Chapter Eight
Palm Beach
George Town had been very interesting, Frederick mused. Two days of intense talks with the president of the Caymans Credit Bank, with a scheme that could net a lot of money over the next ten years. A lot of money. And it was even legal, marginally. He’d probably have to relocate at some point, but the idea was intriguing. There was even talk of becoming a citizen of the Cayman Islands. Which Alfonso had told him did not have an extradition treaty with the US.
Perfect. Just perfect.
While he was in George Town, Frederick had seen a mansion high on a bluff overlooking the sea, which the president had told him was called Cliff House. It had belonged to a minor British royal, and was for sale.
In his hotel room Frederick had looked it up on the site of a very exclusive Realtor’s and it was indeed magnificent. And selling for a tenth of what a home like that would cost in Palm Beach.
Oh yeah. Frederick was going to retire in ten years’ time a very rich man, living a life of leisure, untouchable by U.S. law.
In the meantime, though, he had a job to do. Mechanical Voice wanted results. He turned himself to the task of finding Anne Lowell, one lone woman in a country of over three hundred million people. Impossible, one would think. And yet...
What was a face after all? Most people imagined faces as endless iterations of a few facial features. Eyes, nose, mouth, chin. Expressions: happiness, sadness, rage, curiosity. Everything that makes us human can be summed up in the face.
But that wasn’t what faces were at all. Faces were sets of data points. About eighty of them, in fact. Nose width, eye socket depth, length of the jawline, distance between the eyes. All data points. Algorithms making up faceprints like the data points of fingertips make up fingerprints.
You can run, but you can’t hide.
Frederick had found Anne Lowell twice by small mistakes she’d made, but then Jorge’s goons were morons and let her slip through their fingers. What did he care? He’d been quite happy to stay on retainer, no skin off his nose. But now he had half a million incentives to find the woman and deliver her.
Just not to Jorge.
Anne Lowell was adrift somewhere in a country of three hundred million faces. Three hundred million sets of data. A number-crunching problem.
Time to bring out the big guns.
Faces were data and all he needed was a big enough bot array to crunch the numbers, because somewhere Anne Lowell’s face was on film. There were an estimated thirty million surveillance cameras in America, not counting the cams and drones operated by the NSA, the CIA and the Pentagon. Unless she was dead and in a hole in the ground, someone somewhere had filmed her, and recently.
She was a set of data in someone’s computer and all he needed was enough crunching power to find her.
There was an app for that. An idea simmering in his head for a while, a secret weapon for when serious amounts of computer power might be needed. He’d put the idea away for a rainy day and now that rainy day was here. Frank Sinatra singing “Here’s That Rainy Day” provided a nice soundtrack as he worked his way into QUANTUM.
QUANTUM was a shadow network with a vast hidden infrastructure of secret servers and routers used by government alphabet soup agencies, the NSA in the forefront. But the infrastructure was huge and had required years and thousands of man-hours to build. Frederick knew one of the coders, known as the Whiz, a talented young man with an unfortunate taste for drugs and debauchery. The Whiz had been responsible for building a small corner of QUANTUM, much like a mason who erects a minor wall in the construction of a palace. QUANTUM had undergone a vast expansion and required work from many talented coders just like the Whiz.
For the price of several months’ worth of highs, courtesy of stolen goods from Jorge’s deliveries, Frederick managed to buy himself a backdoor into QUANTUM. It was a small secret little hatch in a forgotten corner of the vast structure that, however, led into the palatial rooms, leaving behind no sign of intruders. QUANTUM had a built-in redundancy factor so that the theft of bandwidth, even vast quantities, never showed up in the system.
Getting in required delicacy and time. But Frederick had time and a very deft touch. By midnight, he was in and set to work. He had plenty of photographs of Anne from when she was a young girl and a college student. Her mother had been a cold bitch and actually preferred photographs to the person. Particularly since her daughter was photogenic enough that the beautiful silver frames looked good in arrangements.
So Frederick was able to scan over two hundred photographs into his facial recognition system, starting from age ten. He also had almost five hours of video from her graduation ceremony and several birthdays.
