Adrenaline (56 page)

“Love you, honey,” Mom said. “More than you can know.”

“Love you, too, Mom. I hope you have a great time at your
retreat
.”

Mom glanced at her. “Two weeks will let you make a splash at the office while I’m gone. Be smart, show everyone you deserve to be my successor. You’ll be running it when I’m dead and gone.” Janice’s voice nearly broke on the last words, like she needed to clear her throat. She squeezed Diana’s hand.

Diana didn’t care for talk like that—for any suggestion of a Mom-free world. “I’ll keep everything running smoothly.”

Then Mom stepped out of the car, grabbed her small suitcase, and walked toward the terminal entrance.

Diana thought of jumping out of the car, running to her for one more hug, and thought,
No, I won’t, because you’re clearly lying to me and I want to know why
.

Her mother had never lied to her. The reason had to be big. Two weeks where Mom didn’t want anyone to know where she was. She headed back toward the city. But not to her own apartment. Back to Russian Hill, back to Mom’s.

Diana felt a cold tapping of terror down her spine, her imagination dancing with the possibilities behind her mother’s lie.

Janice Keene watched her daughter, the only true good thing she had done in her life, drive away until Diana was gone from sight in the eddying swarm of cars, cabs, and limos.

Inside her purse the pink phone rang. She answered it.

A voice of a man, with a soft mixed accent of an American who’d spent much time in London, said, “You’ll be traveling under the name Marian Atkins. Inside the lining of your purse is an appropriate ID. There’ll be a package for you at your hotel when you arrive with what you need. Call me on this phone when the first job is done, and then destroy the phone. I’ll call you then on the green phone. The blue phone for the last job.”

“I understand.”

“Remember you’re doing it all for your daughter, Janice. And then you can rest easy.”

“I know.”

The man hung up. Janice Keene went to the ladies’ room and tore open the lining of the purse and yes, there was a California driver’s license and a credit card in the name of Marian Atkins. Attached was a sticky note with an airline and a confirmation number and a hotel name with another confirmation number. The purse had been delivered to her house yesterday via an overnight courier, from an address in New York.

Janice walked to one of the airline’s self-service kiosks and tapped in the first number. The screen brought up an itinerary that informed her she was booked on a flight to Portland, Oregon. It spat out a boarding pass for Marian Atkins.

She collected the pass and walked with resolve toward the security lines.

Janice Keene was going to do what she must to ensure the world—that uncertain, awful, wonderful place—could never hurt her Diana. To be sure her daughter had a perfect life, just as perfect as the last seven years had been for her mother.

No matter who had to die.

Wednesday, November 3, afternoon

S
AM
! I
WANT TO GET MARRIED HERE
!”

“Of course you do, darling,” I said. I smiled at the venue’s event planner as we walked through the large marble atrium of the Conover House, one of the grander spots to host a wedding or conference in San Francisco. The romantic grin on my face was the kind I’d worn when I got married for the first time. Mila’s hand was clenched in mine, and her smile was dazzling. Pure bridal joy.

“Well, let me give you a tour,” the planner said. She was a tall woman, fortyish, in a smart gray suit. She’d sized us up the moment we arrived—sans appointment with that hurried disregard of the truly moneyed—and we were dressed to kill. No pun intended.

“One thing first,” I said.

“She will show us a cost estimate later, darling,” Mila said, ever the impatient bride. She leaned in close to me, her hair smelling of lavender, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it will be worth it.”

“My question isn’t cost. It’s security,” I said. “You have security here, yes, during events?”

“Yes, of course, if that is a concern.”

“It is.” I didn’t elaborate on a reason. I just kept my fake smile in place.

“We have a contract with a topflight security firm here. And a system of monitors and cameras throughout the building.” She gestured up at a small camera in the top corner of the atrium. I flexed the smile for the camera’s benefit.

“He is such the worrywart.” Mila looked stunning in her dark, snug dress, every inch the giddy bride. She wore a ring on her hand, a lovely diamond, that sparkled grandly on her finger. “Now the building.”

“One more question,” I said. “You have cameras monitored, yes?”

“Yes. Our on-site team can respond. Or they’re happy to work with your own security team, if you should have one.”

“That’s very reassuring,” I said, and off we went on the tour of the beautiful old building, which had once been a very grand bank, the planner pointing out the venue’s features and facilities.

“I am thinking,” Mila exclaimed as we walked along the marble floors, “of a 1920s theme for the wedding. Sam, is that not brilliant?”

“Brilliant,” I said. The architecture and decor certainly fit her idea. We were on the second floor by now, and I spotted a men’s room as we headed toward a grand staircase leading to the third floor. “I’m feeling a bit unwell, please excuse me. You all go on, I’ll catch up.”

“He is so nervous to marry me,” Mila said to the planner as I went through the men’s room doors. “We have been through so much together, you see.”

That was true. The door shut behind me. No cameras in here. I went into a stall, counted to sixty, and then I walked out and headed downstairs. The planner had already told us that most of the food service and administrative offices were on the first floor.

I assumed security was there as well. There might be a guard on duty, but there were no events being hosted right now, one conference having ended at noon. I tested the door marked security, lockpick at the ready.

But the door was unlocked.

I stepped inside. A small chamber, because they needed the real estate for food and rentals. Nine monitors set up to show various rooms and entrances of the Conover House. But no guard. Bathroom break?

One monitor was tuned to a cable news channel. The vice president of the United States had died last week from a sudden stroke, and conjecture about who the president would appoint as his successor was rampant. To me it sounded like a festival of endless talking heads. On the security monitors I saw Mila and the planner strolling on the third floor, and Mila pantomimed excitement to keep the planner focused on her, not on wondering where I was at or why I was taking so long in the bathroom.

