Strip Search (36 page)

“When are you and Shalimar getting married?”

“Is it true Steve Wynn is secretly backing your acquisition?”

Okay, he had to stop for that one. “No, it is not. Mr. Wynn is playing no role in this operation.” He paused before adding, with equal parts pleasure and elusiveness: “This is a respectable business deal.”

He pushed his way through the mass of microphones and paparazzi and entered his private elevator. The doors closed behind him and he descended to his private parking garage. He arrived, but the door didn’t open. That required a ten-digit number to be punched into a keypad just above the floor buttons, a number only he and his driver knew. He punched it in—coincidentally the same as the number as one of his Swiss bank accounts—and stepped into the garage.

His car was waiting for him, chauffeur at the wheel.

He slid into the backseat and immediately poured himself a drink. “Damn reporters,” he muttered, as if a profession of disgust would justify taking a drink this time of day. “Shatter your nerves like crystal.”

Chauffeur didn’t answer, but then, he usually didn’t. He was the picture of decorum, eyes on the road—not the backseat, which was often very convenient—and none of the eye-rolling or presumptuous throat-clearing he got from the gentlemen’s gentlemen. He’d drive all the way to the MGM silently, if Stevens allowed him. But he was in a chatty mood.

“Can you believe it, Mercer? We’re finally going to make this dream a reality.”

Still his chauffeur did not answer. Now this was just rude.

“Did you hear me? I mean, we’re not that far apart. I said—”

He stopped. Something was wrong. His chauffeur—too narrow in the shoulders, and—there was blond hair tucked just inside the black coat, barely visible beneath the cap. “What’s going on here?”

At last his driver spoke. It was a woman! “Mercer has the day off. He’s…sleeping.”

“I didn’t authorize this.”

In the rearview, he could see a small smile light the woman’s face. “I did.”

“You presumptuous little—Where’s Mercer?”

“If you must know—he’s tied up and gagged in a storage closet.”

“What are you talking about?”

“How slow are you?” She took a hard left, and he suddenly realized they were not headed for the MGM. “You’re being kidnapped.”

“What?” All at once, Jeeves’s words returned to him. “Who are you?”

“Haven’t you read the papers?”

“Oh, my God. I’m getting out of here.”

“I don’t think so. The doors and windows are locked. I control them.”

He removed his hard-soled Pierre Cardin shoe. “Then I’ll break the window open.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because you took two quickies from the liquor bottle, as I knew you would, and it was laced with enough sedatives to put down a gorilla. You’ll be unconscious in…” She checked her watch. “Oh, thirty seconds, at the most.”

Damn! He
was
feeling…drowsy. As if he were…slipping away from himself. “But…the keypad…the security locks…” It was becoming more difficult to form words. His eyelids weighed on him like bricks. “You have to know the number…”

The chauffeur smiled as she turned off the main road. “I’m very good with numbers.”

ESTHER WRUNG HER hands as she watched the heating element become a progressively lighter, more intense shade of red, almost blue. Soon it would be time to begin the ritual.

She had thought about this from the moment she knew Tucker had been captured. She didn’t need him anymore, she told herself. She could do it alone.

But thinking about it and doing it are two different things altogether.

“Where the hell are my clothes?”

Showtime.

Esther returned to the center room where Thomas Stevens, the Vegas real estate mogul, was chained to an examining room table. “Your clothes were removed.”

“Do you have any idea how much that jacket cost me, lady? Do you have any idea?”

“Do you know the square root of two?”

“Huh?”

“Then we’re even.” She checked her watch. The branding iron was almost ready. “Fear not. I’ve taken good care of your clothing.”

“Why did you take them off?”

“I thought it would be easier while you’re unconscious. I’m not a strong woman. And I’m in a delicate condition.” She coughed. Her voice was becoming weaker, more gravelly, every day.

“Did you have to take my boxers?”

“Most especially,” she said quietly.

“Look, can I cut to the chase? I mean, I don’t want to interrupt your sick torture chamber thing or whatever it is you’ve got planned, but I’m a deal maker, okay? And I feel confident we can make a deal.”

“I’m not interested.”