He brought up snapshots of her a few years ago, taken when she was in her last year of grad school. They’d been taken at a beach. She laughed into the camera, arm around the shoulder of the friend that idiot Jorge had killed by mistake. She had the face of one of America’s upper class. Very pretty, excellent teeth, full figure. The expression reflecting invincibility—nothing could touch her and she was destined to sail through life without hitting any speed bumps. In one of the photographs she was holding a young man, her male equivalent. Blond, excellent teeth, the slight arrogance of the young and the healthy and the rich. He was her, only ten inches taller, without breasts and with a penis.
The system used a 3D model where bone was more important than soft tissue. Weight gain or weight loss made no difference at all.
The program then measured the underlying bone structure on a microwave scale and created a template. It was dawn by the time a 3D scan of Anne Lowell’s face appeared on his monitor.
By midmorning he could make Anne Lowell’s template smile, frown and laugh. So, a sprinkling of fairy dust, a little soupcon of algorithms and he could set his construct free. His finger hovered over the enter key. He was about to unleash the greatest concentration of virtual firepower in the world on to the search for one young woman, who had done no one any harm.
But, such was the way of the world.
He pressed Enter and waited.
His computer didn’t hum, of course. But Frederick imagined humming going on somewhere underground, in refrigerated banks of servers somewhere in Virginia. Working for him, about to earn him a lot of money.
A blank monitor was boring. Frederick went out for an early lunch at Les Deux Renards, a charming French restaurant known for the chef’s light hand. He allowed himself a glass of pinot noir because, well, he wasn’t the one combing the internet, was he? QUANTUM was. A quick visit to his gym, a lovely massage and home by five, in time for a drink on the terrace. The red-and-yellow-streaked clouds above the horizon were slowly turning purple when a soft ping sounded behind him.
Ah. Found. Excellent.
Frederick took his glass of Pimm’s with him as he sauntered over to his workstation. He had six monitors, top of the line, with incredibly sharp images. Spread over the monitors were thumbnail photographs, in chronological order. He took in the visual data at a glance, noticing that Anne had cycled through platinum white hair, auburn and, on the right-hand monitor, chestnut. She was a dark blond naturally. He shook his head. She’d spent a lot of money at the hairdresser’s for nothing. His algorithms didn’t even look at hair color. Not even part of the data set.
The thumbnails to the left showed where she’d been. He’d study them for patterns but he wanted to know where she was right now.
And there she was, on the far right monitor, in a Twitter feed dated three days ago.
He went to the Facebook page of one Monica Shaw, sometime actress/artist, full-time caterer. She’d Instagrammed photos of an art show held in—Frederick leaned forward, squinting at the coordinates that the program instantly geolocated for him. He rocked back on his heels.
The art show was held in an art gallery in the center of Portland, Oregon.
Portland, hmm? Maybe not such a bad place to come to ground, all things considered. Small but large enough to hide in. Multicultural so nobody stood out. A percentage of the population newcomers, so one woman arriving sparked no interest.
Monica Shaw carried drinks and manned the buffet table while surreptitiously taking shots with her cell phone. She was interested in a famous harpist and singer, Allegra Kowalski. She was excited at the presence of event organizer Phillip Barton, a big shot in the art world. Manga artist Wu was there and she sneaked in a selfie with him.
So as of last night, Anne Lowell, who had evaded him for two years, had been at the vernissage of Inside/Out, a series of watercolors and gouaches of designs by one Suzanne Huntington.
The caterer had no interest at all in the actual works on the walls, or the star of the show, Suzanne Huntington. On another monitor, Frederick checked the website of Suzanne Huntington who, it turned out, was seriously talented. The Gallery section showed ninety offices and homes she’d decorated.
When he bought his mansion at the top of the bluff, he just might hire her and fly her out to the Caymans—she was that good.
And...there she was, at the gallery! Anne Lowell, or whatever she was calling herself nowadays. Brunette.
Not good enough, sweetheart, he thought. Anne had never noticed the caterer taking shots from her cell phone. She was never in direct line of sight, but most of the shots were quite clear nonetheless.
She was still very pretty. Being a brunette suited her, with her silver-blue eyes and pale skin. She’d lost some weight, too. Maybe a little too much. Being on the run could do that to a girl.
The program isolated her face inside a red box. In all, there were ten shots of the evening where she appeared. In five of them she was holding the arm of a big bruiser. Not tall but immensely broad. Shaved head, dark complexion, grim expression. A rough-looking guy.
