Dead End Deal (12 page)

“Because he showed he could successfully implant monkeys. That pretty much ensures it’ll work on humans.”

“All that has shown,” Nikki’s hand caressed his erection, “is they can stuff a glob of stem cells into a monkey’s brain. That doesn’t prove it’ll do diddly squat to someone with Alzheimer’s disease.”

She was right, of course. But her point was nothing more than a technicality. Enough business for now. He effortlessly picked her up and set her on the counter where the ridge of her spine and a flare of freckles across both shoulders reflected in the mirror. “We’re going to do exactly what NIH wanted him to do. Prove it in humans.” He began flicking his tongue from her belly to the crease between her legs.

S
UPINE ON A HOTEL
bed, head on a stack of pillows, the iPad propped up on his thighs, Nigel Feist studied his hand. Online poker was his way of relaxing before sleep. Sitting in the rental car surveilling Ritter’s house all night on top of an additional twenty hours of work was taking its toll. More so than in his younger days. Just another sign of retirement being in the cards for him. His cell rang. He rechecked his hole cards—a pair of eights—before glancing at caller ID. Fuck! Mister Richard you-can-kiss-my-ass Stillman. The fifteen seconds warning flashed on the screen: bet or automatically fold.
Fuck it
. In spite of holding what was probably a winning hand, he picked up the phone, said, “Go ahead.” With mild disappointment, he watched the final three seconds expire, effectively folding his hand. Texas Hold ’Em. Loved the game, played daily as a defense against the mind-numbing hours this job usually required.

Stillman said, “Your plan didn’t seem to make the desired impression. He’s leaving for Seoul. Same flight as previously.”

“Fuck a duck! What’s wrong with the bastard?” Feist swatted away the iPad and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He wore camo boxers and an olive drab tee shirt.

Feist grabbed his Patek Philippe Calatrava from the nightstand, ready to strap it on his wrist the moment the call disconnected. Wouldn’t do to forget it, now would it? Not the most expensive in his prized collection of fifteen watches. In contrast to his heavy Rolex Submariner, the Calatrava was thin, feathery, and elegant. The dial showed 10:03 a.m., meaning he’d have to haul ass to reach Sea-Tac for the flight. But before packing, he’d check the account to be sure that snake Stillman made the deposit.

Feist cleared his throat, said, “All right then. Just so’s we’re straight on this we’re at the end game now, right? No more warn-ings. This is it. Right-right?” And pictured Stillman in black pants and black mock-tee, looking like a fag German industrial designer. He wondered if his black is beautiful concept carried through to his apartment? Black toilet paper, black sheets, an ample supply of black condoms. What a piece of work.

“The one caveat is to make sure the Avengers get the credit.”

Nigel disconnected, unplugged the phone charger and threw it in his rucksack, decided to wait until making it through security and securing a boarding pass and seat assignment before checking his account, but he’d damn well check to make sure the money was there before boarding the flight. Besides, Stillman wanted this done so badly he wouldn’t try to stiff him. And Stillman damn well knew the consequences if he did.

A
HEAVY DRIZZLE
completely saturated the oil-stained gravel parking lot, rapidly enlarging puddles here and there. Underneath the eave of storage shed roof, Fisher turned up his raincoat collar before dialing Jon Ritter’s cell. To his left, an eight-foot-high cyclone fence topped with razor wire encircled the lot. Directly ahead three uniformed poncho-clad Sea-Tac cops with clear plastic hat protectors guarded a cordoned area around a rental car, their squad car’s blue lights flashing.

“Jon, Fisher. I realize you’re in a hurry, but I need to give you a quick head’s up. Still on the one o’clock to Narita?”

“I am. Why?”

Fisher wiped a drop of water that blew into his eye, flicked it off his finger. “We found Lippmann’s shooter.”

“How?”

“The rental car was found in a long-term parking lot out by the airport. Someone noticed a smell and recognized it for what it was. They had the Sea-Tac police pop the trunk. He was in there, shot through the head.”

“Good! Who is the son of a bitch?”

Fisher glanced at the crime scene the cops were guarding until the King County coroner could remove the body. “We got lucky. He had his wallet on him and we ran the name through NCIC. Turns out he’s a small time punk, name of Raymore Thompson. The bad news is he’s decomposing in the trunk of a rental car.”

