A small green blip, visible in the car’s front window, got his attention, probably a hand held scope. He hunkered down, making his body as small as possible. If the scope sensed his body heat and alerted the guy, he’d have to make a run for the hotel. He shivered in the damp air. Maybe the guy would think he was a dog. He pulled the hood of the windbreaker tight. Damn it was cold. It was supposed to be summer in Australia. He hadn’t packed a casual jacket, just a blazer for fine dining. Not that he expected to do much of that.
Ghostly fingers of coastal fog floated around the tall steel and glass buildings in Sydney’s downtown area, and somewhere close by was the Sydney Harbour Bridge, and further along, the Opera House. What a pity, he wouldn’t get to explore. Babysitting the rich country-club daughter of old man Helm wasn’t his idea of a good time. Tracking her ex-husband was more his style. If he brought in the embezzler, that big payment would kick-start his new business.
After about twenty minutes, the car door opened. The man slipped his arms into the blazer, and patted the side of his waistband. Jake slid behind the row house, jumped the back fence, and jogged through the alley. When he got to the main street he walked briskly to the hotel, and strode inside to the front desk.
“He’s on his way. Here’s my plan,” he said to Lynne, and moved behind the mahogany counter, ignoring her look of surprise. “Play it cool, answer his questions. Don’t get him riled up. He’s armed. I’d like to know who, or what, he’s after.”
“Okay,” she murmured. “Your man called, and I alerted security.”
Beneath the area that held the computers, Jake tried not to get tangled in the mass of cords and nestled one arm against a waste paper basket. Within seconds his tired thighs cramped from the uncomfortable position. Almost five minutes passed before Lynne lowered one arm and jiggled her fingers.
“Has that blasted morning newspaper been delivered yet?” the Brit asked.
“Ah, Mr. Firth, isn’t it? I think one was sent to your room.”
Lynne’s burgundy suit skirt swished as she moved around. Her brown pumps clicked back and forth on the marble floor. She was a nice lady. And she’d trusted him. Her legs must get tired after a long shift. He’d have to remember to thank her. Get her a gift.
“The storm slowed the delivery,” Lynne said. “But I put some extra newspapers in the sunken lounge, down those steps.”
Good
. He’d told her to say that. The person he might be interested in was Amy Helm.
“Ah, yes,” the man said, and his voice faded a bit. “I see another poor soul with jetlag. She seems to be alone.”
“She’s waiting for her husband and children to arrive,” Lynne said.
If the Brit knew Amy was alone but expecting someone, he’d move fast. Jake shook his head at the memory of Amy’s spiked, pumpkin-colored hair. He’d gone by the old man’s description and a two-year-old photo. He’d scoped out some plumpish, mousey-brown-haired gal, in the economy section of the plane. Old man Helm would have a heart attack if he knew what she looked like; he hadn’t seen his daughter in over a year.
“Hmmm. Nobody else about?” the Brit asked. “I’ll stroll down to Circular Quay for breakfast. No problem at this time of morning, I shouldn’t think? Ah, the young man who was at the counter when I was in last time, scruffy looking fellow. He looked vaguely familiar.”
Jake stiffened.
The guy is tailing me?
“Scruffy?” Lynne laughed. “Oh, I know who you mean. Billy Scranton. He’s a drummer in a rock band.”
“He’s American, right?”
“British, but I can’t recall the name of the group. You’d know them, being from England. Um, let me think…”
“Not a problem. Not into rock music. I prefer classical. Well, I’ll be off now.”
Jake widened his eyes. Why did the guy ask if he was American? Who had he spoken with, Lynne, the guy in valet parking, and Amy Helm? He thought he’d been discreet. He waited until Lynne gave him an all clear.
“You did great. Should have been an actress,” Jake said, and eased upright, ignoring the creaks in his knees. “He could be the bodyguard of Stuart Firth.”
“You might be right. He first appeared after Mr. Firth changed rooms.”
“What?” Jake stared at her. “Run that by me again, then I’ll get out of your way.”
“Oh,” Lynne said, and looked embarrassed. “Didn’t I mention that?”
Jake shook his head.
“Mr. Firth changed rooms, because it was too noisy on the lower level. He moved up to the twentieth floor around midnight, and checked out a half hour ago.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“I saw the express check-out on the computer.”
Jake’s heart pounded. Firth was on the run again. An idea percolated in his tired, jet-lagged brain. He glanced at his watch, then at the coffee bar being set up in the lobby. “Any chance I can get into the room Mr. Firth vacated? The second room also?”