Really ugly mean-looking bastard. Hmm. The man looked—looked as if he’d be hard to deal with. It had never occurred to Frederick that she would hook up with someone. She was on the run, for Christ’s sake. What was she doing having sex with someone? And someone who looked like that?
Anne Lowell, of the Boston Lowells, with a masters in business management of cultural institutions, choosing this person who looked like one of the more unsavory Sons of Anarchy in a tux—well.
They looked strange together, a Beauty and the Beast kind of couple. The man was wearing a tux but it didn’t look right on him. Yet in two of the shots, Anne was looking up at his dark, ugly face and smiling.
The man was stiff, unsmiling. He didn’t look like a guy who’d unexpectedly scored a beauty. Could he be a bodyguard? Could she afford one?
But no. Bodyguards stood back from their primaries, scouting the terrain. This guy looked as paranoid as a bodyguard—in each shot he was examining a different part of the room—but he was definitely escorting Anne. In one shot, one huge dark hand covered hers in the crook of his elbow. Bodyguards didn’t do that.
Interesting.
Hmm. So she had some muscle behind her. Well, brains trumped muscle, always.
Okay, time to get to work.
Frederick kept a number of identities on file. They were fully fleshed out, with websites and active FB pages. There were over three trillion websites in the world. His passed unnoticed.
He scrolled through his files like a connoisseur choosing the perfect bottle of wine from a well-stocked cellar. Ah, there was a good one. He tapped on the screen and a very distinguished head shot of himself came up. He remembered when he’d had the portrait photo taken. He’d made sure to get an excellent haircut, had had lunch at a 5-star restaurant and had been to the spa. He looked ruddy, self-satisfied, pampered and very rich.
Paul Andrews. Investment broker. Owner of Stonewell Financial. The website was a little vague as to exactly what he brokered and what he invested in, but he’d modeled it on the sites of other investment gurus, so it didn’t stand out.
Paul Andrews was thinking of buying a major property in downtown Portland, Oregon, and he wanted it redecorated floor to ceiling. And he had heard such very good things about Suzanne Huntington...
Yes, that’s how he’d play it.
He took out a throwaway cell that would show up on the other end as a number connected to Stonewell Financials. It was the little details that counted.
“Yes, hello,” he said to the pleasant female voice that answered. “My name is Paul Andrews, of Stonewell Financial. I would like to make an appointment with Ms. Suzanne Huntington, tomorrow afternoon if possible. Yes, I’ll hold.”
He poured himself half a glass of Prosecco. No harm in that. He still had a cross country flight ahead of him. The Prosecco would dissipate in his blood well before that. And, well, he had something to celebrate. He had that unmistakable feeling he got when his plans coalesced.
The secretary came back on.
“Excellent,” he said, giving himself the plummy accent of the super rich, the voice of a man used to getting his own way. “Three o’clock. I’ll be there.”
He tapped another screen and an inset of his pilot popped up. “Sir?”
“Get the plane ready. We’re leaving in two hours for Portland, Oregon.”
Portland, Oregon
Pretty city, Frederick thought the next day as he exited his luxurious downtown hotel. Cold, though. The snow was ankle height and it was below zero. However, Frederick was billionaire Paul Andrews and the rich didn’t do cold. Billionaires had a Goldilocks existence, never too hot and never too cold. He was wearing a heavyweight cashmere Brooks Brothers overcoat, cashmere scarf and a genuine Borsalino. He stepped from the heated lobby of the Beresford Hotel where he had the Presidential Suite, directly into a town car he’d booked online. The car was heated, of course, the driver suitably subservient and in livery.
“Where to, sir?” the driver asked, meeting his eyes in the rear view mirror.
“The Beckstein Gallery. On Stratton Street.”
Before presenting himself to Suzanne Huntington, he wanted to visit the art show where Anne Lowell had been photographed. He was a computer guy but he liked firsthand data whenever possible. He’d viewed all the photographs of the caterer’s FB page and the official photographs on the gallery’s website. It was interesting that besides the caterer’s cell phone shots, Anne didn’t show up once on any other photos, anywhere, including the official website photos that seemed to highlight everyone who’d been there, on principle.
Except Anne.
The car left him right in front of the gallery’s ornate white marble entrance. The driver said he would park around the corner and to call when he was needed.
No bell rang when Frederick opened the gallery door. Bells were so passé. Instead there was a metallic sound of a drop of water echoing. Immediately a man appeared from an inner door. Elegant. Dapper, even.