“Yeah, that’s what Merv Griffin said, too, but three weeks later, he was signing on the bottom line. Let’s make this short and sweet. What is it you want?”

She hesitated a moment, then thought—why not? She replied: “God.”

“Well, that’s tougher. Still, I can help you. What is it you want to do? Build a church? A tabernacle or something?”

“Anything but.”

“Oh, I get it. You’re the Antichrist, aren’t you? Fine, whatever. I’m a non-denominational deal maker. Will a million dollars take care of it?”

“A million dollars?”

“Why not? I figure you earned it. You caught me, fair and square. Don’t know how you did it—”

“I programmed my laptop to run an algorithmic number generator that transmitted all conceivable ten-digit numbers in a little over three minutes.”

“Whatever. Point is, you did it. So you’ve earned a little something. You let me go, I give you a million bucks. Then we both go home happy and you don’t have to take my arm or leg or whatever it is this time.”

“Something a bit more personal, I’m afraid.”

“If you’re not into cash, I can work with that. Diamonds, jewels.”

“How about the family jewels?”

“The—hey, wait a minute, lady. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking…” She inhaled deeply. “I’m thinking it’s time I started.”

“Don’t do this. I can tell you don’t want to do this.”

“What I
want
is…irrelevant.” She coughed again. “Clearly the universe does not care what I want.”

“Do you know what a million dollars can do for you? You could get anything. Anything!”

“Except,” she said quietly, touching her hand lightly to her stomach, “the one thing I want most.” She raised the branding iron.

“Wh-What are you planning to do with that?”

“You are Yesod, the sixth member of the Sefirot. Your holy attributes must be removed.”

“But—why?” The branding iron was so close to his face he could feel the heat. He began to perspire. “Okay—make it two million!”

“You think your money can buy you anything. Just like it bought you all those little boys.”

“Hey, those charges were totally unsubstantiated. Nothing was ever proven.”

“I’ve talked to one of the boys. I know.”

Sweat poured down his face. “Okay, fine, make it three, then. Three million bucks. But don’t do this. Please.”

“I have no choice. The numbers require it, and the numbers control the universe.”

“Numbers? What—?”

“Thus sayeth the Kabbalah. Thus marks the pathway.”

“The pathway to what?” He was screaming, twisting his head, trying to get away from the intense red-hot heat. “Enlightenment?”

The hand holding the branding iron trembled. “The path to becoming God.”

“Becoming God? Why?”

She closed her eyes, tears slipping through the lids, and thrust the iron forward. “Because we deserve better.”

“TELL ME about your father.”

“No.”

“Did he abuse you?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if he did?”

Silence.

“Tucker, I know he did. Tell me the truth. Was it physical? Or…sexual?”

“He never touched me!”

“But I—” Wait a minute. I wasn’t listening. He just gave me the clue. The clue to the whole damn mess. “Do you have a little sister, Tucker?”

“No.”

“Brother.”

“No.”

“You’re lying. I know you do.”

“No!”

“Tucker, it won’t take the computer geeks five minutes to bring me the name and age of your little brother. So save us some time. How much younger is he?”

He glared at me, his eyes cold and filled with reproach. “Five years.”

“And your father…slept with him?”

“No!”

“He beat him up. But only him. Never you. Even then, you were strong. Small but strong. You’d fight back. So he went after your helpless little brother. You couldn’t stop it. And you’ve felt guilty ever since.”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about.”

“I do. Your father would hit him, and he’d scream, maybe he’d even call out your name, but there was nothing you could do. You couldn’t protect your best friend, the one boy who looked up to you and—”

“Why should I? It’s not like Mother ever did!”

A remark so revealing it almost took my breath away. “That’s it. It wasn’t just you being helpless. It was your mother, too. She couldn’t stop your father, he was big and mean, but afterward, afterward, he’d…what? Hit her, too?” I kept peering into his eyes. “No. She’d cradle your little brother. Stroke him, maybe? Caress him? Rock him to sleep? All the attention you wanted but never got. He got everything while you sat on the outside looking in, feeling like the ugliest, most unloved creature who ever lived.”

“You’re full of shit, you know that?”