“I could lose my job,” Lynne said softly. “I’ve broken enough rules. And your mate from the AFP hasn’t shown up.” She narrowed her eyes. “If anything goes wrong…”
“I’ll say I stole the key,” Jake whispered. Two business men lined up behind the velvet-roped area. He turned and nodded good morning to them, and then he smiled at Lynne.
She slid the key card toward him. “I don’t have the one for the twentieth floor. You’ll have to be quick. Housekeeping start work at six o’clock sharp, and so does my manager. Leave the card in the room.”
Jake nodded. “Can you get housekeeping to hold off on cleaning the twentieth floor suite?” He kept his voice low. “I’ll notify the authorities.”
“I’ll do my best,” Lynne said.
He skirted a small group of tourists on his way to the elevators. He’d be in and out of Firth’s room in minutes. On second thought, he strode back, drummed his knuckles on the counter. “What kind of chocolates do you like?”
“What?” Lynne looked up from the computer.
“Chocolates…I’m sending you a box.”
“Oh, no, it’s not necessary, but if you do, dark chocolate truffles,” she said, and laughed.
“You got it.” He strode back across the lobby as the elevator doors opened.
****
Jake grabbed his gear, took the stairwell, let himself into the vacated room on the third floor, entered, and quickly assessed his surroundings. For a person on the run, Steven Fray, or Stuart Firth, was either sloppy or damn sure of himself.
He brushed for fingerprints, found a few hairs they could use for DNA evidence, and with a sterile pair of tweezers taken from the mini-kit strapped to the front of his waist, popped those into tiny Ziploc bags. He hoped the boys in Sydney would appreciate his swift actions. He could get his knuckles rapped for disturbing evidence. He had no rights in this country; it was hard enough in his own. But his Aussie partner would get his back.
“Housekeeping,” a soft voice said, with an accompanying knock on the door. Another knock sounded. “Housekeeping.”
Jake stuffed several pieces of scratch paper from the trash bin into his small backpack, tossed the room key onto the desk, and ran for the sliding doors. Heavy blackout drapes covered them. He reached around and opened the slider, but only enough to ease his body through, and then slipped out onto the small terrace. He reached into his backpack and attached his cord.
Everything was gray, gunmetal gray. The sky, the ocean, the hotel, all of them gray, and he dropped from the terrace on the third floor, rappelling down the side of the Wellington Hotel like a cat burglar.
When his feet hit bottom his body jerked, and he slumped a bit before he caught his breath. He’d done it; he had evidence. If everything tallied, they’d nab the chameleon Steven Fray before the day was over.
“Hands on your head, let’s see what you’ve got,” a male voice said.
Air whooshed out of Jake, as his body was slammed against the hotel wall, a gun pushed into the small of his back. One big hand patted him down. He wasn’t packing. Was the man hotel security? Or, was it the same guy he’d seen in the hotel? He tried to look behind him.
“You wouldn’t care for a shattered spine now, would you?” the man asked sarcastically, and then jabbed the gun into his back even harder. “Empty your pockets, throw everything onto the ground, and the backpack.”
The British accent was clear. Jake did as instructed. First he pulled off his pack, then he dropped the wallet close to his body to the right, the camera to the left, not that there was anything of importance on it.
“That’s it?” the guy asked.
Jake nodded.
“No jewelry? No cash?”
“I’m a two-bit P.I. taking pictures of adulterers,” Jake said, his voice muffled by the ski mask. “Give me a break.”
The Brit snorted. “You go to a lot of trouble for that.”
“Famous people.” Jake noted every sound, every movement. “It’s a living,” he said.
Talk like an Aussie. Stay cool
. “Yeah, ya’ do the job right, it pays the bloody bills.”
The guy shoved out a foot and scooted the wallet closer. Jake turned his head. The guy reminded him of the gun with a soft tap to the base of his skull.
“Listen mate, there’s money in the wallet,” Jake said. He kept his hands clasped on top of his head, nose pressed to the wall. “It’s yours. The bloody kids can eat vegemite sandwiches for a week. Leave me I.D. Take the camera. There are some good shots…if you’re into porn.”
The Brit gave a harsh laugh. “Leave the I.D. Good one. You’re a real smart-arse.”
“There’s at least…like, five hundred dollars in there. Just leave me license. I need it for me day job.” Any minute now, he’d be forced to fake sob. He knew the guy could pop him, and nobody would hear.
