Clarissa took the quarter and gave Rowland a
kiss on his bony cheek. "You will never know, Rowland, what you
have just done for me."
As soon as she stepped into the lobby of the
hotel, she headed straight for the pay phone.
CHAPTER 7
Virginia swam the length of the Olympic-size
indoor pool with long, powerful strokes. She had done thirty such
laps non-stop. Her arms ached with a leaden heaviness and her
breath came in ragged gasps but the grueling exercise had purged
her of the anxiety that had built up since this morning in the
office with Morgan.
She sat on the steps in the shallow end of the
pool with her eyes closed, methodically going through the series of
breathing and muscle relaxation exercises that had kept her sane
and in control for the last ten years. The pool was deserted. The
steady rain continued to fall outside. Gray light from the
floor-to-ceiling windows matched Virginia's somber mood. Everything
was ready for her escape. The plan finalized, a bag packed and in
the back of her closet, the funding secured and hidden away, the
ace-in-the-hole safe at the Hempstead. Now came the waiting. For
the plane ticket from Andrew Hayden, for Morgan to leave for
Washington. She had to hang together for only one more
day.
Her wet bare feet padded softly on the white
pool deck. She reached for the terry robe and her breath caught in
her throat. The chipped red acrylic fingernail lay on the patio
table next to her own black hair band. The nail hadn't been there
when she started her swim.
Had Clarissa managed to somehow get out of the
Hempstead Hotel and make her way back here? Was the stupid bitch
after the cash in her purse? Her clothes and jewelry? Anger rose in
Virginia. She was just about to call out Clarissa's name when she
stopped. Had someone else put the nail on the table? Dalton?
Santos?
Virginia did a slow scan of the pool area. She
always kept the lights off when she swam alone, preferring the
natural light from the windows. The lapping water threw gray
shadows dancing across the muted walls and deck. She could see no
other movement, hear no other sound. That was no assurance that
someone wasn't there watching. Virginia slipped into the robe,
snatched up the hair band and walked quickly from the
room.
She could not relax until she had done a
thorough search of her condo to be sure no one was lurking in
closets or behind doors. Foolish, she thought to herself, but
still, the fear would no subside until she was certain Clarissa had
not come back, nor were any of Morgan's security staff
suspicious.
To calm her jittery nerves, she decided to
make herself a cup of herb tea. She had the water in the kettle and
the teabag in the cup when she almost dropped and broke the fragile
china. There, on the sink, was the cup Clarissa had used the night
before, complete with lipstick stain on the rim. Virginia knew she
had been careful to put all of the dishes in the dishwasher while
Clarissa had been in the shower. She distinctly remembered putting
the soap in the dispenser and starting the machine on the wash
cycle. Or had she? She had been in a rush to get Clarissa out of
the condo. Her mind reeled. Her heart pounded. Had Santos seen the
cup last night? He hadn't said anything about it. Would he have or
would he wait and tell Dalton or Morgan? Had Clarissa come back? If
so, how did she inside? Where was she now?
The sudden whistling of the tea kettle shot
her nerves to the ceiling. She fought down the urge to call Dusty
at the Hempstead to make sure the bitch was where she ought to be.
She struggled for emotional control, trying to calm herself with
the breathing exercises. Everything would be fine. Calm down.
Think. She repeated the litany over and over until she could pour
water into a cup without shaking.
Virginia set the steaming cup of herb tea on
the patio railing and looked out over the city. Lightning danced on
the western horizon from another storm approaching from off the
coast, and thunder rolled softly in the distance. The night air was
cool and clean, almost sweet smelling. Virginia closed her eyes and
imagined the Arizona desert around her where she grew up. She could
see the millions of stars in a black sky and hear only the chirp of
crickets instead of the Saturday night traffic on Wilshire
Boulevard below.
Virginia had been sixteen when she left the
reservation in northeastern Arizona. She had run away from the
poverty and the control over her life that was suffocating, leaving
behind the baby daughter that the tribal council refused to let her
take with her off the reservation. Her own mother had done the very
same thing. Her Hopi Indian mother eloped with an Irish gas station
attendant in Flagstaff. When Virginia was born a year later, her
grandmother and aunt, with the support from the council, took her
away from her mother and raised her.
Here, at her journey's end, on the balcony of
this high-rise condo, she looked back on a life that had been
nothing but a long, tortuous climb out of the mire of poverty. She
had given up her daughter, her pride, her dreams. There had been
the four year scholarship to the University of California at Los
Angeles, the degrees in business and computer technology,
graduation in the top five percent of her class. Virginia had a
future, a way to get her daughter off the reservation, a thirty
thousand dollar a year job with a fledgling computer company that
specialized in business software. Within a year, sales were in the
millions.
Virginia stood by helplessly as one of the
partner, Morgan Wolfe, drained the company dry in less than two
years. She was twenty-four years old when she got her layoff notice
from Wolfe and a job offer of sixty thousand a year to become his
personal assistant. The offer was a simple one. She was to design
software for his extensive business holdings, manage personal and
business affairs, she had to be free to travel with him at a
moment's notice, no outside personal relationships, and no
children.
Virginia had fallen in love with twenty-seven
year old Morgan Wolfe from the moment she first saw him at a
business meeting at the computer company. She accepted his job
offer and its conditions immediately. Always, she had thought that
Morgan would marry her, she would finally tell him about her
daughter Raylene, and he would let Virginia bring her to Los
Angeles to live with them. Ten years later, she was desperate to
escape.
The herb tea and the old memories calmed her
nerves. The wet night air felt good. She was reluctant to go back
inside. Her thoughts went again and again to convincing herself
that Morgan was not aware that she had his incriminating witness
stashed away in a homeless shelter. Every time the doubts would
surface, she would hit them with logic and reason.