“Tucker.” I reached out to him again, but he snatched his hand away before I could get it. “Let it go.”

“You don’t understand anythin’!” He was shouting at me, spitting out his words.

“That’s a song your father sang, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Maybe when he was chasing your brother. ‘Round and round the cobbler’s bench, the monkey chased the weasel’…”

“Stop it!” he screamed, pressing his hands against his ears. “Stop it!”

“
Pop!
Goes the weasel!”

“I’m done with this. I’m outta here.” He tried to get up, but the chains held him back. With his massive legs, he began dragging the table toward the window, staring into the musky reflection. “You hear me? I’m done. I want out of here. Now!”

“That’s why you were so vulnerable,” I said quietly. “That’s why you felt so unloved. How you became convinced you were ugly, unlovable.” I turned to him. “You’re not, you know. I’ve known a lot worse. Hell, I’ve dated a lot worse.”

“I want outta heeeeerrrrre!”

“I can see the attraction now. She’s confident, sure, and smart, the one thing you’d convinced yourself you could never be. And she says she loves you. She’s your substitute mother.”

“No!” he screamed, whirling back at me. “She’s nothing like my mother!”

“Ah. You hate your mother, too. Because she didn’t protect your brother, but she loved him. More than she loved you. But you know what, Tucker?” I paused, waited until his eyes met mine. “At least your mother never asked you to kill anyone.”

He grabbed the back of the third chair as if to raise it over his head. I slammed my boot down on it. “If you do that, Tucker, my friends will have to come in. And we’re not done talking yet.”

“Yes, we are!”

“I don’t know why you’re being so hostile, Tucker. I really don’t. I understand. Truly. And who else has ever been able to say that to you? I’m even sympathetic. But Tucker.” I reached out for the hand and this time I caught it. “How many people are going to have to die because you had crappy parents?”

I thought he’d lash out again, but he didn’t. He just stared at me, as if utterly helpless. Despite his injuries, he squeezed my hand so tightly I could see it turning white. And then he crumpled. All at once. Tumbled into his chair and began to cry.

“I—I didn’t—want to…” It took him half a minute to get it all out, amidst the sobs and stutters. “I—didn’t—”

“I know you didn’t, Tucker. But you did. Five people. And they had families, just like you did, better or worse. People who cared about each other. That kid in the Burger Bliss had four children, all of them under ten. Three girls and a baby boy who will never see their daddy again.”

He buried his face in his arms. “I didn’t—She told me—”

“Who, Tucker?
Who?
Who’s your Kabbalah expert? Why is she taking the Sefirot apart piece by piece?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“You must tell me. I know you feel guilty about what you’ve done, Tucker. You’re filled with remorse. You want to atone. Well, here’s your chance. Tell me who she is. Help me stop her before she takes her next victim. Before she leaves another child without a parent.”

“I—can’t—”

“Let me share this horrible burden you’ve been carrying, Tucker. Please! Give me her name!”

He looked up at me, his face streaked with tears. “I—I didn’t want to be bad. I never wanted to be b-bad.”

“I know you didn’t, Tucker. Give me her name.”

“E-E-E—” He drew in his breath, mustered all his remaining strength, tried it again. “Esther.”

“Esther?” It clicked immediately. “My God—not Esther Goldstein.”

He nodded as if every little motion hurt his head. “She was laughing at you, when you came to visit her. She said you’d never catch her.”

“But—” I closed my lips before I said it aloud. I met this woman. I talked with her. Me, the one with the keen psychological insight, the empathic gift. How could I have stood in the same room with her and not known she was the one?

My hand instinctively traveled to the pill bottle in my pocket. And then I knew the answer.

Granger broke into the room wanting all the details about Esther, how I knew her, where to find her. I gave him what he wanted and let him go after her. I didn’t try to tag along. He wouldn’t want me there, and it would be too damn embarrassing anyway. I’d have to admit I met the killer and didn’t have the sense to know her for what she was. I’d have to admit to O’Bannon that I dragged Darcy out to see a cold-blooded killer.

I’d have to face that cold-blooded killer, knowing that she had laughed at me. Was probably still laughing at me.