“He was shot through the head?” Ritter sounded disappointed.

“Yup. Two shots, execution style. From the looks of it, I suspect your Aussie friend of the Avengers is responsible. The bad news is we still don’t have a lead on where that guy might be. But we now have a name associated with him. Nigel Feist.”

“Whoa, how did you figure that out?”

“We got some more enhancements back on one of the cameras in the parking garage. We were lucky enough to have a shot of them just prior to slipping on their stockings. The quality was good enough to run it though Interpol in the assumption you’re right, that he’s Australian. Got a hit back for Feist. Interestingly, he owns a home in Los Angeles.”

“What makes you think Thompson shot Lippmann?”

“We don’t. Not for certain, but the car he was found in is the same one the surveillance camera picked up entering the parking garage. This isn’t enough to even take to a grand jury, but it’s a start.” Fisher recognized the medical examiner van bounce over a chuck hole, heading toward the car with the open trunk.

Ritter said, “I just hope you’re right, that Thompson was the guy. If so, he got what he deserved.”

“Hey, I’m with you on that particular sentiment. Change of subject. A word of motherly advice. Be careful. Remember, those shitheads have extremely good intel. If you’re not careful, they’ll know exactly what you’re doing. You listening to me?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then, I just did my job by warning you. What you do at this point is your business. In any event, stay in touch. I want to hear from you regularly. Got it?”

“Yes, mother.”

Fisher cracked a smile. “No joke, Ritter. You’re messing with some serious shitheads here. Don’t forget that.”

After hanging up, Fisher debated whether to walk through the rain to meet the ME team or stay where he’d be relatively dry. Looked at the rapidly increasing puddles and decided to stay under cover and make another call instead.

Special Agent Ross Harding answered with, “Yeah, Gary, what is it?” Harding had the perfect appearance for an undercover operative. The farthest thing from a law enforcement officer you could get. None of the usual macho mannerisms, none of the arrogant self-assurance, no bluster. The perfect picture of a generic male of indeterminate nationality and a profound lack of flair. Not overly masculine but not gay. A guy who considered being well dressed a pair of new Levis and an Old Navy sweatshirt. You would be surprised to find no calluses on what looked like a working man’s hands.

Fisher said, “We’re right. He’s on the United to Seoul through Narita.”

Harding answered, “I’m ticketed.”

“Excellent. Got additional information for you, a lead on the Aussie. Name’s Nigel Feist and, interestingly enough, he really
is
Australian. So Ritter nailed it. What’s more, everything about him fits the details of the parking lot. I emailed you a picture a few minutes ago, so it should be in your inbox.”

Fisher already had Feist’s face and physical description memorized so rattled them off: forty-two-year-old Caucasian male, six feet, 190 pounds, short cut brown hair, intense green eyes, muscular. No identifying scars. Born Cairns, Australia. Tats on both arms only. No ink elsewhere and none of it the amateur prison crap. He added, “The most important thing you should know about him is he’s is one smart sonofabitch. Do
not—
I repeat, not—underestimate him. Right out of high school, he signed up for the Royal Navy. His scores were so off the chart they offered him a job in the Defense Intelligence Organization as an analyst. While there he developed covert skills. Soon as his contract was up, he resigned to start a private intelligence gathering company. Specializes in industrial espionage and dirty tricks. Word is he’s quite good at it. He’s suspected of being behind two assassinations but there was never enough to even hold him on a seventy-two hour. Point is he’s never left enough trace to be seriously questioned although he’s been under suspicion numerous times. At the moment, he’s our man until proven otherwise.”

“Understood.”

“If he is an Avenger I want his ass. If he isn’t, I still want his ass. My gut tells me he probably doesn’t give a shit about abortion one way or the other and is doing their work for hire. It’s that simple. Bottom line: Nailing Feist is your first priority on this trip. Protecting Ritter is secondary. We get Feist, we get our first big break in nailing the Avengers. Got it?”

“Loud and clear.”

Fisher checked his watch. “Better get your ass in gear. Don’t want you to miss that flight.”

