Deadeye (25 page)

Rather than kill the security guard, Lee hoped to draw him away from the lobby. Having learned her way around the clinic, she hurried to a cross hall, where she slipped into a linen closet. By leaving it open a crack, she could peer out. It was only a matter of seconds before the dark bulk of the patrolman passed by. Once he was gone she slipped into the hall.

But he must have heard her because there was a shout followed by the crack of a pistol shot. The bullet missed her but hit the mirror at the other end of the corridor. It shattered into a hundred pieces. That was when Omo stepped out in front of her with a Colt in each hand. He shouted, “Get down!” and Lee had no choice but to obey. She dived forward, hit hard, and was skidding toward Omo when he fired both guns.

Lee rolled and scrambled to her feet. The Glock came up, but there was no need. The guard was down and clearly dead. She looked at Omo. “I told you to stay outside.”

“You tell me all sorts of things,” Omo replied. “Most of them are bullshit.”

Lee smiled. “Come on . . . Let's get out of here.”

They entered the lobby and left through the front door. And, much to Lee's surprise, the alarm didn't go off. That made sense, though, since it had been necessary for the rent-a-cop to turn the system off after he entered. So they closed the door and checked to ensure that it was locked. If they were lucky, it would be at least an hour before the patrolman was missed.

Thanks to Omo, the dead man's car had four flats. But the engine was running and the lights were on. That could attract attention so they turned everything off and locked all of the doors. They were in the rent-a-wreck and driving away when Omo asked the obvious question. “So? Any luck?”

“Hell, yes,” Lee answered as she struggled to remove the printout from the waistband of her trousers. “Amanda was alive a few days ago—and I have a pretty good idea where she is.”

Omo was at the wheel. He glanced her way. “I'm not going to like this, am I?”

Lee smiled tightly. “No, you aren't.”

*   *   *

George Nickels's day began the way it always did, with a one-hour workout regimen, followed by a shower. Then, rather than eat at home, he preferred to make his way over to the hotel-casino complex and have breakfast in one of the many restaurants there. But not in a predictable manner.

That kept the staff on their toes, helped to ensure good service, and gave him a chance to table-hop. There was nothing customers enjoyed more than a two-minute conversation with the big boss. “Treat people with respect, and they'll come back.” That's what George Senior had taught him, and it was true.

On that particular morning, he had chosen to eat in the Keno Room, which was adjacent to the so-called lounge where the game was played. Keno enthusiasts weren't high rollers for the most part—but they were very fond of the all-you-can-eat buffet in the restaurant.

Nickels was very careful about his diet, however—and always had the same breakfast. It consisted of coffee . . . At least two cups, a bowl of oatmeal, and a slice of organically grown cantaloupe.

Sometimes Nickels ate alone, and sometimes he invited a restaurant worker to join him. Some employees looked forward to such opportunities, and some dreaded them. But both groups had to agree that the boss was willing to listen.

After breakfast, Nickels went out to the lobby, where he could be seen running a finger over ledges prior to boarding the elevator that took him up to the executive suite. He had a large office with a view of the peak, the home that sat on top of it, and the column of water that shot out of the hillside.

Nickels liked his coffee hot,
very
hot, and a metal thermos was waiting for him as he circled around to the other side of his desk. It was a beautiful slab of Arizona marble resting on a custom-made frame. Nickels sat with his back to the view as he poured himself a cup of coffee, anointed the brew with cream and sugar, and took an experimental sip. It was perfect.

Then it was time to turn the computer terminal on, enter a six-digit code, and start the working day. The first task was to review the run sheets related to all of his legitimate business concerns. That included the hotel, the casino, and his percentage of what the mall shops brought in. And thanks to years of practice, he could identify problem areas and sweet spots with ease. Each item, good or bad, was written down so he could discuss them with the Ebben twins.

Once that process was complete, it was time to scan the reports related to the other profit centers. Those included drug smuggling, loan-sharking, and a high-end surrogate business. The kind reserved for only the wealthiest and most discriminating of clients. And, for the most part, those enterprises were doing well . . . Although there was a shortage of product.

