Good King Sauerkraut (14 page)

Dominating the foyer was a semicircular counter, also of marble, that discreetly hid the banks of monitors that were the heart of the building's security system. Two men were on duty; Rae Borchard didn't so much introduce King as she did identify him for them. One of the men took two Polaroid shots of him.

“I don't look like this all the time,” King told them, self-consciously fingering his bandage.

The doorman had summoned an elevator for them. He put King's suitcase in the car, murmured something inaudible, and disappeared. The elevator was an ornate affair that had a padded bench to sit on and a painting on one wall to look at. Everything about this building was ornate and luxurious; it went without saying that there'd be no unmanageably heavy windows or itty-bitty TV sets here.
God damn Warren Osterman!
King thought in a rush of fury.
If he'd put us here in the first place, Dennis and Gregory would still be alive!

Rae Borchard must have read his mind. “This apartment has only three bedrooms,” she said. “Warren thought it'd be better if you were all staying at the same place.”

The anger went out of King as quickly as it had come. It wasn't Warren Osterman's fault Dennis and Gregory were dead.

The elevator stopped at the twenty-second floor. “It's 2206,” Rae said and led the way.

Mimi Hargrove met them at the door. She took one look at King's battered face and burst into tears. “Oh, King!” she cried—and threw both arms around him.

King was so surprised that he dropped his suitcase, barely missing Rae's foot. He put his arms around Mimi and reassured her that he was all right. It wasn't an entirely comfortable clinch, since the top of her head barely reached his chest; they soon broke away. “I look worse than I feel,” King said, not entirely truthfully.

“Come inside—shut the door,” Mimi answered with an uncharacteristic display of nervousness.

“You're both safe here,” Rae said as she and King went in. “You don't have to worry as long as you both stay inside. I'll just put these in the office.” She was referring to the armload of King's papers that she carried.

Alone with Mimi, King was aware all over again that she too had lost a partner. “I'm sorry, Mimi. I know you were close to Gregory. How long were you together?”

“Over five years,” she sniffed. “He was a friend before he was ever a partner. It was Gregory's idea to start SmartSoft, you know. He brought me in.”

King floundered for something comforting to say, and ended up saying the worst thing possible: “Well, you still have three more partners.”

“For god's sake, Sauerkraut!” Mimi flared. “We're not talking about replacing a wrecked car, we're talking about a human being! What a
callous
thing to say!”

King thought that over, as calmly as he was able. “You're right, Mimi. It came out callous, but I didn't mean it that way. I was just trying to make you feel better. I'm so doped up on medication that I'm not thinking straight. Please forgive me.”

Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh, of course—I should have known. I'm not thinking straight either, and I'm not doped up on anything. I'm sorry I snapped at you, King.”

Mimi's apology lifted King's spirits a little. He'd talked himself out of an awkward spot; that didn't happen often. “It doesn't matter,” he said magnanimously.

“We've got to relate to each other now,” Mimi said earnestly. “We're the only ones left.”

Relate what to each other?
King wondered.
Ghost stories? Dirty limericks?
He was saved from having to answer by Rae Borchard's return. “I'll show you your room,” she said.

He picked up his suitcase and followed, looking over this new apartment that would be home for the next couple of weeks. The place was almost belligerently modern, full of reflecting surfaces and sharp angles. It was all silvers and blacks and grays and whites; the only bright color was provided by the people in it. King liked it.

His bedroom was huge. Double bureau, a wall-mounted mirror that ran from floor to ceiling, two bookshelves, three chairs, a separate dressing room that led to a bathroom. A thick black carpet that seemed to proclaim
Take your shoes off, enjoy!
Cable television, with a thirty-inch screen this time. In one corner a computer work station had been set up. But best of all, to King's eye, was the room-dominating presence of—aha!—a
King
-sized bed. He had to sleep on the diagonal of most beds; he was fully comfortable only in his own king-sized bed at home. And now this one. “Oh yes,” King murmured before Rae could ask him if everything was all right.