15

H
AIR TURBANED IN
a white terry cloth towel, Yeonhee Lee climbed out of the large marble soaking tub onto wet white tile. She pulled a large bath towel off the stack on the table, shook it out, and wrapped it around herself, tucking in the top to keep it in place. At the moment, she was the only bather this evening, leaving the rest of the sauna deserted of customers. Only two sun-wrinkled attendants remained. Funny, the differences in language, she thought. Koreans refer to public baths as saunas. Americans consider saunas more along the lines of the Scandinavians, a cedar room with dry heat for sweating.

She’d taken a leisurely soak and would now get a massage. Exactly what she needed after a tense day. She always looked forward to tub time as a way to free her mind and contemplate various issues. Especially recently. She was pleased not to see any of her girlfriends here. Tonight in particular, she wanted time to herself to relax and think. Jung-Kyo kept increasing pressure to become engaged. Knowing him, an ultimatum would not be far off. Then what?

She padded into the other room where the massage therapist waited, lay down on the slab of marble and tucked her hands under her right cheek.

The therapist asked, “Anything special today, or just the usual?”

“Maybe a bit extra on the left side of the neck.” A knot, from bending over the lab counters so much these past few days?

The therapist’s hand began running up and down her back, adjacent to her spine. “Your boyfriend still pressuring you?”

Yeonhee sighed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Any girl would consider him a great catch. He has a high-paying job as a Vice President with Hyundai. Comes from a good family. Handsome. Dresses well. The list goes on and on. No question he’d take care of my mother.”

The therapist’s fingers homed in on a knot in her trapezius. “He sounds wonderful, what’s the problem?”

“I just can’t seem to tolerate his . . . chauvinism. I noticed it on our first date and it drives me crazy.”

“Like what?”

“For one thing, he spends all his free time with his buddies, weekends golfing, evenings out drinking when he should be with me.”

“That’s what Korean men do, Yeonhee. Your girlfriends, I bet they would put up with it if they had a chance for a man like him. What makes you different?”

A topic she’d thought about several times and ascribed to her time at UCLA and in Seattle. Western men were very different than Koreans. They treated women better. Something her girlfriends didn’t appreciate. She simply shrugged and said, “I’m not sure.”

“Then maybe it’s just not the right chemistry to get married?” the therapist said.

A half hour later, in the dressing room, Yeonhee unwrapped the towel before a full-length mirror to inspect her body. Too fat? She turned, looked over her shoulder at her butt. Sagging? Time was passing. Men liked younger, firmer women. Though only in her early thirties, as far as female competition was concerned, she was definitely on the down slope. Plus, there was only so much time to devote to working on your body. Even the gym and the spa could only do so much. . . . Besides, her day job took time.

She wished her boobs were bigger. She hadn’t really wanted big boobs until she got to UCLA. There it seemed as if every LA girl had a thin waist, big tits, tight buns, and a tan, and it made her jealous. Sort of. What she lacked in a gorgeous body she made up for in her face. At least that’s what she’d been told. To her, it seemed too round, like a full August moon.

Did Jon Ritter find her attractive? She hoped so. He certainly was. Not that it would lead to anything. She felt a tingle of excitement at the idea of working next to him again. But the other voice in the back of her mind whispered caution. She’d been attracted to him when they worked together before, when he was engaged to Emily. Then he was already taken. Sad. Why couldn’t Jin-Woo be more like him?

Seattle had been a difficult for her, being away from friends and family, and Jin-Woo so persistent about trying to sleep with her. Jin-Woo wanted more from her than being his lab tech, even to the point of acting jealous. He had the nerve to suggest he’d leave his wife for her. How ridiculous. Yes, there was a small bit of attraction to him, but the most important thing was that if he was willing to cheat on his wife, then she would never be able to trust him if they ever did develop a relationship beyond work. She suspected he regularly cheated on his present wife, why would she be silly enough to believe he would be faithful to her? He’d cheat. There are some things you can’t change in a person. Fidelity being one. And she didn’t want a husband out running around with other women. Was this being silly and naive?

She moved to the locker room and slipped the key from the coiled pink elastic band that left a temporary little mark around her wrist. Time to get dressed. Morning would come soon enough and she was expected to be in the lab by 6:30. While dressing she thought again of Jon, about what it might be like now that he was no longer attached to Emily.