After finishing one cup of coffee, Nickels poured another. Then he signaled his readiness to start what promised to be a long day by touching a black button. In keeping with a long-established tradition, the Ebben twins entered his office first.

They were dressed in a blue blazer, a white shirt with no tie, and khaki trousers. Based on their expressions, Nickels could tell that Orson was worried and Ethan was feeling good. “Good morning,” Nickels said. “Please have a seat. What's going on?”

“You've seen the run sheets by now,” Ethan said. “So you know that the bottom line looks good.”

“That's true,” Orson agreed, “but we have a problem.”

“We
might
have a problem,” Ethan said. “It's too early to be sure.”

Nickels was used to that sort of bickering and nodded. “Okay, tell me about the problem that we might have.”

“Someone broke into the Madison Medical Clinic last night,” Orson said darkly.

“They didn't break in,” Ethan corrected him. “A woman entered the facility and hid.”

“That isn't important,” Orson said impatiently. “The point is that they weren't after drugs. They went straight to the computer system and logged on.”

Nickels frowned. “And I care because?”

“You care because we use the clinic's personnel to provide health care for our norms. They come by once a week to deal with minor health problems and perform physicals. Our customers are very finicky in that regard and insist on lots of documentation.”

“Yes,” Nickels said mildly, “I know. So the intruder had access to our records?”

“They did,” Orson confirmed. “But they looked at a lot of other stuff, too.”

“And that's why there's no reason to get excited,” Ethan put in. “There's a strong possibility that the information they were after had nothing to do with the surrogacy product.”

“Maybe,” Orson allowed. “But when a security guard happened by, and went inside to perform a random check, they shot him. And his mutimals, too.”

Nickels thought about that. “Have we got pictures of them? Or fingerprints?”

“No prints,” Orson replied. “But we have a lot of pictures. Check your e-mail. I sent some samples.”

Nickels opened the message and scrolled through the photos. “Why am I looking at a man who is lying on the floor?”

“He faked a heart attack to distract the staff,” Orson replied. “That allowed the woman in the blue burqa to enter the clinic and hide until the employees left. She's the one who trolled the computer system for information.”

Nickels kept going and stopped. “She took the burqa off . . . And she could be a norm.”

“We think she
is
a norm,” Orson said. “And there are very few norms in the Republic of Texas. That makes the situation all the more unusual.”

“So what are we doing to identify her?”

“Chief Dokey is on it,” Ethan said helpfully. “He's going to check with the Crime Information Center to see if we can match faces. As for the guy with two guns—he was wearing a mask. That will make the task more difficult.”

“Okay, good work,” Nickels said. “Better safe than sorry. Send the photos to security and tell them to keep an eye out for these people. What's next on the agenda?”

“Senora Avilar is waiting to see you,” Ethan replied.

Nickels looked from one face to the other. “So what do you think? Should we sign up for her program or not?”

“I think we should,” Orson answered. “Assuming the price is right.”

Nickels nodded. “Okay, but how much can we afford?”

“No more than 250,000 a month,” Ethan put in.

“I'll aim for two,” Nickels replied.

“That sounds good,” Orson said, as the twins got up to leave. “I wish we could tell her to screw off . . . But, given the consequences of that, anything under 250 is a viable proposition.”

The twins left, and Senora Avilar was shown in a few moments later. Avilar's carefully coiffed black hair had been highlighted with a single streak of white, her red lipstick matched the pantsuit she wore, and there was a much-practiced smile on her face. “Senor Nickels . . . This is a pleasure.”

Nickels's arm whirred as he went out to greet her. That was when he realized that there were only two digits on each of his visitor's well-manicured hand. “The pleasure is mine, Senora . . . Please. Have a seat. Would you care for some coffee or tea?”

