Moving Target (32 page)

Resentfully she looked at the clock. Nobody should be calling her before 7
A.M
. on a Saturday morning, which meant that somebody in another time zone had forgotten about the three-hour difference between East and West coasts, or someone didn’t care, or was awake in the same time zone and thought she should be awake, too.

She was betting on the latter.

“Yes, Mr. Tannahill,” she said to the dark, empty room as she reached for the phone. “Whatever you say, Mr. Tannahill. And have I mentioned lately what a dear, sweet, kind, relentlessly demanding bastard you are?”

She picked up the phone. “I didn’t ask for a wake-up call.”

Shane ignored her. “You didn’t mention that the International Antiquarian Book Exposition was in L.A. this weekend, either.”

“Mr. Tannahill. What a surprise.”

In Las Vegas, high above the twenty-four-hour hustle of the Golden Fleece, Shane smiled thinly at the complete lack of inflection in his curator’s voice. The gold pen in his left hand began turning over lazily, walking across the back of his fingers like an acrobat doing slow flips.

“Have you been to the exposition yet?” he asked.

“No.”

He waited.

So did she.

“Go,” he said.

“Everything that you might be interested in was shown to one or all of the major museums before the festival opened,” Risa said. “Unless you’re telling me to sift the dregs, I can’t think of a reason to go there.”

“I can.”

“I await enlightenment.”

Shane wished he could see Risa’s lush mouth form the biting words. He had never touched her, because he didn’t fool around with employees. That didn’t mean he was blind. He was just too smart to get tangled up with a female tiger like Risa Sheridan. Yanking her chain, however, was always entertaining.

“Because I told you to,” he said.

“Brilliant.”

“And because the Huntington Library, which would be a logical choice for what I’m talking about, is rumored to be having financial difficulties.”

“It’s a library. Of course it’s short of money.”

“It’s a scholarly kind of library. No sex appeal, which means no big exhibits to bring in cash. The grounds are huge. Takes an army to keep it up. Very expensive, so the administration probably has been cutting corners, saving on basic maintenance, selling off some of the stuff in the basement, that sort of thing.”

Risa saw where the explanation was going. “So they’re not acquiring right now.”

“It’s nice to work with a smart woman.”

“Try hiring your casino girls by their IQ rather than their bra size.”

“Same problem the Huntington has—no sex appeal.”

“Some men have gotten past the tits-and-snicker stage.”

“Not enough of them to fill my casinos.”

Risa gave up the losing end of that argument. “Are you after anything in particular at the antiquarian garage sale, or do you just want me to look around?”

“Look all you want, but listen even harder. If anyone wants to talk about the Book of the Learned, I’ll be happy to make them rich.”

She straightened as the last of the I-need-coffee haze disappeared from her mind. “Is it here?”

“That’s your job. Find out. And Risa?”

“Yes?”

“At the first hint of danger, get out.”

“Danger?” She frowned. She had had her share of obsessed collectors screaming and threatening her. She had met dubious dealers in back alleys at night. Unpleasant, but part of the business, especially for an aggressive, ambitious curator like her. Shane knew that as well as she did. In fact, he positively encouraged it. “What have you heard?” she asked sharply.

“Nothing. That’s why I’m nervous. It makes me think that whoever has the Book of the Learned is keeping folks quiet the old-fashioned way.”

“What’s that?”

“Killing them.”

W
allace, aka Bad Billy, eyed the last twenty feet between himself and the top of the ridge. He was cursing steadily, monotonously, and very quietly. Although he always went to work with an overnight kit in hand, nobody had bothered to tell him that the slack-wristed Palm Springs scholar whose house he was watching was actually a fucking mountain goat. If the woman hadn’t slowed Erik North, Wallace knew he would have been lost after the first mile.

Not that it had been a picnic so far. If he hadn’t been in shape, he would have been on his hands and knees, panting. Just as soon as he could, he was going to get a pair of really expensive hiking boots and put them on the client’s bill.

But for now he was stuck trying to climb a cliff wearing old running shoes. It could have been worse, he supposed. He could have been in a tux and leather shoes like the last job.