He could not possibly know. She had left no
trail. When he made love to her he was his usual passionless self,
automatic and predictable, functional, nothing out of the ordinary.
By his own insensitive nature, he could not possibly have sensed
her nervousness. Or could he? There is where the doubt
surfaced.
Virginia had gone over every detail of the
afternoon a hundred times. What moves would have given her away?
Would Morgan chalk it up to a mood swing or that she hadn't slept
the night before? Did she pull off the lie to a master
deceiver?
In the end, she believed that she was
successful. That alone would sustain her until the plane ticket and
cash arrived from Andrew Hayden tomorrow. The ticket would be
untraceable by Morgan, no cash withdrawals would be evident from
her personal accounts. It would be a neat and clean escape.
Suddenly, she felt relieved and exhausted. It meant that she would
probably get some descent sleep tonight. Only one more day. By
Monday morning Morgan would be gone and she would be on her way to
freedom.
She swigged down the last mouthful of the tea
and turned toward the sliding glass door. The cup fell from her
hand and smashed into pieces.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded but
there was little strength in her voice and, with a sickening
realization, she already knew the answer to her
question.
"Morgan asked me to drop by," Marco grinned as
he lolled against the door jam. "He wanted to make sure you're
okay."
"That's bullshit," Virginia spat at
him.
"Call it what you like."
"So I'm just fine. Now you can
leave."
"You're hospitality sucks, Virginia," said
Marco. "What is important is that you're here alone, and we can
have a talk. We work for the same company and yet we don't get to
talk much. We got a lot in common, you and me."
"We have nothing in common so why don't you
just get the hell out of here?"
"I won't be here long."
Dread flooded through her and she struggled to
keep her nerves steady and meet his leering stare. Of all the
people she had met through her years with Morgan Wolfe, Marco
Camponello was the one who most frightened her. Evil radiated off
him like heat from shimmering desert mirage. He was fiercely loyal
to Morgan and put the fear of God into anyone he met. He was a
valuable asset in the terror he elicited and in the more loathsome
duties that Morgan would entrust to him.
Marco was without a known past. He had
appeared one day in Morgan's employ about eight years ago. Virginia
always shuddered at the memory of that first meeting. He had torn
her open with his eyes, and she recoiled inwardly at the clamminess
of his handshake. She threatened to quit her job if Morgan kept him
on. Morgan smiled at her and told her that if she thought about
quitting, Marco would talk her out of it. Virginia never mentioned
quitting again but Marco purposely avoided her.
Now the doubts exploded in her. Morgan knew.
Somehow she had given herself away. The fingernail, the cup.
Marco's presence her on her balcony confirmed the worst of her
fears.
"Let's go inside," he said. He stepped aside
and motioned to her.
Virginia eased past him, staying as far away
from him as she could. He made no move to touch her, but merely
slid the glass patio door closed and locked it, then drew the
drapes. When he turned back to her she was at the small desk in the
alcove between the living room and the kitchen, the phone in her
hand. In two quick steps he was at Virginia's side and slammed down
her hand with the receiver on the telephone. She looked at him,
startled.
"Who were you going to call?" he
demanded.
"Morgan," she replied, her hands shaking. "You
have no right to be here. I don't believe that Morgan knows you're
here."
"Have you ever known me to disobey Morgan
Wolfe?" Marco asked and the grin widened on his face as he pressed
closer to her. He held her hand firmly under his on the telephone
receiver. "I do what he tells me. If I were you, I'd do what he
wants you to do."
"Morgan usually asks me himself."
"Tonight he sent me."
Marco let go of her hand and she pulled away
from him. He turned away and wandered around the living room poking
into the fireplace and looking in vases and decanters. He walked
the floor, peering at the carpet, in corners, and behind
bookcases.
"What are you looking for?" Virginia
demanded.
"Nothing in particular," he told her. "Just
waiting for you."
"For what?"
"You know what, Virginia. We both know. Morgan
knows or he wouldn't have sent me." He paused, staring her down,
watching for the slightest sign of nervousness that would weaken
her. "Tell me where she is and I'll leave."
"What are you talking about?"
"Clarissa Hayden."
"So she didn't come home last night. Big deal.
Morgan doesn't expect me to keep track of his women. That's not
part of my job. I wouldn't do it anyway. I could care less about
any of them. I can't stand most of them."
"But you do know where Clarissa
is."
"I don't, Marco," she screamed at him. "I hope
she left him."
"Maybe she did. You'd like that, wouldn't you?
You get rid of one, he gets another. He puts you back on the shelf.
Good old used up Virginia. Trades you in for some new blood.
Prettier than you, younger than you, sexier than you."
"Go to hell, Marco."
Marco grinned, running a purplish tongue over
uneven teeth. He was getting to her. He knew all the buttons to
push. This would be an easy job.
"Let's talk about the company, Ginny," Marco
sank into the sofa and put his feet up on the beveled glass topped
coffee table. He gazed at her under his heavy eyelids and slowly
scraped his boot's buckle across the glass. His dark eyes bored
into Virginia as she stood near the fireplace.
"What about it?"
"The company has had a few resignations
recently. Avery Roth, Byron Roth, Virginia Essex."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"You know Morgan can sense when a business is
out of harmony. Just last month he sensed that in Roth Galleries.
Something wasn't right, he told me. Got to get that business back
on track, he said. Then there was that awful robbery and Avery Roth
shot. Too bad, you know. Morgan told me that Avery was planning to
leave the company. Couldn't take the pressures, Morgan said. Died
too soon."