“Gracias, no,” Avilar said as she sat down. “I had breakfast a short time ago. You have an impressive complex here . . . Very impressive indeed. But what are we? Seventy miles from the border? That is well within striking distance. Does that concern you?”

Avilar's eyes were like chips of obsidian. Now Nickels realized that there would be no financial foreplay—no attempt to make the occasion seem like anything other than what it was: a form of extortion. He could pay her, and through her the generals who ran the Aztec military machine, or he could sit in his office and wait for the first missile to fall. So it wasn't a question of
whether
he would pay . . . But how much. “I
do
worry about that,” Nickels said. “Not just for myself, but for my employees, and the citizens of Tucson.”

“Because they are your customers,” Avilar said coldly.

“Yes,” Nickels admitted. “But for other reasons as well. I was born and raised here.”

“On Aztec land,” Avilar said sternly. “But that will change one day. In the meantime, there will be people who support the corrupt officials in Austin and will be hung with them, and those who support restoration. Realizing that those who support our cause are likely to prosper once the war is over.”

Her meaning was clear. Senora Avilar was offering more than interim protection . . . She was selling a long-term insurance policy. And that sounded good . . . Or would if the service was affordable. “You make some excellent points,” Nickels conceded. “What sort of contribution would you and your associates be looking for?”

“Three hundred thousand per month,” Avilar said without hesitation. “Paid in nubucks or in gold.”

That was interesting. It seemed that the Aztecs had faith in both Pacifica, and its currency but were so confident of victory they wouldn't accept eagles. Thus began a process of offer and counteroffer that eventually wound up at 225 nu per month. A sum that was twenty-five more than Nickels had been hoping for—but twenty-five less than the maximum the twins had suggested. “Okay,” Nickels said finally. “It's a deal . . . But if a bomb or missile falls on Tucson, the whole thing is off.”

“You will have to accept some hits,” Avilar responded airily. “It would look suspicious if you didn't. But I think it's safe to say that your property and the surrounding area will suffer very little damage.”

“Good,” Nickels replied. “I will ask my co-CFOs to work out the details with you and your staff. My compliments to General Contreras. We've done business in the past.”

“Yes,” Avilar said as she stood. “He speaks well of you—and told me to tell you that he looks forward to staying in your hotel during the occupation.”

Nickels saw Avilar to the door. Then it was time to have another cup of coffee and do some serious thinking. Maybe the Aztecs would seize control of Arizona, and maybe they wouldn't. Things could go either way . . . But it was important to formulate a backup plan. Something he could fall back on if things went wrong. And that would require money . . . Lots of it. His phone buzzed, but the call went unanswered.

*   *   *

A thirty-second story about the Madison Clinic shooting aired on the 11:00
P.M.
news, but other than that, the incident received very little coverage. Was that because the break-in was small potatoes compared to the terrorist attack in Dallas? Or had Nickels and his cronies been able to figure out which file Lee had been interested in—and were using their influence to minimize coverage? Both possibilities were credible.

But while there hadn't been a lot of coverage, photos of Lee had been aired, along with a request that viewers contact the police if they saw her. Fortunately, Lee had been wearing a mask. Still, there was reason to be concerned. That's why she was wearing a cheap wig, face veil, and faking a limp as she entered the hotel. The plan was for Omo to arrive separately so that they wouldn't appear as a couple.

As Lee crossed the lobby, she felt the familiar emptiness at the pit of her stomach. Would some sharp-eyed security person see the similarities between the woman in the wig and the person in the clinic? If so, they would swarm her.

Lee approached the check-in counter and identified herself as Marsha Crowley. The clerk had so much loose skin on her face that Lee was reminded of a Shar Pei. She welcomed Lee to the hotel and entered her name into a computer. “Yes, here we go . . . You're staying just the one night?”

“Yes, that's correct.”

“Good. I have you down for a king-sized bed and a no-smoking room.”

“Perfect.”

“Okay then, the deposit will be the 230 eagles, a hundred of which will be refunded if you don't incur any additional charges.”