Alex had spent Sunday evening with Wolfe going
over the potential sale of the Roth Galleries and rehashing the
details of Morgan's meeting in Washington D.C. Wednesday morning.
Wolfe had seemed calm and eager to get the Roth deal settled. He
had not mentioned Clarissa once. He asked only for a report on
Alex's meeting with Hugo in La Jolla and seemed satisfied that Hugo
had been bullied into cooperation.
Still, Alex had been unsettled all day and,
this morning, he was anxious to get this final business meeting
with Wolfe out of the way. Three years of careful preparation was
about to come to fruition or failure. His first estimate had been
four to five years. Clarissa Hayden, in one night, had jumped the
clock ahead. She had created a crack in the foundation of Wolfe's
empire and the longer she stayed alive, the wider that crack
became. Every move Alex made now was crucial and highly dangerous.
The long hours of study in business management, current economic
trends, corporate law, take-overs and mergers, and the endless case
histories of white collar crime were about to pay off like a slot
machine or completely bankrupt him. It was a power play where the
prize was his life and his career. The penalty for failure was
certain death.
He drummed his fingers on the blue tablecloth
nervously and watched a sailboat with an orange stripped jib sail
tack toward the marina farther down the shore. A shadow fell across
the table and Alex looked up to see Morgan Wolfe staring down at
him. The man always unnerved Alex but this morning, for the first
time, Alex Rogers was afraid. There was malicious content behind
Wolfe's dark eyes, like a panther licking its paws after a
successful hunt. Something had gone down and Alex feared it might
have been Clarissa. It would make sense. Marco disappearing for a
day, the heavy stillness around the estate. Alex's stomach knotted
as Wolfe sat down opposite him.
"Good morning," Wolfe said without smiling and
he set a black calf skin briefcase on the table and snapped it
open. "We have an opportunity to acquire a major Canadian shipping
line. These are the proposals on it. I want you to look into it
carefully while I'm in New York and Washington over the next few
days and give me your opinion. It looks pretty good. It'll cost us
eighty five million up front but it has a lot of potential. Here is
their latest statements and stock information. We have to move on
it right away. Say first of next week."
Alex took the offered papers and scanned them
briefly. He forced his mind to concentrate on what Wolfe was
saying.
"The Steadman deal is solid," Wolfe went on.
"Your research paid off. The weakest link is Nancy Steadman. She's
inherited the business but doesn't have the savvy. The company is
in some trouble. Lost a ship off the coast of Alaska in a storm a
year ago. Cargo was some toxic drums and it cost them a pretty
penny to get them back up off the bottom of the bay. They haven't
recovered financially from that. Almost the same situation as the
Roth Galleries. Nancy's got the respect of the board because she's
a corporate attorney but you managed to dig up some of her more
gray dealings. I think she'll see things our way. You need to do
the same thing with this shipping line as you did with the Roth
Galleries. Maybe another accident with some of our cargo on board.
Then initiate a law suit that would wipe them out. On paper only,
of course. We can use a shipping line for some of our other
companies. Look over this Steadman proposal. Make sure we've
covered everything we need to."
"When do you need the Steadman proposal?" Alex
asked.
"By three o'clock this afternoon," Wolfe
replied. "Oh, the Jaspar Electronics Cayman Island account will
show a cash transfer of half a million. Make a note for yourself.
It's off the books."
"Half a million in cash?" Alex asked. "That
could create some suspicions, especially coming from offshore
accounts. That's real risky. We don't want to call that kind of
attention to us."
"This was necessary," Wolfe replied curtly.
"That loose end from the other night had to be taken care of
immediately. I sent Marco to Arizona with the down payment to get
the job done."
"You went outside the company?"
"Yes."
"So is it done?" Alex inquired
cautiously.
"Guaranteed by tonight," said
Wolfe.
"How did you find her?"
"Marco tracked her down," Wolfe said and his
eyes smiled evilly. "Man can track anything. He's a blood hound
from hell."
"But he's not going to do the job."
