Natural Suspect (2001) (13 page)

"What're you--"

Ignoring her and looking away as if he were listening to an omniscient voice, the tall man ran his hand down the back of his blond hair. In his heart, he knew it was a good costume, but he couldn't help second-guessing himself. Maybe he should've picked one of his other disguises: the
Playboy
photographer; the mule tanner circa 1860; even the ATM. So many perfect choices. Such was the pain of a master.

"I didn't mean--"

"Shut up," he snapped. Without another word, he kneeled down below the desk. From Devin's view, it looked and sounded as if he was rifling through a bag or a briefcase. A zipper purred. Leather stretched. Metal tools clicked against each other.

The moment he stood up, Devin saw the object of his desire--a classic Swingline stapler. Sometimes the simple ways were the best.

"Oh, God . . . ," Devin gasped. "What're you--?"

"Shut up," he repeated. Turning away from Devin, he reached back into his bag, grabbed a box of staples, and loaded the Swingline.

Unsure of what to say, Devin just stayed quiet. Better to take advantage of the moment. With a deep breath, she silently checked the strength of her bonds. She pulled as hard as she could, but the handcuffs wouldn't give.

"They're eighty percent steel," the tall man warned, brushing his hair behind his ear and slowly turning to face her. "You're not going anywhere." As calm as a yawn, he leaned toward Devin, his stomach slithering against the top of the desk. She was stuck in the chair, pushing back to get away from him. He was six inches away from her face. "Ask me who I am," the man growled.

"I already d--"

"Why aren't you listening to me?"
he shouted, his hot breath wisping against her features. Pouncing forward, he reached out, grabbed her by the back of her neck, and yanked her even closer. She turned her head to the side, struggling to pull away, but the man just squeezed her neck harder. "When you were little, Ms. McGee, did anyone ever try stapling your skin to your collarbone?" With his free hand, he opened the stapler to its full 180-degree position. "It's one of the few spots in the human body where the bone is right there--though now that I think about it, there's also the skull and the forehead ..." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him raise the stapler toward her face.

"Please ... I promise--"

"You know the magic words, Ms. McGee."

"Okay, okay," she pleaded. "Please--tell me who you are."

Without warning, he released her neck, letting her collapse backward. Easing into his own seat, he made sure she was still watching. With his chin, he motioned to the small name tag pinned to his shirt. In thin black letters was the name
fran.

"O-okay,
Fran
y
what do you want?"

The tall Foot Locker employee nodded proudly and crossed one leg over the other. The perfect disguise. Back in control. "Like I told you, Ms. McGee, I just want to keep things fair."

"What do you mean
fair?"

"Y'know, this whole Hightower fiasco."

"So this has something to do with Julia?"

The tall man uncrossed his legs, then crossed them the other way. "Have you ever seen a dog the first time it rides in a car?" he asked.

"What're you--"

"Just answer the question, Ms. McGee. Have you ever seen a--"

"No--not that I can remember."

"It's an incredible sight, really. The dog'll run around in the back, thinking everything's fine, and as the car actually starts moving, there'll be nothing out of the ordinary. Then, a block or two away, there'll come a point where the driver eventually has to slow down. When he hits the brakes, the dog's whole world comes undone. Y'see, as higher-ordered thinkers, we humans know to brace ourselves against momentum. That's what keeps us from smacking our faces on the windshield. That and seat belts. But dogs--when it's their first time in a car--dogs can't grasp the concept of momentum. They don't know how to brace themselves. So they inevitably spend their first car ride falling to the floor every time the driver hits the brakes. Either that or they get sick all over the place. Or both."

"I don't understand."

"Pretend you're a dog, Ms. McGee. One day, your entire world is flat and unshakable; the next day, you go for a simple trip and you find out that not only is the world far more complex than you thought--bu
t m
ore important--if you dont brace yourself, the whole shebang is going to rage out of your control."

"Are you threatening me?"

"If I were, you'd already be screaming." He squeezed the neck of the stapler and launched a single staple onto the desk. It hit with a ping. "It's a strange world, Ms. McGee. I'm just here to tell you that there's more to it than you know."

"So you're saying Julia's innocent?"

"No one's innocent. Not really."

"But. . .
but--"

"Goats butt, birds fly, and children who are going on an outing with their father must get a good night's sleep." He grinned wide, proud of the
Mary Poppins
reference.

"Do you always find answers in children's entertainment?" Devin asked.

"Talk to the reporter. He's obsessed with
This Little Piggy Went to the Market..."

"What're you talking about? What reporter?"

"Patrick Roswell--at the
Gazette.
I think you two should get together. You've got a lot in common."

"I don't underst--"

"Think about it, Ms. McGee. Not everyone wants you to lose." Watching her with his hollow eyes, he let his words sink in. Then, in one quick movement, he hopped out of his seat and headed for the door.

"Wait a minute--how'm I gonna get out of here?"

"Oh, that's right. I almost forgot." Stopping in midstep, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a tiny handcuff key, and moved back toward Devin. He leaned in close and pinched her cheeks.