Frederick held up a hand covered in a cashmere-lined black kid leather glove. “Just looking,” he said.
The man gave a little ironic bow and disappeared again behind the door. It was clear that if Frederick wanted to buy something he would let it be known.
He clasped his hands behind his back and slowly walked the perimeter of the gallery, looking carefully at each picture. They were excellent; even he could see that. Each picture was of either the facade or the interior of a building Suzanne Huntington decorated.
They designs were exquisite and they were all superbly rendered.
He made the circuit twice. All of the paintings, drawings and watercolors had a small red Sold sticker. A placard stated that the proceeds of the sale went to a breast cancer research fund.
Frederick knew he was lingering too long, but there was just something about the pictures that tugged at him. They were all beautiful, yes, stylish, yes...but somehow familiar.
He would have even bought one. A watercolor of the façade of a sleek mansion in the foothills of Mount Hood was exquisite. The artist had perfectly captured the contrast between the streamlined outline of the house and the gnarled old forest lines of the branches surrounding it.
A flute appeared, half-full of champagne.
“Excellent, isn’t it?” the gallery owner, presumably Mr. Beckstein, said.
Frederick took the glass and sipped. Not champagne but Prosecco and excellent. “Yes, indeed. I would have contemplating buying it if it weren’t already sold.” The small red sticker was discreetly placed in the lower right-hand corner.
“We sold out in the first half hour.” The owner gave a small, satisfied smile. He shifted his drink to his left hand and held out his right. “Alfred Beckstein.”
Frederick held his own hand out. “Paul Andrews, pleasure.”
“Welcome to Portland,” Beckstein said.
Frederick arced a brow. “It’s that obvious I’m an out-of-towner?”
“With that tan it is. It’s been raining and snowing for two months. You didn’t get that tan here.”
There was an unspoken question. If it went unanswered, Paul Andrews would stick in the gallery owner’s mind. Frederick gave a light laugh. “Bingo. I’ve spent the last four months in my house in Cabo San Lucas. Came up to Portland for some investment opportunities. Speaking of opportunities, I’ve been looking at some property here. I have a tour of the penthouse of the Sorenson Building scheduled.”
Backstein’s eyebrows rose. It was by a factor of ten the most expensive residential building in the city. The penthouse was valued at fifteen million dollars. Condo costs were $10K a month. Frederick had checked.
“So, I was thinking of looking for a decorator and it looks like I just might have found one.” He tapped the show’s brochure with the photograph of Suzanne Huntington on the cover. “Judging by the interiors on the walls she is very talented.”
Backstein smiled. “That she is. This gallery provides a lot of artwork for her interior designs. She’s brilliant. It’s a pleasure to work with her.”
Frederick waved at the gallery walls. “And I will definitely commission artwork of the finished decorations.”
A small frown appeared between Beckstein’s eyebrows, then he smoothed it away. “Ah, yes. That would be an excellent idea.” He drained his flute. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do. Take your time enjoying the artwork. Pleasure meeting you.”
Hmm. Interesting. Something there...
For form’s sake, Frederick spent another ten minutes perusing the artwork on the walls, then called for his car and walked from the heated gallery to the heated backseat of his town car in three steps. His driver was of course holding the door open for him so he wouldn’t have to do that himself. Frederick was exposed to the cold for about a second and a half. Rich guy tourism.
His next stop was the visit to the penthouse apartment of the Sorensen Building in the presence of a young and pretty real estate agent practically quivering with eagerness. Her conversation was peppered with “yes, Mr. Andrews” and “of course, Mr. Andrews.” She agreed with everything he said because, though the property was stunning, it was still the tail end of the recession and there were probably not more than a couple of thousand people in the country able and willing to pay fifteen million dollars for an apartment.
If he had a spare fifteen million dollars, which he didn’t, and if he wanted to live in Portland, which he didn’t, he could do worse than this penthouse. It was over nine thousand square feet with five bedrooms and two fireplaces. He was certain it had views to die for when the sun came out. There was even a deck for the three warm sunny days a year during the summer.
The Realtor had obviously done her homework because she kept dropping references to Stonewell Financial. Pity it didn’t exist. And pity he was going to have to disappoint the agent, who was truly attractive.
