There was one old suitcase left that she
thought was small enough for her to lift. It was next to a plastic
tarp-wrapped bundle. Clarissa took hold of the suitcase handle and
pulled. It was heavier than she thought. Then she saw that it was
wedged tightly between a wooden crate and the bundle. She braced
her legs and, with all her strength, she tugged at the suitcase. It
came free with a jerk and Clarissa sprawled backward and landed
painfully on her backside. She could not get out of the way in time
as the tarp-wrapped bundle fell toward her. One end landed between
her legs with a heavy thud and the loosely tied tarp split wide
open. Dotty Warren's cold dead eyes stared up into Clarissa's
horrified face.
Clarissa could not move. No sound would come
from her constricted throat. The silent scream swelled within her,
threatening to burst her lungs. Her hands balled into fists as she
strained to scream. The flood of paralyzing anguish distended until
her body trembled uncontrollably. A crack of thunder loosed the
shriek from the depths of Clarissa's soul. It freed her paralyzed
nerves and she propelled herself backward, crab-like on hands and
knees, away from Dotty's corpse.
She scrambled to her feet and started to turn
to run. She bumped into something behind her. Clarissa whirled
catlike and screamed. Randy stood there, holding a shovel in his
hands.
"Randy!" Clarissa gasped.
The mute young man stared at her and for the
first time there was anger in his eyes. He raised the shovel just
slightly, and started toward Clarissa. She backed away from him but
there was not much room, nowhere to go.
"Randy, no, please," she pleaded.
Her heel touched the corpse on the floor and
Clarissa jumped, losing her balance. Randy reached out and grabbed
her arm. He pulled her away from the body and thrust her toward the
stairs.
"Did you kill her, Randy?" Clarissa screamed
at him in an uncontrolled, hysterical torrent. "Did you? Did you
stab Marco? That was your knife. Damn it, what's going
on?"
"The social worker was in the way." The voice
was soft and female, with an edge of no nonsense seriousness. The
dark figure stood on the stairs. Clarissa knew the old fedora and
the jacket but the voice was all wrong. The figure moved into the
pool of light where Alex and Marco lay. She stepped over them as if
they were not there. Clarissa could only stare in shocked
silence.
Graciella Santos held a silenced revolver
pointed at Clarissa. She was no longer the old and bent Mexican
woman, and her Spanish accent had all but disappeared. Her dark
hair was concealed under the fedora, the man's jacket and slacks
hid her slim figure.
"Graciella," said Clarissa, relieved that the
clothes were similar to but not Rowland's.
"Forgive me, I don't usually work this way,"
Graciella told them matter of fact "Unfortunately, my employer's
meddling assistants have given me no choice."
"Your employer?" Clarissa asked
incredulously.
"Morgan Wolfe," Graciella replied. "Oh, I
never tell them I know who they are, but as a matter of precaution,
I always check them out."
"Morgan hired you to. "
"I like to make each job look like an
accident. Under the circumstances, and since I've have another
assignment, we'll just have to make due."
"No, please, wait...no!"
Graciella braced one gloved hand under the
butt of the gun and took point blank aim. Clarissa closed her eyes.
She heard the rush of the silenced gun as it fired. She waited for
the impact of the bullet, felt instead Randy brush against her as
he moved like lightning. He swung the shovel, missing Graciella,
but coming close enough to her face with the sharp edge of the
shovel to throw her off balance so that her shot went wild. Randy
shoved Clarissa past Graciella toward the stairs and took another
swing with his shovel.
Graciella stepped back, regained her footing,
and aimed the gun, this time at Randy. He swung the shovel up like
a tennis serve. It smacked the assassin square in the chest. It
knocked her off her feet and the second shot missed its target.
Randy raised the shovel again, but Graciella was too quick. She
brought the barrel of the silencer around and fired twice. Randy
stiffened and the shovel fell from his hands. He fell backward over
the corpse in the tarp and crashed into the pile of crates and
suitcases.
"Randy!" Clarissa screamed.
Graciella twisted around and fired in the dark
at Clarissa's voice. The bullet slammed into the wooden banister.