“Is there anything you need?” she asked instead.

He shook his head, and aggravated the pain that had been thumping dully beneath the surface. “I'm going to take a pill and lie down.”

“I'll get you some water.” She headed off toward the bathroom.

King flushed with pleasure. Attractive, efficient women didn't usually fetch and carry for him. He fumbled a pain pill out of the vial and took the glass of water Rae brought him.

He felt the effects of the medication almost immediately. Rae was talking about tomorrow's plans, and she said something about Warren Osterman that King didn't get; his head was growing woozier by the second. He flapped a hand vaguely in her direction. “I'm sorry, Rae.”

She understood. “I'll leave you alone. Get some sleep.”

He didn't hear her leave. He pulled off as much of his clothing as he could manage before collapsing on to the big, long, wide, comfortable bed.

Mimi ordered them something to eat. When she'd seen King stumble out of his bedroom after a three-hour nap, she'd said: “There's lots of stuff in the fridge, but I don't feel like fixing anything and I'm sure you don't either. Is Chinese all right? Or would you rather have an omelet?”

“Chinese is fine.”

“I don't know how easy that is to digest—how's your stomach?”

King placed one hand over his midsection. “It seems to be okay,” he said, thinking of all the food he'd consumed the day before—and suddenly realized his hand was pressing against bare skin. He glanced down and saw he was wearing nothing but shorts and one black sock. “I'm standing here talking to you in my underwear,” he said.

The corner of Mimi's mouth twitched. “Does that embarrass you?”

He thought about it. “No.”

“Good. It doesn't bother me, so don't worry about it.”

When their food was delivered, they didn't talk much at first; they were both hungry. The spicy Szechuan meal hit the spot, and King got a little boy's kick out of sitting in the formal dining room in his underwear and eating food out of paper cartons. He and Mimi both relaxed once their hunger was blunted. The double tragedy of Dennis Cox's and Gregory Dillard's deaths was having the effect of drawing the two survivors closer together, a not unusual circumstance. King was enjoying the casual, noncompetitive atmosphere that was developing between the two of them. And he rather liked the idea of playing house with Mimi Hargrove.

Unfortunately, she wanted to talk about her husband. “I called him in Vienna,” she said. “I caught him right before he left for the Indian Ocean. He wanted to come back.”

“Understandable.”

“But I wouldn't let him. His work is important too. It's just that Michael is
so
committed to our marriage that sometimes he loses his sense of proportion.”

“Did you tell him the police think you might be in danger?”

“Oh, no! Then he
would
come back. But what could he do that the police can't do better? Besides, I don't want him to worry. Michael doesn't always handle stress as well as he should—he's very sensitive, you know. And he does tend to be overprotective.”

King made a noncommittal noise. So Mimi was the strong one in the marriage—was that the message he was supposed to get? Obviously she wasn't above paying herself compliments when the opportunity arose. King felt a perverse urge to take Michael's side. “How would you feel if he kept something like that from you?”

She was silent a moment. “I should hate it,” she finally replied. “Because it would imply that he didn't think I was strong enough to handle it … is that what you're getting at? Don't misunderstand, King—Michael is strong, very strong, in most circumstances. There are just a few areas where his defense systems aren't quite a hundred percent. I'm one of those areas. I don't know what he'd do if anything happened to me. But that's what you have to expect, I suppose, when you have a marriage in which both partners are as committed as Michael and I are.”

King thought of Dennis Cox's hand in her lap and said nothing. Letting yourself get felt up during a business conference evidently didn't count.

“I've thought about going back to California,” she went on. “but I think we're both safer here, where the police already know what's going on.”

“I've thought of going home too,” King lied. “But after seeing this fortress we're staying in …”

“Yes, it does make you feel safe, doesn't it?”