She was nearly panting with excitement. He doubted she got a commission—that would be for the owner of the realty—but she’d definitely get a bonus. She looked almost sexually aroused as she ran through the penthouse’s amenities. Eyes bright, color high, mouth moist and open.
Hmm. Really attractive.
But no.
This was a business trip. In and out. In empty-handed and out with an unconscious but alive Anne Lowell.
Priorities, priorities.
He tuned out the estate agent’s babblings and turned to the floor-to-ceiling bulletproof windows. It was pointless telling the eager young agent that bulletproof didn’t exist unless it was a foot of concrete or several inches of steel. Windows could only be bullet resistant. There was plenty of high-end weaponry that could blow right through it. Not to mention an RPG. Or a hovering helo with a .50 cal machine gun.
The bulletproof windows was probably a rehearsed selling point, given the fact that top members of the Russian Mafiya were moving to Portland and were going to want high-end real estate. A vor would definitely want bullet-resistant windows.
But Paul Andrews wouldn’t worry about that until the ninety-nine percent rose up and revolted. By which point Paul Andrews would definitely have already decamped on his private jet to Barbados.
Frederick really liked Paul Andrews.
It had been snowing on and off since he arrived. It had stopped, leaving a pristine snowscape, no colors, just shades of white to gray to black. Quite beautiful.
One of the pictures in the Beckstein Gallery had been a collection of four seasons of a country mansion, the winter version a stunning play of chiaroscuro.
He’d seen something like that somewhere. It had niggled at him in the gallery, too. Where had he—
He caught his breath.
God. Could it be?
“Oh!” Frederick tapped a nonexistent earbud and took out his cell. “Sorry,” he said, turning his back on the agent, her pretty face startled. “Have to take this.”
He moved into another room, took out his tablet from his briefcase and opened a couple of files, flicking through them. He was extremely thorough with his background research and inside of a minute he had what he was looking for.
Anne Lowell had a degree in museum curation but she’d also taken art classes. And she’d taken part in an art show collective. Forty young artists, mainly conceptual. She was the only one of the forty who’d entered figurative art. Four watercolors, all landscapes. One a snowy plain. Pristine, shades of white through gray, no colors.
He carefully studied the four works of art, looking at shape, balance, color scale. Yes.
The person who’d done the landscapes and interior decors of the show at the Beckstein Gallery was the same person who’d exhibited four works in the collective art show. Same color palette, same architectural sense of proportion, same hand.
That was why Beckstein’s forehead had scrunched. Suzanne Huntington hadn’t done the artwork.
Anne Lowell had.
Jesus, he’d found her.
He sent the signal to his driver to bring the car around to the monumental front entrance of the Sorensen Building.
“Sorry,” he told the pretty agent, “something very important has come up. I am however quite interested in the property. I’ll get in touch tomorrow.”
Tomorrow he wouldn’t be coming back but he would definitely be half a million dollars richer.
Peanuts for Paul Andrews but good enough for him.
Once the car took off, he called Suzanne Huntington’s office.
“Yes,” he said when a pleasant female voice answered. “My name is Paul Andrews of Stonewell Financial. I called yesterday for an appointment with Ms. Huntington, a brief meeting for a commission for a place of business and a home. I would like to confirm the three p.m/ appointment, thank you.” He tapped End Call and leaned forward to address the driver. “Take me back to the hotel and then pick me up again at two p.m.”
The driver nodded.
Frederick sat back in the comfortable leather seat, very pleased with events. Very pleased.
* * *
Jacko’s cell rang in his pants pocket. Christ, the pants were all the way across the room.
He was neat. He emptied his pockets and folded his pants and his cell was always within reach. Just like his gun. Lauren really messed with his head because he couldn’t remember leaving pants in a heap on the floor across the room. He didn’t remember much about getting naked, though he remembered every second after he’d gotten naked. Oh yeah.
You’d think that after a couple of days basically spent in bed having sex he would have gotten his groove back, but no.
He should be leaping out of bed and grabbing his cell. You never knew—it could be important. Was probably work, and work was the number one priority in his life. Had been number one priority.
But right now? Right now he was in bed with Lauren’s head on his shoulder and his arm around her and he didn’t want to move one single muscle. It was late morning but he had the day off, the week off, for the first time in forever. He had Lauren in his arms and he had no desire for anything other than a late breakfast.