He looked at the cliff one more time, listened carefully, and heard nothing. His orders hadn’t said anything about beating the crap out of North, but they hadn’t said anything about not doing it, either. North wouldn’t be so hard to keep track of if he had a busted ankle. Or neck.

Wallace took the cliff where the route looked easiest—straight up the middle. By the time he realized his mistake, it was too late. He had run out of places to put his hands, much less his feet. He would have to climb down and try a different route. Swearing under his breath, he felt around with his toe for the foothold he had just abandoned. His shoe grated over rock and slid off.

“I’d offer a hand, but we haven’t been introduced,” said a voice from over his head and to the right.

The P.I. was too shrewd to lose his balance by looking up suddenly, especially when the voice was between him and the rising sun. He looked up slowly. Very slowly. He saw a man crouching on his heels, silhouetted at the edge of the cliff, and very much at ease with heights and tricky footing. For all the tension he showed, the guy might have been standing on a pitcher’s mound.

But it wasn’t until Wallace focused on Erik’s eyes, pale against the shadows of his face, that he knew he had made a big mistake. The guy might make his living by drawing pictures in books, but he wasn’t anybody’s Tinkerbell. The only good news was that North’s hands were empty. All Wallace had to do was support himself on one foot and one hand while reaching across his chest and into his shoulder harness for his pistol.

Yeah. Right. He would just have to wait until he climbed down for that little pleasure.

“You want a name?” Wallace asked.

“I have one. What about you?”

“David Farmer.”

Erik looked at the man who was clinging to the rocks with both hands and one foot. Wallace wasn’t sweating much or panting, which spoke well for his physical condition. He hadn’t even paused before lying, which spoke well for his wits if not for his morals.

Not looking away from his quarry, Erik selected a baseball-size rock from the rubble at the top of the cliff and wrapped his hand around the cold stone. “All right, David Farmer. What are you doing out here?”

“Walking. Then I got lost. You know the way out?”

“There are several ways, but unless you start telling me the truth, you won’t need any of them.”

“Great,” Wallace said sarcastically. “First I get lost and then I get found by a paranoid survivalist.”

“Life’s a bitch, ain’t it?” Erik’s smile was even less comforting than his eyes. “Want to start all over again?”

“Look, I’m sorry you don’t believe me. I’ll just climb back down and—”

“You make one move,” Erik cut in calmly, “and I’m going to start dropping rocks on you. By the time Search and Rescue finds you—if they ever find you—they’ll assume you’re just one more dumb tourist who thought Mother Nature was a sweet old lady and cougars really would rather eat carrots than kids. You with me so far?”

“Yeah.”

“Third chance. Who are you?”

Wallace thought about sticking with David Farmer. Then he thought about how he had underestimated Erik North so far. But no longer. There was no doubt that the man above him was cold enough to stone him off the cliff.

And smart enough to get away with it.

“William Wallace,” he hissed through his teeth, trying to force a smile.

“Why are you walking around in the wilderness at dawn?”

“You tell me,” he retorted. He had been wondering about just that thing for the last two miles. Surely there were better places to hide the portfolio.

Thoughtfully, Erik balanced the rock at his own eye level on his flattened palm, as though testing the missile’s weight and balance. Some internal equilibrium shifted. The rock started to fall, heading straight for Bad Billy’s face.

“All right! All right! I’ll talk,” Wallace said quickly, cringing against the cliff.

Erik caught the rock with a movement that was so fast it made Wallace blink. Then Erik went back to balancing the rock on his palm.

“I’m watching the leather case,” Wallace said.

“Why?”

“I’m being paid.”

“Who hired you?” Erik asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Wrong answer.”

The stone rolled off Erik’s hand and over the edge of the cliff. It missed Wallace, but not by much. Both men listened while the rock bounced, grated, bounced again, then rolled off down the steep slope at the bottom of the cliff. The stone rolled for a long time, caroming off anything bigger than itself with unhappy crunching sounds.

“How far do you think you’ll roll?” Erik asked, picking up another rock. This time there was nothing casual about the way he handled it. He looked like the baseball pitcher he once had been.

Wallace began to get nervous. “I told you the truth. I don’t know who hired me.”