"She knows his face," said Wolfe. "There are
too many people around and she can't be flushed out into the open.
I found someone who can do it. Best in the business. Quiet,
discreet, able to get close to Clarissa in these
circumstances."
"Anything I can do?" Alex asked.
"Everything's being handled," Wolfe assured
him. "You're going to have to take over for Virginia for a couple
of weeks. Her mother took ill. She had to go back to Flagstaff for
a while."
"No problem," Alex tried to smile.
A waiter approached the table and Wolfe
motioned for him to take Alex's breakfast order.
"I have some phone calls to make," Wolfe said
as he stood. "I'll be at the office at Roth Galleries. I think we
should put the galleries on the market as soon as possible. Take
care of it later this week."
"Yes, Mister Wolfe."
"Enjoy your breakfast."
Alex watched Wolfe thread his way through the
umbrella covered tables until he disappeared into the cafe. He felt
like putting his fist through the table. The hand was being played
and Wolfe held all the cards. The crack was closing up on Alex and
he was powerless to do much about it.
"I'm not hungry," he snapped at the patient
waiter. "Just more coffee."
He started to read through the Steadman
proposal that Virginia had typed. He read it three times before he
finally figured out what was wrong. There were two paragraphs
simply missing. They were vital to the proposal. He had
specifically discussed those revisions with Virginia. It was not
like her to miss anything, especially critical points.
Perhaps she was just worried about her mother,
Alex thought. Still, that did not convince him. His mind wandered
through the possibilities. Something had distracted Virginia to do
such a poor job on the proposal. There were typing errors and two
other paragraphs had been typed in reverse order. Alex sipped the
hot coffee as he read through the report a fourth time.
Grandmother. Virginia mentioned a grandmother that had raised her
on some Indian reservation. Virginia told him once that she never
knew her mother. Maybe Wolfe had misunderstood. Alex dismissed that
possibility. Morgan Wolfe's mistakes were far too rare.
Alex shoved the Steadman proposal into his own
briefcase, left a sizeable tip on the table, and signed Morgan
Wolfe's name to the tab. Whatever the reasons for Virginia's sloppy
work, Alex would have to type the missing paragraphs himself and
run out a new copy on the computer. He pulled his keys out of his
pocket and noticed the six master keys on the ring. One was to the
Roth Galleries Building, a warehouse in San Fernando Valley, an
apartment complex in New York, the Mayvale Hotel in Miami, and the
Wilshire Towers in Beverly Hills. He fingered the Wilshire Towers
key thoughtfully. He did not know Virginia Essex well, or what it
was exactly that bothered him so much about her sudden trip to
Arizona or the missing paragraphs.
His explicit instructions from Wolfe were to
use the master keys only in an emergency. Since his life was at
stake, he could think of no better emergency.
The condo smelled fresh with the odor of
carpet shampoo. Alex could still see the swirling imprints made by
the electric shampooer's circular brushes. Despite her mother or
grandmother's sudden illness, Virginia had thought to have her
carpets cleaned while she was away.
He crossed to the patio door and pulled back
the drape. A smashed coffee cup lay in shards on the patio. He let
the drape fall back in place and surveyed the living room. He wiped
his finger over the fireplace mantle. Not a speck of dust. The
furniture looked as if it had been recently polished. Only a couple
of deep gouged were evident in the glass top of the coffee
table.
In the kitchen, the refrigerator was filled
with food. Juice, fresh vegetables, yogurt, an unopened carton of
almond milk. It was as if she had just stocked it. Alex opened the
dish washer. It was half full with dirty dishes, mostly coffee cups
and small plates. Under the sink was a brand new box of dish washer
soap unopened and the trash compactor had not been
emptied.
In the bedroom, the carpet was still slightly
damp. Alex checked the closets and found one empty suitcase on the
upper shelf and another one, packed with clothes, on the floor
behind some cardboard boxes. The watch with the silver and
turquoise band Virginia usually wore was laying on top of the
bureau. He found her toothbrush still in the holder on the sink in
the bathroom. Make-up and a vial of prescription medication for
Vicodin were on the vanity. He rifled through the bathroom trash
can of lipstick stained tissues. The bedroom trash can was
empty.