She stirred, looked up at him, smiled. “You should get that.”
Yeah, he should.
The cell stopped playing the refrain of Cee Lo’s “Fuck You” and went to voice mail. Then it started ringing again. Whoever it was was a persistent fucker.
“You really should get that,” Lauren said, lifting her head off his shoulder.
Oh man. The moment was spoiled.
Jacko had been lying there with half a boner, thinking of when Lauren woke up. And now she was awake but someone wanted to talk to him, even though Jacko didn’t want to talk to anyone except Lauren.
The cell stopped ringing for a moment then started again. And something like situational awareness pinged to life in Jacko’s sex-saturated brain.
It could be news concerning Lauren. He could have missed vital news because his blood had gone from his head to his woodie. Christ.
He scrambled out of bed just as the cell went to voice mail. Then it started ringing again. Jacko grabbed it, looking at the display. Bud. Bud Morrison. Who’d promised to look into the fuckhead who was threatening Lauren.
“Yeah?” he barked into the cell. “What?”
“Took you long enough,” Bud growled. “Go to your computer and link to KWXX. Local TV station in Palm Beach. Stay on the line.”
“Jacko?” Lauren was sitting up in bed, propped on her elbow and oh Jesus, the temptation to crawl right back into bed with her, slide right into her and start moving...it was almost too big to resist. Just look at her, he thought. Shiny hair slanting across her face, falling onto her shoulders, slender hand holding the blanket up, covering her breasts. She could cover them all she wanted but he knew exactly what they felt like, what they tasted like. They felt like silk and tasted like salty strawberries.
Damn. The woodie was growing.
“Yo, Jacko!” Bud sounded impatient. “You seeing it?”
Jacko did the only thing he could do—put his jeans on and hope they kept the worst of the boner down. He looked away from Lauren as he pulled his jeans up, going commando as usual, wincing as the zip caught a few hairs.
He switched on his Mac, looked the link up on Google, and frowned at the feed. It was a helicopter shot, shaky footage of a big fancy mansion, swimming pool looking like a basin of Scope from on high. SHOOTOUT IN PALM BEACH read the chyron. Then the feed switched to a Latino bimbo journo sporting a ton of tanned cleavage.
No sound.
Jesus. He was slipping. His headset was connected. He yanked out the jack and heard the bimbo’s breathless voice. “To recap, a SWAT team is now surrounding a mansion in Palm Beach—”
“Oh my God!” Lauren shot out of bed, naked. He looked over and couldn’t help the smile.
“That’s my mother’s house!” she exclaimed.
“What?” For just a second, the news knocked a naked Lauren out of his head.
She reached into a drawer, pulled out a tee of his and slipped it on. It billowed around her, coming down almost to her knees. But at least it covered her up so he could concentrate on what she was saying.
She pointed a shaking finger at the monitor. “That—that’s my mother’s house. Jorge’s house.” She shook her head. “Technically, my house. Oh my God, a shootout! Turn the volume up, Jacko.”
He did, putting the cell to his ear. Bud was still there. He put Bud on speakerphone.
“Sitrep,” he said, putting Bud on video on another monitor now that Lauren was covered up.
Bud’s face was grim. “What a fuckup. My guy has been conducting an undercover investigation into the ‘accident.’ He sent two of his men to ask some questions of Jorge Guttierez. He saw signs right away that there’d been a coverup. Evidence lost, interviews misfiled. The guy who covered it up is retired, has half a mil in his bank account, right there for anyone with a warrant to see. Moron. Turns out judges in Palm Beach are very sensitive to police corruption, so a warrant to search the premises of the Guttierez household was easy to obtain. And the bad cop is no longer enjoying golf but is now under indictment, and if found guilty, which the fucker is, I’d bet my pension on it, he’ll spend the rest of his miserable life behind bars.
“So long story short, this morning PBPD sends two officers to question our guy Jorge, who apparently was coked to the gills. And the fucker opened fire, can you believe that? We have an officer down, he’s now in surgery. There’s a chance he can make it. The other officer called it in and there’s a SWAT team there now.”
Lauren was watching the computer monitor intently. “Jorge’s crazy, Bud. Please tell the team to be careful. He’s got an army in there.”
Jacko hooked an arm around her shoulders, kissed her hair. Telling a SWAT team to be careful was perfectly useless. “These guys know what they’re doing, honey. Don’t worry about them. They’re trained for this.”
