The elevator doors slid open and Avery stepped
into the parking garage. It was as he had left it earlier. The same
three cars were parked near his. Only Byron's Mercedes was a new
addition.
Half way to his car, Avery stopped. He wasn't
sure that he'd heard the sound. It was almost an inaudible click
like the distant chirp of a cricket. He switched the briefcase to
his other hand and fumbled in his pocket for his car keys. Then he
heard the scraping noise again. This time he was certain it came
from behind him. He turned slowly, his eyes searching the shadows.
Nothing, no movement at all. He saw only the garage entrance with
the gate arm stretched across the driveway, the empty attendant's
kiosk, and the bright lights of the boulevard beyond.
His car was still seventy-five feet away from
where he stood. The entrance was half that distance in the opposite
direction. In a couple of strides be could be out on the lighted
street, a half a block from the Beverly Wilshire Hotel and a taxi
cab. He had a twinge of regret leaving behind his cell phone. He
swallowed sharp bile at the back of his throat and wiped sweat from
his eyes. Panic closed about him like shrink wrap and sucked at his
remaining strength. He turned and headed for the garage
entrance.
The first bullet from the silenced gun slammed
into the trunk of the parked car not a foot from Avery's
hand.
"Shit!" Avery hissed as he ducked low between
two of the parked cars. The second bullet took a thumb sized chunk
out of the concrete wall directly above his head. He sat crouched
with his back to the wall. The parking garage was eerily silent.
Avery strained to hear the sound of footsteps. He had to get to the
street.
Terror licked at the edges of his being and
the impulse to sprint to the entrance was overwhelming. Yet, he
didn't know where the gunman was. He knew it couldn't be Byron. His
brother's gun had not had a silencer. It had to be one of Wolfe's
assassins. If it was, he had small chance to get to the airport
alive with the briefcase. He had to hide the case somewhere and
disappear down into the cracks of the city until it was safe. He
had to make it to the hotel across the street but first he had to
get out of the parking structure alive.
Avery took a quick scan of the garage entrance
over the rear fender of the car, then dropped into a crouch against
the cement wall, his shoulder painfully wedged against the front
bumper of the parked car. He hugged the briefcase tightly to him
until his hands were nearly numb from the pressure. The stillness
pressed heavy into his chest and he was conscious of every labored
breath.
There was no movement, no minute changes in
the light and shadows. There was no sound, no whisper of motion.
The entrance was ten steps away. Ten steps to freedom. Avery had
only to gather his strength and courage for the last, mad, dash of
his life. He squeezed his eyes shut and gathered his
strength.
Slowly he filled his lungs with air. His eyes
snapped open. It was the blind, black instinct of self-preservation
that held him ridged as a statue. His throat tightened in a
strangled scream, his eyes widened as though he would breathe
through them.
The gunman slid slowly over the hood of the
parked car like a great cat on a silken couch. His small
heavy-lidded eyes glittered malevolently in the gloom and he smiled
with white uneven teeth. Avery's body jerked like a puppet as the
rounds were pumped from the silenced gun. The assassin reached over
and plucked the briefcase from where it had fallen from Avery's
bloody hand, just as the black Cadillac pulled to a stop behind the
parked car.
The gunman waited as the rear side window slid
down half way.
"It's done," the gunman said in a low voice,
as he passed the briefcase in through the window.
"Clean up here, Marco," replied a quiet voice
from inside the dark interior of the sedan.
"Yes, Mister Wolfe."
The window closed without a sound. Before the
Cadillac had negotiated the U-turn out of the garage, Avery Roth's
body had disappeared and there was no trace that a murder had just
taken place.
CHAPTER 2
Clarissa Hayden stood poised on the edge of
the diving board, bouncing lightly, anticipating the dive into the
compelling depths of the black-bottom pool. She hesitated, still
savoring the sweet taste of victory. The diamond on her left hand
caught the late afternoon sun and flashed a brilliant prism of
light on the pool deck. She could not suppress the wide grin or the
euphoric ebullience that had lingered since dinner last
night.
He had reserved the private dining terrace at
the Moaki Restaurant overlooking a rugged surf and blazing western
sunset. He had proposed formally, sliding the twelve carat diamond
sensuously onto her finger, his violet eyes never leaving her face.
He had held her in his arms as the joyful tears glistened on her
cheeks, and walked with her arm in arm down the deserted beach,
careful not to disturb the meticulously created mood. She had worn
the perfect dress, he the perfect, radiant smile. The performance
had been flawless, but that's exactly what it had felt a little
like. A performance, well-rehearsed, executed in black and white,
like Lombard and Gable. It put only the slightest restraint on the
exhilarating realization of the perfect dream.
Soon his world would be hers. This
Mediterranean style mansion in the hills above Los Angeles, the
art, the antiques, the social status of the wife of an
international mogul instead of being considered merely one of his
ornaments. She would finally have the respect and privilege of
elite society. There was only the merest hint of doubt about his
insistence that she give up her moderately successful modeling
career. At twenty eight, Clarissa was feeling the pressures of her
age anyway. The assignments were getting fewer, the demand was less
intense, as younger models in their late teens took the spotlight
and new found stardom on the covers of Vogue and
Harpers.
Tonight, they were to formally announce their
engagement at a party given for them by the cosmetic baroness,
Sylvia Cheswick. On December thirtieth, a month and a half away,
Clarissa Hayden would become Mrs. Morgan Wolfe.