A stack of DVDs stood on the rack, each in a jewel box, with a date and time range written on it, tied to a particular camera. The dates went back for a week. Liability issues, I thought. The venue wanted to protect itself. Because even among a well-heeled crowd, fights break out, people get drunk, tumbles happen down the stairs.

Or someone tries to commit a murder and fails.

I pulled one disc out of its jewel box for an evening three nights ago, from 8:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m., for the main ballroom. I replaced it with a similar disc. The discs got reused, I figured, at the end of the week. I slid the jewel box home and slipped the original video disc into the small of my back, against my belt. My jacket hid it.

On the screen, Mila bounced on the tiptoes of her elegantly shod feet, enraptured with the thoughts of the perfect wedding reception.

The door opened. A guard, midtwenties, about my age, stepped in. He looked annoyed but not angry to see me. “Sir, you’re not supposed to be in here.”

“Sorry. I was getting a tour with my fiancée”—I point toward Mila on the screen—“and I had a security question that I didn’t wish to ask in front of her while we’re getting the tour for our wedding reception. The door was unlocked.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Are your people armed?”

The guard blinked. “No. We’ve never needed to be.”

“Thank you.” I didn’t explain my question. I knew my intrusion would be mentioned to the planner, and they’d wonder why I was so obsessed with security. I didn’t need to give an answer since Mila and I wouldn’t return here. I nodded and I walked past him, and I was entirely sure that as I went up the two flights of stairs he watched me on the screen. I rejoined Mila and the planner and made sure to give Mila a convincing kiss for the benefit of the security guard. Her mouth was tight under mine, firm and warm.

We finished the tour, discussed possible booking dates eight months from now, and promised to call back soon.

Then we headed out into the busy Financial District, walked to the car, and drove back toward my bar in the Haight. I told Mila what I’d found, handed her the stolen disc.

“You asked if their guards were armed? I suspect every date I mention to the planner now, the venue will be booked,” Mila said. “I am so disappointed.”

“I could kill you,” I said.

“What, the wedding is off?” she said in mock surprise.

“I got caught. I had to talk my way out.”

“You have gotten lazy and sloppy,” she said. She slipped off the diamond engagement ring—I had no idea where she’d gotten it—and put it in her pocket.

“I told you I didn’t want to do…
this
anymore.”

“Do what?”

“Be your spy, your thief, your hired gun.” I kept my hands steady on the wheel. “I have a son now.”

“And the reason you have him back is me,” she said. “I’ve given you much and asked for little.”

“Mila…”

“Fine. Let’s go see your son. And”—she held up the disc I’d stolen—“let’s see who our would-be killer is.”

My bar in San Francisco—one of thirty plus I own around the world—was called The Select and it wasn’t open yet; I’d decided while my son Daniel was here not to open until five in the afternoon. It gave me more time with him. I parked behind the bar in a shared lot and opened the door with a key. The bar itself was silent. Upstairs, I could hear laughter and music and my heart melted a bit. Call me sentimental. I’d fought far too hard to get my son back to ever feel embarrassed by emotion.

Upstairs, in the office/apartment above The Select, my son Daniel, ten months old, was on a blanket, crawling and laughing, while Leonie played with him. I’d been lucky. Leonie hadn’t enrolled yet in art school, so she had the time to travel with me, bring Daniel along as I went to several of my bars over the past two weeks: New York, Austin, Las Vegas. We’d flown down from my bar in Vancouver yesterday, at Mila’s insistence, because there was a problem.

Mila knelt to tickle Daniel’s nose, earned a giggle from him, and then she completely ignored Leonie. Leonie ignored her back. They don’t like each other and I’m not entirely sure why. Leonie is not Daniel’s mother; she is, well, a nanny of sorts, an art student-turned-forger. She’d lost a lot in her life, and I’d saved Leonie from a criminal syndicate called the Nine Suns. The same syndicate that kidnapped Daniel and his mother, even before he was born, and destroyed my CIA career. Leonie had been good to Daniel and taken care of him when no one else would. She was deeply attached to my son, and so I’d asked her to stay in his life. We’d had a brief fling—under highly stressful circumstances—and were back to being just friends. Leonie had been nothing but perfect with Daniel, but I knew Mila thought I’d made a mistake, asking a former criminal to watch over my son.

I hoped Mila was wrong.

Mila slid the disc into a laptop on the desk.

“Here he is.” She pointed. “Dalton Monroe.” She clicked with the mouse and a red dot appeared on Monroe, a tall, rangy man in his sixties. He wore a suit and seemed determined to meet and greet everyone in the room, which was at least two hundred people.

In his right hand was a glass of bourbon.

“It’s no easy thing to poison a man in front of two hundred witnesses,” Mila said. “I admire the nerve.”

I picked up Daniel and sat next to her. He squirmed a little on my lap, eager to watch the red dot, like it was a game. Leonie stretched out on Daniel’s blanket and began to sketch in a pad aimlessly.

“Two hundred people, but it gets pared down pretty fast,” I said. “Look. He has a bodyguard near him. Maybe five admirers in a knot around him. Beyond that, a few people watching him directly, angling for their chance to talk to him. Maybe fifteen, at any given second, looking at him. And looking at that same moment at the poisoner.”

She accelerated the feed; forty minutes into the video, Dalton Monroe stumbled badly, clearly ill. He dropped the bourbon glass. The bodyguard hurried him out, Monroe smiling, waving off concerns from the other guests. He had then been taken to a private medical clinic, where it was diagnosed that he’d ingested a nonfatal dose of digitalis. The press were told he’d simply become ill at the party and had to leave. Dalton Monroe was worth a billion dollars and did not care to have it known that someone tried to poison him at a reception celebrating his latest business acquisition, a local software company he’d bought to fold into his empire.