The feed switched back to the helicopter footage. An army of SWAT team members, looking like heavily armed ants, crouched in a perimeter surrounding the house. No sound could be picked up but Jacko could write the playbook for them. There was a fusillade that barely registered as distant pops over the noise of the helicopter, and Jacko knew it would be covering fire for flashbangs.
There you go. Two black-suited helmeted SWAT guys in front and two in back lobbed what looked like tin cans into the ground floor. A flash of light and streams of heat-distorted air and the SWAT guys rushed the place.
The feed switched to the bimbo anchor woman whose expression had sharpened—live fire! Maybe dead bodies! Live, on air! She was in anchor heaven, bleating. She had nothing to say but was saying a lot of it.
“Please, let the officers be safe,” Lauren whispered. She looked up at him, face pale. “Jorge’s such a whack job. And he takes drugs. No telling what he’ll do.”
Jacko didn’t answer. The SWAT team undoubtedly knew what it was doing. They’d be really competent guys, really well-trained. But shit happened. For all he knew a drugged-out paranoid fuckhead could even have the place wired to blow.
It wasn’t over until it was over.
So he didn’t try to reassure her again. They simply watched the monitor, listening to the pop pop pop of small arms fire and the ziipp of automatic weaponry.
Suddenly, there was silence.
“It’s over,” Bud said over the speakerphone. He was clearly on a direct feed with PBPD. “Asshole thinks he’s in some kind of movie like Scarface or something. Wait.” On the video feed Bud pressed a finger to his ear, suddenly breaking out in a smile. “Fuckhead’s down! Sorry about the language, Lauren. Jorge Guttierez is dead. Smoked. Caught thirteen bullets. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. They found two underage girls tied to a bed and enough cocaine in the room to choke a horse. Eight of his henchmen are down, another two surrendered and are going away for a long, long time. You don’t shoot at cops and walk. And my guy inside PBPD has a real jones for pedophiles. Likes to put them away forever, so his goons are never getting out. Ever. So, Lauren, looks like your troubles are over. I’ll meet you guys at ASI in half an hour.”
Jacko turned to Lauren, who looked shocked, a hand over her mouth. Her face was pale, blue eyes huge. She sobbed, choked it back. She was used to suppressing her emotions. Well, that was going to change.
He kissed her. “It’s over, honey. It’s all over. Your running days are over—you’re free.”
She breathed in and out looking stunned, as if she’d been hit. Jacko frowned, surreptitiously placing a forefinger over the outer corner of her wrist. Her pulse was racing fast and shallow, pupils dilated. She was in shock.
They wanted him and Lauren at ASI, but first he had to tend to her. He led her to the couch, pressed lightly with his hand on her shoulder. She dropped as if he’d shoved her down and he sat next to her.
He waited patiently as she cycled through her emotions. She shook, eyes unfocused. The thousand-yard stare. He knew that one.
Finally, she blew out a breath and shook her head sharply, as if getting rid of something. “I can—I can hardly believe this. Jorge is dead. I’m not on the run any more. I don’t have to hide anymore. I can walk around freely, no need for special makeup or funny hats.” For the first time a smile crossed her face. “Would it have been a stylish hat?”
Jacko sighed. What he’d seen in catalogs had been like a Marine’s beanie hat. She would have hated wearing it. “No. Sorry.”
She giggled and the sound zinged through him. “I think the first thing I’m going to do is to buy myself a pair of high-heeled shoes.”
“Yeah?” Jacko tried to suppress the image of a naked Lauren wearing only heels. Man.
“Oh yeah.” She lifted a pretty, bare foot. “I haven’t worn heels in two years. I need to be able to run at a moment’s notice. Correction. I needed to be able to run at a moment’s notice. Now I don’t have to think that way any more.”
“Nope. And you can walk in and out of here any time you want without me freaking if I don’t know where you are.”
She sobered instantly, turned to look him full in the face. “About that. About living here. I don’t know...”
And though he knew his face wasn’t showing anything, Jacko’s stomach dropped to the floor. He wanted to kick himself in the ass. What the fuck was he thinking—that they had a future? That she’d just continue staying here with him, that they’d be a couple? He’d promised to keep her safe and he had. With a little sex thrown in.
That was what it had been for her but it had been a lot more for him.