King felt a twinge of conscience. This woman was in fear of her life, and all because of him. He longed to tell her she was safe, that no conglomerate of competitors was out to
bump them off
. He got no pleasure from worrying her. “You know, Mimi, maybe everything has been just a series of accidents after all. Even my mugging.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“The police don't
know
what happened. They're only guessing.”

“No, King. Three of us are attacked the same day, and it would have been four if I'd stayed in the apartment Wednesday night. Let's not kid ourselves. Somebody wants us dead—all of us.”

King shrugged and let it go.

Mimi told him she'd been the one to walk unsuspecting into the other apartment and discover what had happened there. “You were lucky, King—you didn't have to see that ugly sight. Gregory's body on the floor under the window, blood all over the place and his head missing. I thought I was going to pass out. I barely made it to my bathroom to throw up.” She'd used the phone in her room to call the police, and then had stayed there until the police arrived. She'd had to pass through the living room to let them in; she told King she'd kept her eyes on her feet so as not to have to look at what was left of Gregory.

There'd been two uniformed officers at the door, a young one and a not-so-young one. The young one had had the same reaction as Mimi's; he'd taken one look at the headless body and started gagging. Mimi had quickly directed him not to her bathroom but to the nearest one, the one at the end of the hall. The unfortunate young officer had stumbled into the bathroom—and found another dead man in the tub.

“All that time,” Mimi said wide-eyed, “all that time I was waiting for the police to get there—I just sat there, totally unaware that there was another corpse in the apartment.”

King winced at her way of referring to Dennis. “Mimi, you don't know how much I wish you could have been spared that.” He meant it.

“I wish I could have too.
You
certainly were no help. Getting yourself mugged at a time like that—and in Central Park, too! Couldn't you have picked something more original?” Only half joking. “What hospital did they take you to?”

King blinked. “I don't know. I didn't ask.”

“You didn't
ask?
”

“It just never occurred to me.”

Anyone else would have laughed at his absentmindedness, but not Mimi. “It never occurred to you. You know, Sauerkraut, sometimes I can't believe you're real.”

“Don't call me that.”

She made a hand gesture that could have meant anything. The tension lasted only a minute, though; they cleared away the remains of their meal and by mutual unspoken agreement headed toward the apartment's office, which was a great deal larger than the office in the other apartment.

They spent the next few hours going over the weapons platform specifications—asking each other questions, getting organized, trying to spot potential trouble areas. They lost themselves in the work until they reached what looked like a reasonable stopping point; at twelve o'clock King took another pain pill and told Mimi good night.

It was only after he'd showered and crawled back into the big bed that a possible explanation occurred to him as to why Mimi was so adamant about their being in danger … a rather warped explanation that he didn't care for at all.
Maybe she likes being thought important enough to kill
. King shuddered; the idea was uncharitable even for him, and he resolutely put it out of his mind.

The following morning an army of strangers descended upon them. For an hour and a half the army dusted, vacuumed, cleaned up the kitchen, scoured out the bathrooms, changed the bed linen and towels, emptied the wastebaskets, smiled incessantly, and refused to accept money. Then, in an eye-blink, they were gone.

“Do you know,” King said wonderingly, “that is the first time in my life I've ever known anyone in New York to turn down money when it was offered.”

Mimi considered his remark literally, as she did everything. “It's probably in their contract that they can't accept tips from guests,” she said. “Don't worry, I'm sure the fee MechoTech pays them is outrageous.”

While the army was in the midst of waging its war on dirt, Rae Borchard's secretary had stopped by with a new watch and briefcase for King. The watch was beautiful, and far more expensive than what King would have bought for himself. Not a Rolex; that would have been too obvious. Dennis Cox would have admired it, though; he'd owned at least a dozen watches, all of them of status-symbol level of expensiveness.

King remembered something he should have taken care of the day before. He went to his room and put in a call to Gale Fredericks in Pittsburgh. Normally she didn't make a practice of going in to the lab on Saturdays, but under the present circumstances …