The condo had told him pretty much what he had
suspected. Virginia was not visiting a sick mother in Flagstaff.
Where she was and why only Morgan Wolfe knew the answer. Alex was
certain now that Clarissa had contacted Virginia on Friday night.
Somehow, Wolfe discovered that Virginia knew where she was hiding.
Alex ran his fingers nervously through his blond hair. There was
nothing more dangerous than a cornered wolf.
That left him no closer to finding Clarissa.
Someone had already gone over the condo with a fine toothed comb.
Probably Marco and he had found something that had led him to
Clarissa. Whatever clue it was, it was most likely no longer here.
This was a dead end.
Alex was about to leave the bedroom but
somehow was reluctant to do so. He looked around the room again as
if he had missed something yet nothing looked out of place. The
bathroom had been cleaned, the furniture dusted, the bed made. His
gaze fell on the answering machine. There was no light indicating
that the machine was still on and it looked as if it had fallen off
something. The plastic exterior was cracked on one corner and the
smoke tinted Plexiglas cover was deeply scratched. Alex pushed the
replay button and nothing happened. Maybe it didn't work, he
thought and was about to leave the room again when that nagging
feeling tugged a little stronger. He looked down and noticed that
the machine had become unplugged. He searched the wall for a socket
and found it behind the night stand. The machine came to life,
rewound, clicked, and played back the messages. There were several
hang-ups, a then a message from Morgan about Clarissa not coming
home and being on drugs. Then Clarissa's desperate voice pleading
for Virginia to come to the Hempstead Hotel with her
purse.
He knew the place, a government subsidized
homeless shelter off Western Avenue just south of Hollywood. How
long had Marco known? It was little wonder Morgan looked so smug
this morning. Alex snapped off the machine and pulled out the
message tape. He jammed it into his pocket as he ran from
Virginia's condo.
Clarissa curled up under the thin green
blanket. She had barely slept during the night. Her feet were like
ice and her stomach was sore from cramping. The Sunday meal at the
church kitchen was fried chicken dripping with grease and thick
salty gravy on mashed potatoes. Clarissa hardly touched the food
even though she had not eaten all day.
She had lain awake hating Virginia Essex for
not showing up with her purse as she had promised or even returning
the phone call. Had it not been for the rain storm, Clarissa
seriously contemplated walking the ten or so miles back to
Virginia's condo and demanding her purse and her jewelry. Now,
Clarissa did not even have another quarter to make a second
call.
She threw back the blanket and swung her stiff
legs over the side of the bed, rubbing them for warmth, trying to
shake the fogginess out of her head. The thought occurred to her
that maybe Rowland would lend her his cell phone. She slipped her
feet into the worn loafers and shuffled to the bathroom. There were
dark circles under her eyes and her cheeks were hollow with
fatigue. No amount of running fingers through her hair made it any
neater and she longed for a comb and a toothbrush. Again she felt
light headed and chastised herself for not eating. She needed her
strength despite the total lack of appetite. A splash of cool water
on her face warded off the spell. What she would have given for
some facial cleanser instead of the harsh, gritty bar of dirty
looking soap. She lathered her face as best as she could then she
used the cracked plastic drinking cup to pour cold water on her
head and the back of her neck until the soap was gone and her head
began to clear.
She groped for one of the threadbare towels on
the shelf above the toilet to pat her face and hair dry. She
scratched absently at an itch on her scalp, then one on the back of
her neck, still another down her arm. There was crawling sensation
on her hands and down her back. She looked up into the mirror and
screamed. In a wild frenzy she raked the cockroaches out of her
hair and brushed them off her arms. They scurried down her jeans as
she ripped off her work shirt, swatting at them as they ran. The
shelf where the towel had been was thick was a nest of disturbed
roaches.