterday it was pin money, today it was a coveted
fortune.
The room darkened slowly around her as the
storm clouds gathered and rain spattered the one grime-streaked
window. The tiny lamp struggled to burn away the darkness and still
there was no knock on the door, no Virginia with the hundred and
fifty dollars that was Clarissa's only means of escape. The clock
slowly crept toward five-thirty. She rubbed at the emptiness in her
stomach and let tears fall off and on.
At a quarter to six she watched detached as a
cockroach crawled over a black square of the floor where a tile was
missing, toward Clarissa, and disappeared under the bed. A woman
cackled at two small children in an unfamiliar language on the
other side of the wall. Someone, unsteady on his feet, had fallen
against Clarissa's door and jolted her out of a light
sleep.
Seven-fifteen and the downpour outside had
turned to a light drizzle. The hotel, which had been quiet during
the day, had come alive with aching discord. Heavy metal rock music
vibrated the floor from the room beneath her, babies wailed, and
laughter mixed with heated anger flowed through the building, an
endless underground river of noise. It flowed and ebbed, taking
Clarissa's tortured nerves with it until the skin on her arms
prickled painfully with irritation.
When the light tapping on the door finally did
come, Clarissa thought that it was her imagination playing a cruel
trick. She listened again, this time there was nothing. She was
about give in again to the incessant tears when the tapping sounded
a little louder. Clarissa leaped off the bed, unbolted the door,
and flung it wide.
"Thank God, Virginia! I thought
you'd......"
The sudden disappointment deflated her joy
like a pin in a balloon. Doc Rowland stood in the hallway, his
fedora held against his chest with both hands. He tried to smile,
not sure about the intensity with which the door to three ten had
flown open, nor the sudden tears that sprang into the young woman's
eyes.
"I'm sorry, child," he stammered. "I didn't
mean to scare you. You okay?"
When she just stared at him wide eyed and
immobile he struggled to go on. "I thought you might be hungry.
Streets aren't safe around here and I go down the street to the
Kitchen 'bout this time for dinner. Thought you'd like to walk with
me bein' the rain has let up and all."
"No," Clarissa blurted and slammed the door in
his face.
"You got to eat something, child," she heard
him say through the closed door. "You're all skin and bones. There
ain't no food in this hotel. Can't cook in your room. Closest place
is the Kitchen."
She wanted him to go away, to leave her alone.
Yet, she could hardly bear to be alone. She sagged against the door
and hated Virginia for not coming like she promised. There was that
ever present sinking feeling that she been used. Virginia was not
coming. The litany of excuses had grown all day, from Morgan
finding out about Virginia helping her, to a car accident in the
rain, or Virginia really wanted Clarissa out of the way. There had
been those ugly suspicions that Virginia wanted Morgan for herself
but they had always been dispelled by the fact that if there was
something between Morgan and his secretary, it would not have
waited ten years to happen. Clarissa never saw Morgan look at
Virginia with anything but professional respect. But there had been
those fleeting moments when Clarissa had caught a look in
Virginia's eyes that was more than admiration for her employer. It
was these unguarded glances that fueled Clarissa's mistrust of
Virginia.
Virginia wasn't coming. The reality was swift
and stark, piercing like a knife in the gut. Clarissa's first
reaction was indignation and outrage, then guilt and stupidity. She
had been used and robbed, trusted the worst possible person. It was
little consolation that Virginia had been her only option at the
time. Clarissa's instincts had warned her not to trust Morgan's
secretary. Those instincts had saved her life more than once during
the past twenty-four hours. Ignoring them just this one time had
made her condition almost unbearable.
Morgan would find her. This time she had no
means of escape. She was sitting in a trap that Virginia had
devised and had led her to like a lamb to the slaughter. Clarissa
cursed herself over and over, pounding her fists against her thighs
as she paced the tiny cell-like room. Anger slowly replaced fear,
driving out the self-punishing terror and filling her with cold
clear thought.
Morgan Wolfe had shattered her dream, Virginia
Essex had stripped away the remaining fragments. Clarissa stared
down at the once manicured red acrylic nails. One by one she peeled
them off and tossed each one in the toilet. She flushed them down,
watching the broken dreams swirl and finally disappear.
The image in the cracked bathroom mirror was a
blend of mother and daughter, strength and beauty. Both had had
their dreams taken away so swiftly by a single bullet. Both had
known the top of the world and the deepest pit of poverty. Clarissa
ran her finger over the mirror, tracing the lines of her face,
seeing only the strength in Myra's eyes, the radiance in her
mother's high cheek bones, the determination in the will to survive
in the set of her lips.
Clarissa had never been good at survival, not
consciously. She had somehow made it through her mother's death,
but then there had been the alley. Clarissa shuddered at the
memory. There had been a bit of strength then, a will to live. She
had pulled it up from her soul when the three young men had her
cornered and were beating her and tearing at her clothes, a knife
held to her throat, the repeated rapes. Her screams had brought
Hugo out of the back door of his hair salon. In his arms she was
safe. Screaming would not bring Hugo now. He was a hundred miles
away and had no idea where she was or that she needed
him.
Clarissa turned away from the mirror and felt
light headed and dizzy. She clutched the bathroom doorknob to
steady herself. The old black man had been right. It did her no
good to sit and starve when it was strength she needed desperately
if she was to remain alive.
She ran her fingers through her hair,
smoothing it as best she could. The hallway was empty as she eased
her door closed behind her. The door was ajar in the room directly
across the hall, throwing a sliver of orange light onto the black
tiled floor. As Clarissa locked the door and tucked the key in the
pocket of her faded jeans, the door across the hall opened and a
dark haired man with broom, pail and mop, stepped into the hallway
and locked the door.