Wood chips flew into Clarissa's face as she raced up the stairs.
Graciella struggled to her feet and sprinted after her. She could
not see Clarissa but she could hear the thud of Clarissa's feet on
the stairs. Graciella stopped and fired one more time. She heard
Clarissa's sharp cry but the bullet had only ricocheted off of the
brick wall behind the stairs. Then she heard Clarissa stumble and
fall. The assassin smiled to herself and she moved to the bottom
step. She took careful aim at a dark shadow on the
stairs.
"Hold it, McKinnon!" Alex's voice
commanded.
Graciella spun and fired. Alex groaned and the
assassin knew she had hit him. She smiled wryly and turned to
Clarissa on the stairs. A white flame erupted from the darkness and
the sharp crack of gunfire echoed off the walls. Graciella's body
jerked and sprawled into the black shadows at the bottom of the
stairs. Clarissa screamed and pushed furiously on the basement
door.
Hugo slipped another compact disk into the
player on the dash of the black Porsche and heavy metal rock music
pounded the interior of the sports car like trapped thunder. He
gave a quick look at himself in the rear view mirror and fluffed
the crown of his black hair with his fingertips. He smiled with
elated satisfaction. He looked good, he felt terrific, and his
spirits were soaring with the screaming success of the White Rose
Salon grand opening.
Soap opera star Denise Kissling and pop singer
Leeza made personal appearances. The press gave the opening great
coverage and the Los Angeles morning talk show L.A. Morning, did a
live interview with Hugo. The salon was packed all day and by
closing time at six o'clock, appointments were booked almost three
months in advance. The catered food was elegant, the jazz quartet
was superb. It could not have been a more perfect day. Even the
rain did not hinder the turnout or dampen the hairdresser's
spirits.
Hugo called Wolfe to tell him the good news.
Morgan did not want to hear about the salon and Hugo's feelings
were hurt. Hugo sensed that Morgan was preoccupied with other
business. Wolfe was not exactly rude but he was abrupt and somewhat
distant over the phone. Hugo was so pumped at the response to the
salon that he decided to drive back up to Los Angeles and tell
Wolfe personally. He had to make the trip anyway. Wayne had called
to tell him that Clarissa was stranded at some hotel and needed a
ride. He wanted to bring her back to La Jolla anyway. She just had
to see his most crowning achievement.
Hugo would do anything for Clarissa,
especially when he was in such a good mood. The woman was pure
crazy. How Clarissa could get herself stranded in a flop house
without a dime on her was beyond Hugo's comprehension. He roared
with laughter when Wayne told him. He could not understand why she
just didn't call Morgan Wolfe. He would have sent a car for her. In
fact, Hugo even asked Morgan on the phone why he didn't rescue
Clarissa from the Hempstead Hotel himself. After all, they were
engaged. Hugo told Morgan he was on his way to the Hempstead to
pick up Clarissa and maybe take her to dinner first and back to La
Jolla, if Morgan didn't mind. After all, he owed Clarissa for such
a wonderful day.
Hugo thought it was quite rude of Morgan to
hang up on him so abruptly like that. After all, he and Wolfe were
partners and the salon was off to such a good start. Hugo planned
to drive Clarissa home right after she saw the salon. He couldn't
understand why Morgan was being such a twit. Well, once Hugo gave
him his full and glorious grand opening report, Morgan would be
more civil. Or would he. He never seemed to be happy about
anything.
CHAPTER 13
The silence was complete, the darkness solemn
and almost impenetrable. There was no rain, no thunder, no sound,
only the oppressive stillness. The stench of death and fear hung in
the air like a putrid vapor. The dim light from the rain dotted
corner windows struggled unsuccessfully to cut the black night that
had settled over the carnage on the cold cement floor.
Clarissa huddled at the top of the basement
stairs, her knees drawn tight to her chest. One arm reached up,
fingers still frozen around the stubborn doorknob. Terror held her
rigid, her limbs leaden as if filled with sand. She waited, ears
straining, to see what would crawl out of the black abyss below.
The moments dragged on, each second tearing at her raw
nerves.