Take the money. Take the money.
If the guy was stupid enough, greedy enough, and if he didn’t take the wallet and run, but took time to extract the cash—and if his own timing was right—
The guy picked up the camera but kept the gun at Jake’s lower spine. Then he heard the rustle of paper. Jake pivoted, and the guy looked up, stunned, as a foot connected with his groin. With a swift crack to the guy’s wrist, the gun hit the ground.
Jake balled up his fist and connected with the guy’s solar plexus. The Brit crumpled. He writhed on the ground in agony, uncertain whether to grasp his balls or his stomach. Jake kicked the gun into the shrubbery, pocketed his wallet and the cash, and took off at a fast pace. He rounded the corner of the hotel, adrenaline pumping, and pulled up short. He peeled off his face mask, stuffed it deep into a trash bin, smoothed his hair, and threw the jacket casually over one arm. He strolled toward the main doors of the hotel, blending in with the tourists.
He’d get the jacket back to the guy in valet parking, talk with the officials, take a shower, and meet Amy Helm. At least for today, he could be grateful for the stupidity of greedy thugs. He was still alive.
****
The waiter handed Amy the one page menu. He was even cuter up close, way too young for her, but definitely cute. She wriggled her foot, and his gaze traveled from her toes upward and settled about mid-thigh. Okay, it was a cheap shot—being seductive to get information—but this was important.
“Oh, no bagels?” She pursed her lips, scanned the menu again, and played with one earring. “I soooo wanted a bagel.”
“I could rustle one up for you,” the waiter said. He moved forward, his smile broader. “They have them in the main restaurant. Toasted? Cream cheese?”
She nodded. “Thank you. I’d love one.” She smiled as he hurried away. When he returned, she’d ask a few casual questions. She frowned. Why did she order a bagel? Turner said to pretend to be an Aussie. Bagels were not normal everyday Aussie fare.
Well, what Turner doesn’t know won’t hurt him
.
She rummaged through her purse, found the photo of Fray and tapped it against her chin. Being a psychologist she’d learned to read certain personality traits. It was a risk, but the waiter aimed to please. If he knew anything at all, he’d share. She shifted her gaze to the ruggedly handsome man, mid-thirties, who headed straight for her with an assured stride. He wore blue jeans, a crisp white T-shirt, a pair of dark sunglasses hooked into the top of the shirt, and a giant scowl.
As he got closer, she thought he looked like a surlier version of the valet parking man, only cleaner. He scowled right at her.
No way. This couldn’t be Turner
. Amy’s heartbeat kicked up a notch. She patted at her spiky hair, and gulped. Man, he looked pissed. She’d expected an older man, a less attractive man, not this angry, dark tornado exuding testosterone in his wake.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Mr. Turner?” She stood and offered her hand. He didn’t reply, didn’t take the offered hand, but she figured the answer was yes, he was indeed Mr. Turner. If his frozen, tight-lipped expression was any indication of mood, his was foul. She knew he’d seen the photograph, but she slipped it behind her back anyway.
“Why are you dressed like
that
?” he asked, and coldly stared her up and down.
Amy stood her ground and tilted her chin. She loved this little black dress, and combined with the leather jacket and the high-heeled sandals, well, the outfit was hot. And it had been a lot of years since she’d been able to dress like this. He continued to glare, so she glared back. He didn’t say
you look like a high-class hooker
, but the way he’d spat out his words had the hair on the back of her neck on end.
She bit her tongue. No use arguing. Her new look was her way of going undercover. She knew what she was doing. She had a plan, sort of. Steven would never recognize her, she’d lost twenty-five pounds, and she’d—
“Why were you about to show a photo to the waiter?” he asked, narrowed his eyes, and moved around the coffee table. He made a grab at the photograph.
She stepped backward.
Who the hell does he think he is
?
He backed her into the corner, underneath a potted palm. “I said do nothing but sit, and observe.” His voice was deep and steely. “What part of undercover don’t you get?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I was using feminine wiles, and—”
“Shut up,” Turner whispered, and abruptly turned his back to the lobby.
The same bald-headed guy she’d seen earlier spoke with the waiter. Tension coiled through Turner’s body. They were so close, the warmth of his breath fanned across her forehead. He stood taller, like he was on tiptoes or something, his chest puffed out. The bald guy walked past, ignored them, but continued to scan the lobby. He looked like he’d taken a beating.