From the vantage point of the diving board,
Clarissa looked out over the wrought iron patio railing to the
sprawling city below. The sky was a pristine blue, one of those
rare days when the smog took the day off and teased the Angelenos
with a taste of real air. The white billowing thunderheads rising
like plumed sentries over the mountains to the east threatened an
autumn storm. It gave Clarissa a pang of dread. She hated storms
and rain. They brought back the awful nightmares of a night long
ago, of a young fifteen year old runaway on the streets alone and
terrified. Clarissa pushed the thoughts out of her mind. That was
then. This was now, and now was the actuality of her dreams. She
stared again into the depths of the diamond and knew that security
was a month and a half away.
Clarissa suddenly felt invincible and strong,
towering above the masses that scratched and clawed for their daily
bread in the concrete and steel hive of the city. A chilly breath
of a breeze stirred her shoulder length pale blond hair, exposing
high cheekbones, and dark sable eyes. Twenty eight years ago, that
writhing sea of struggling humanity had spawned the soon-to-be Mrs.
Wolfe. Clarissa, with a smug sense of accomplishment, vowed never
to fall into that dismal abyss again.
Clarissa dove into the water and swam with
powerful strokes to the shallow end. Although the dive was executed
perfectly, it broke the shoulder strap of her white bikini. She was
trying to fix it as she climbed the steps out of the pool, and did
not notice Morgan staring at her.
He took a sip of the drink in his hand, and
his dark eyes did a slow tour of her body. Clarissa smiled coyly as
she grabbed a terrycloth robe from the chaise lounge and wrapped it
around her shivering figure. His white polo shirt was soaked with
sweat and his black hair, worn longish around the nape of his neck
was curly and glistened with dampness.
"Kind of chilly for a swim this time of year,"
Morgan said.
"Pool's heated," she smiled brightly. "The
cold is invigorating. How was your game?"
"Alex is improving," he replied without
smiling. "I beat him four to three instead four love."
"What will you do when he gets better than
you?"
"He won't."
"It's almost six," she said. "Shouldn't you be
getting dressed for the dinner party?"
"Make excuses for me, darling," Morgan
quipped. "I have business tonight."
"Morgan, this is our engagement
dinner."
"Shouldn't you be dressing, Clarissa? You
don't want to be late."
“Morgan, damn it, I can’t go to our engagement
party alone. What’s so important that you can’t be
there?”
“Reschedule, sweetheart. “
“Morgan...” His eyes suddenly went cold and
dead. The look sent a shiver up her spine. She forced the anger
down and smiled. She moved close to him and put her arms around his
neck but, before she could kiss him, he extricated himself gently
from her embrace and held her at arm's length.
"I don't see why you can't go with me to
Sylvia's," she pouted.
"I told you. I have a meeting here at the
house tonight. It's important business."
"Then we'll have to wait until Senator
Sanderson's Thanksgiving party two weeks from tonight to announce
our engagement."
"You've told everybody you know,
already."
"I know, but this makes it
official."
Wolfe took her left hand and raised it up to
his lips. He kissed it gently, then played the diamond against the
late afternoon sunlight.
"I thought this made it official," he
said.
"No, my love, we have to be
announced."
"Excuse me. Did you call the
Times?"
"This morning," Clarissa teased.
Again a shadow seemed to fall over Morgan's
violet eyes, made them almost black and malevolent. Clarissa
instinctively drew back from him. He had never laid a hand on her,
always treated her with gentleness, as if she were a rare and
beautiful flower. But there were those times when that dark,
volatile mask would surface, sometimes only for a fleeting second.
It would unnerve her every time, something that she could never get
used to in Morgan. She would always turn away or avert her eyes.
She felt as though she were looking into the eyes of a demon, into
the bowels of hell.
"I don't like publicity, Clarissa."
In the year that she had lived with Morgan,
Clarissa learned to recover quickly, never letting Morgan know that
he threw her off balance.
"But I adore it, my sweet."
"You know better."
"Morgan, do your stuffy old business meeting
tomorrow night. I don't want to go alone. Not with everyone
expecting the announcement."
"Another time."
"Then I'm not going either. I'll have Virginia
call Sylvia and make an excuse."
She flung the towel coyly over her shoulder
and started for the house. Morgan's dark eyes bore into her back.
His sudden, commanding voice stopped her and she turned to face
him, not knowing exactly what to expect from this illusive,
spirited man.
"I expect you to go to the party, Clarissa.
It's important for my business that you attend."
"What business, Morgan? I don't know what the
hell you do. You never talk to me. I don't know anyone at this
party. These are your business associates. What do I tell them? I
know you own a bunch of art galleries and other vague sorts of
businesses. What do I talk to them about? I'm not going. You know I
don't like going out alone at night."
"You don't have to say anything, but Sylvia is
an important client. She; interested in the rare Middle Eastern
antiques we have coming over next week from a dealer in
Istanbul.”
“The ones you saves from those terrible
radicals?”
The very ones. And I saved something special
for you. So just go and look beautiful." He drew her to him and
kissed her, stroking her hair gently. "Do this for me, will you
darling? I'll make it up to you, I promise you."
She looked into his eyes and couldn't say no
to the wide infectious smile on the boyishly handsome
face.
"For you, Morgan. I love you."
"Look on your make-up table. There's a little
something you can show off tonight."
"Did you pick it out yourself, darling, or was
it that little bitch of a secretary of yours?"
"You're going to be late," Wolfe snapped
impatiently.
"Fashionably," Clarissa forced a smile through
her sudden fear.
Virginia pulled the last page of the contract
from the printer and slid it into the top feeder of the copy
machine. As the machine churned out the required number of copies,
Virginia slipped back into her jade green silk blouse and black
linen skirt. She dug her shoes out from under the sofa and her hair
band from down between the cushions and tied her long midnight
black hair back with the band. Easing into the sling-back heels,
she scanned the den with a practiced eye before opening the drapes
across the french doors that always made a nasty glare on the
laptop’s screen.