Then she heard it, faint in the distant
pitch-blackness. Scraping sounds, coarse cloth scraping across the
rough floor. Closer with every breath, nearer to the bottom of the
stairs. Clarissa felt the nausea well and swallowed desperately.
The stair railing creaked and quivered, then the bottom wooden
riser groaned under the weight of a foot.
Clarissa clawed at the basement door, the knob
twisting freely in her hand, but the door refused to budge an inch.
She pulled herself to her knees and pressed her shoulder against
the door. Bolts of pain shot down her arm and she had to give up.
The loose doorknob indicated that the door was not locked.
Something heavy must have been wedged against it to hold it
closed.
The second riser groaned and Clarissa peered
into the darkness. She could see through her blurred vision, a bent
form making its way slowly toward her. She braced her feet against
the base of the railing and flattened her back against the door.
With her hands gripping the lip of the top riser, she shoved
backward, straining every muscle until she felt the door budge a
little. There was definitely some object wedged against the door on
the other side.
Clarissa braced herself again and gave it
another try, pushing with her legs until they trembled from the
extreme effort. The door opened just a crack. The risers beneath
her creaked with each labored step of the advancing horror. Her
knuckles were white on the riser as Clarissa strained her back and
shoulders painfully against the door. It budged enough for her to
claw and scrape her way through. She clamored over the obstacle and
fell into the hallway. It was Dusty. There was a deep, long gash
over one eye and blood trickled to a puddle on the floor. Clarissa
slammed the basement door shut and knelt down to feel for a pulse
on the old man's neck. It was faint but Dusty was alive.
The door to Dusty's cage was open. Clarissa
could see it from where she knelt. If his office door was unlocked,
she could get to the phone and call the police. She started down
the hallway toward the lobby as far as the staircase and stopped
dead. He pushed open the glass front door and brushed a speck of
lint from his coat. Then he saw her. He stood there alone in the
center of the hotel lobby, black double- breasted sport coat over a
black t-shirt, black slacks and black alligator boots. It was a
black backdrop for the gold on his fingers and the wry smile on his
lips. Only his eyes were not smiling. They were as deadly as a
coiled cobra as they bored into Clarissa's blood-drained
face.
"Well, Clarissa," Morgan said
matter-of-factly. "You look like hell."
"Morgan," she breathed in a whisper. There was
no terror, no feeling except shock. The fact that he stood there at
all rasped her senses and jarred her soul. She blinked her eyes but
the apparition did not fade. He was real. Morgan Wolfe was standing
before her, alone and in the flesh.
"I think we should go now," he told her. "Come
on. I have a car waiting."
Morgan held out his hand to her. She recoiled
away from it as if it had fangs that dripped of venom. Morgan was
here. She could not release that one thought from her mind. It
meant something. Something important. Clarissa struggled to clear
the jumbled mess in her head, tried to sort out the meaning of what
her eyes were seeing.
Marco was dead in the cellar with a knife in
his back. There had been gunfire in the dark between Alex, Morgan's
number two man, and Graciella, Morgan's hired assassin. Where were
the others? Where was Morgan's army of security men, his network of
lackeys and "yes" men he spent hours on the phone with day in and
day out. Where were the business associates that would do his
bidding even against their wills and their moral ethics? What had
happened that brought the intimidating titan of international
business to the Hempstead Hotel himself? What would it take for
Morgan Wolfe to do his own killing, risk dirtying his own
hands?
The realization washed like a cold wave over
Clarissa. The Wolfe empire was beginning to disintegrate. Morgan
was in trouble and his comrades in crime were keeping their
distance. Just how or why, she could not fathom, nor did she want
to know. Morgan was at the edge of his own abyss. She could see it
in the deepening lines of his tanned face, the darker circles under
his violet eyes. He was about to run, to escape whatever it was
that was haunting him, whatever it was that was about to launch an
assault on his domain. She was his one loose end, the one small
thread that had to be clipped or his venal kingdom would unravel.
He had to leave everything neat and tidy so that his hunters could
not trace him in Europe or Asia or where ever it was he was
planning to hide.