The next rock smacked into his shoulder. It could just as easily have been his nose. Both men knew it. Only one of them sweated over it.

“I don’t know!” Wallace said, his voice rising.

Rocks rained down one after another, thrown so swiftly that he couldn’t have ducked even if he had been on the flats. A cut opened up high on his cheek. The back of his head throbbed. He tried to crawl into the cracks on the cliff, but there wasn’t nearly enough room.

He had been pummeled before, but never while clinging to a cliff. It terrified him almost as much as the certainty that Erik North was playing with him like a cat idly toying with a mouse before he moved in for the kill.

“Please,” Wallace said hoarsely. “You gotta believe me. I don’t know!”

“I don’t believe you.”

More rocks rained down. Wallace slipped and barely caught himself.

“Stop!” His voice broke. His breath sawed. “I’m telling you, I don’t know! I tried, but he’s too slick. I’ve worked for him on and off for ten years, and I don’t know his name!” He took another broken breath and hunched his shoulders against more punishment. “The bastard’s real good, whoever he is. Or she. Could be a woman, I suppose. I just don’t fucking know!”

Erik wished he didn’t believe Wallace. But he did. The man was shaking.

“How do you get paid?” Erik asked.

“Now it’s cash sent to an overseas bank. At first, it was small, nonsequential bills mailed to my P.O. box.”

“From what city?” Erik knew that the detective would have been curious enough to check the mailing envelope.

“L.A. twice, New York twice, Miami, Denver, Dallas, Seattle.”

“The boy—or girl—gets around.” Erik flipped the fist-size rock from palm to palm as though it was as light as a tennis ball. “Who do you think it is?”

“Not a clue,” Wallace said in disgust, but his shaking was subsiding. “And I’ve tried to find out. Believe me.”

Erik did. The possibilities for blackmail must have appealed to someone like Wallace, especially once he began doing the kind of illegal, high-ticket jobs that required payment through an overseas account. “How are you contacted?”

“By phone. The number is blocked. The call isn’t traceable.”

“Man or woman?”

“Could be a Pekingese. It’s hard to tell with a high-end voice distorter.” He wiped his sweaty, blood-streaked forehead against the back of his hand. “You mind if I climb down? My hand is getting tired.”

“So is mine. Want to see who drops what first?”

Wallace gave up the idea of trying to pull his weapon under the pretense of climbing down the cliff.

“What kind of jobs do you usually do for your mystery client?” Erik asked.

“Background checks.”

“Bullshit.”

Wallace considered hanging tough and trying to make his first answer fly. Then he looked at Erik’s eyes. There was more light now, a lot more, but it would take something hotter than sunlight to warm up those eyes. “Once or twice I leaned on some people.”

“Who?”

“A bellman who was robbing rooms. A check artist who liked to use the names of the rich and anonymous.”

“An old lady in Florida?” he asked casually. “Fire?”

Wallace didn’t flinch.

“A guru in Sedona?” Erik asked, watching the other narrowly. “Fire again.”

Wallace looked confused.

“An old woman in the Mojave Desert?” Erik continued. “Napalm, this time.”

“What is this, some kind of state-by-state tour of pyros?”

More rocks rained down. Wallace’s look of confusion went back to stark fear. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he shouted. “I’ve worked in a lot of states, okay? I’m not a torch! It’s not the way I do things!”

Erik weighed the answers and the rock in his hand. Wallace undoubtedly knew more than he was telling, but he hadn’t flinched or sweated at being questioned about three deaths by fire, so he wasn’t going to be any help there. He could stone Wallace right off the cliff, but there was little point. All Erik really wanted was the name of whoever had hired Wallace. Wallace didn’t have that name.

Something moved at the edge of Erik’s peripheral vision: Serena’s scarf, lifting on a breeze too light for him to sense. He turned his head just enough to see her clearly, but not enough to take his attention away from Wallace.

Serena was standing to his right. She walked forward until she could see the man on the cliff—and he could see the barrel of the gun pointing straight at him. Her knuckles were white around the gun. Her legs trembled, but the gun barrel didn’t.

“Is he the one who murdered my grandmother?” Serena asked.