This was the first time his heart had been involved and that had messed with his head, making him think things that just weren’t true. Of course they weren’t a couple, together forever. What would someone like her be doing with someone like him? And yet—how the fuck was he supposed to have seen the signs when everything had been so mixed up and stressful? So yeah, the sex had been off the charts, but that didn’t mean—
She reached out to cup his face, searched his eyes. “Do you think you could stand living in my house instead of here? I need my skylight.”
* * *
Frederick’s cell buzzed when he walked out of the shower. He’d stayed under the rush of water at the hottest possible setting for over half an hour. Short of going to a spa to get that flushed rich-man look, a scalding hot shower was the next best thing.
He stepped out of the shower, made full use of the fancy moisturizer the hotel provided and gave himself a close shave, happy that he’d recently had one of those $200 haircuts by a stylist who knew what she was doing.
Solemnly, like a knight donning armor, he dressed rich from the skin out. Nothing that wasn’t silk, Egyptian cotton or cashmere touched his skin. The real estate agent had not been discerning. She’d been told he was rich and that was that. But Frederick was certain that Suzanne Huntington would be able to sniff out the real deal.
Well, Frederick was used to social engineering. And he was rich, after a fashion, just not billionaire league. So it was a question of degree not of kind. Plus, he could go gay. Muddy the waters a little.
Billionaire gay guy. Not so easy to read.
He was lacing up his thousand dollar Barker Blacks when his cell buzzed. An alert, not a call. He’d designed a nice little bot that scoured news feeds for about fifty key words, most pertaining to ongoing jobs.
The screen showed Jorge Guttierez. Which meant he was on the news somewhere. Frederick switched to the newsfeed with the most hits and his eyebrows rose.
The screen was too small. He turned on his computer and watched the monitor. He had to sit down to do it.
Jesus. This surprised even him.
Jorge finally proved what a moron he was. And a cokehead to boot. What a combo.
Listening to the news anchors, Frederick could easily piece together what had happened. For some reason the cops had come to the door while Jorge was hopped up. Of course lately, that was always. Jorge got mean when he was stoned. Crazy mean. And crazy stupid. It was a lethal combination.
From what Frederick could make out, Jorge had fired at two cops, wounded one. Seriously, apparently, because the officer was in surgery.
Well, no one fired at cops with impunity. From the feed from a news helicopter, Frederick could see the mansion surrounded by SWAT.
Alfonso would have been appalled.
This could only end one way because Jorge was too boneheaded stupid to give up when he saw himself surrounded. He’d watched Scarface way too many times. Right now, in his little pig brain, he saw himself a heroic figure, fighting off an army of cops. Going down fighting, like a man.
Pinhead. Really, too stupid to live. Darwinism at work.
Frederick sat on the edge of the bed, filing his nails, waiting it out. Watching events unfold on TV, as predictable as any cop TV series. SWAT, hunkered down. Two officers throwing something into the mansion from the front and two from the back, and a second later, a bright flash of light, a sound that could be heard over the helicopter rotors, smoke billowing out.
With anyone but Jorge, the next act would be the men holed up inside walking out with their hands up, being told to kneel, hands on their heads. Flexicuffs, the perp walk, officers putting a hand to their heads to get them inside the cop car.
But this was Jorge, who probably had fevered dreams of glory sprouting in his drug-addled brain. Sure enough—by the time Frederick was buffing his nails, body bags were being carried out of the house. Jorge and his goons, loyal to the last, poor dogs.
Well, there went his retainer. Pity.
But, on the whole, it was for the best.
Jorge was becoming so very tedious as a client. Money talked, of course, but even just seeing Jorge once a month had become a chore. Something very unpleasant and really—what was the point of being successful if you had to do unpleasant things?
Unpleasant was for the peasantry. A saying of Alfonso’s, and quite right he was, too. Alfonso had had people to do the unpleasant things for him.
So, all in all, a very satisfactory ending. With Jorge out of the way, Anne Lowell would be lulled into a feeling of complacency, of safety.
How could she know he was about to deliver her to someone who would extract what he wanted from her and would then dump her body like a piece of trash?
She wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Anne Lowell’s death was in the cards; it was just going to be by a different hand now.
Just like in that great story by whosis he’d read in college. “Appointment in Samarra.”
What was that saying? Karma is a bitch.