"What're you--"

Before she could get the words out, he stuffed the key in her mouth.

"It'll take you a while to lean down and twist them open, but old man Houdini never seemed to mind. Nice meeting you, Ms. McGee."

As the tall man left the office, Devin pulled her right arm up an
d l
owered her head to the now-extended handcuffs. Angling the key around in her mouth, she could feel the rust scraping against her teeth. When it finally peeked through her lips, it took less than thirty seconds to get it into the lock. The turning was the hard part. But when it eventually clicked, when the cuffs around her right wrist sprang open, she pulled her arm free and opened the other.

Shooting out of her seat, she ran for the door. If the elevator behaved as usual, she might still catch him. "Fran!" she shouted as she burst into the hallway. Running full speed, she dashed toward the elevator. But as she turned the final corner, she realized it was too late. The hall was empty. Fran was gone.

"Here!" Sissy shouted
to the cab driver. "Stop the car!"

The cab screeched to a halt, sending Sissy slightly forward in her seat. "Haven't you ever heard of easing to a stop?" she barked.

The driver ignored the question. "Nine-fifty," he announced, pointing to the meter.

Sissy pulled out a ten-dollar bill and handed it to him.

"You want change?" he asked sarcastically.

"Actually, now I do." She put her hand out, waiting for the two quarters. No tips for smart-asses. When she got out of the car, she crossed in front of the cab and shot a final look at the driver. She then slapped her open palm against the hood of the cab, leaving the fifty cents sitting there.

Squinting his eyes, the driver slammed the gas and the cab peeled forward, just inches from sideswiping Sissy. Her skirt blew through the air, but she didn't bat an eye or even turn around. Small fish weren't worth it.

When she reached the curb, she looked up at the pink neon sign for Beats Me, her favorite store in the Village. With a quick look over her shoulder, she pulled open the oak-and-glass door, where a light jingle of holiday bells signaled her arrival.

Inside, the long rectangular room had four mannequins--one in each corner--all of them dressed like Cher, complete with monster hair. Two wore fishnets and skimpy black corsets, one wore a leather bikini with silver-linked chains around her stomach, and one was dressed like a nurse with a black leather mask that could barely contain all the thick black hair.

"Hiya, dear," a sweet voice that was all peaches said from behind one of the many glass display cases. Looking up, Sissy saw a small old woman with silver-gray hair that was pinned up in a tightly wrapped bun. With her simple black cardigan, her understated orthopedic shoes, and the reading glasses that dangled around her neck, she wasn't a typical customer. She was the owner.

"Hey, Dottie," Sissy called out as she passed a display case marked
tongue-pickable locks
. Heading straight for an open bookcase on the lefthand wall, Sissy didn't bother with small talk. She was already running late and her associate would be here any minute. Still, Sissy was a purist, which meant she couldn't pass up a quick look at the Employee's Picks of the Week. Collected under a handwritten sign marked
nana's raging orgasms
, the featured items weren't only obsessively dangerous--they were twenty percent off.

A scan of the items left her completely underwhelmed and made her wonder for the first time if Dottie was losing her edge.

"Anything you like?" Dottie called out.

"Not really."

Dottie's eyes went dark and her shoulders pitched with irritation. "Don't give me that pity look, you bony little psychopath!"

"Who're you calling bony, you has-been witch's tit."

"Preppie-lover."

"Diaper-wearer."

"Sock-sniffer."

"Gray-hairer."

"That's it!" Dottie shouted. "Enough with the old jokes, you Barbie-doll bitch! You let another one get loose, I'll put a boot in your eye faster than you can say '
Harder:

Yeeaaaah. Sissy grinned, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. Nothing like coming home.

Over her shoulder, the holiday bells jingled and the two old friends realized they were no longer alone. Turning around, Sissy assumed that her associate had finally arrived. The store wasn't the best meeting place, but Dottie was well known for her discretion. Sissy glanced down at her watch, then finally looked up to see who'd stepped inside. Her mouth dropped open and the blood drained from her face.

"Oh, God," Sissy blurted as her features went white. "What the hell're you doing here?"

Chapter
6.

S
issy stared in
wide-eyed terror as Luke Harrison shut the glas
s d
oor of the Beats Me boutique with his heel, and pulled the shade down with his hook.

"Just what the fuck do you think you're doing?" Dottie asked.

"You're closed," Harrison said.

"The hell I am."

Dottie rushed him, flailing at his face. Harrison parried her smoothly with his steel limb and, with the quickness of a striking rattler, latched on to her throat with his hand.

"Harrison, don't hurt her!" Sissy screamed.

Harrison, dressed in a black suit, black turtleneck, and black wing tips, fixed the shop owner with a stiletto-like stare, then slowly let her go. He was a six-footer, lean and wiry as a coiled spring. His dark eyes, shaded by the brim of his black fedora, looked like chips of burning coal.

"Take a hike, old woman," he said to Dottie. "What?"

"Dottie, do as he says," Sissy pleaded. "Come back in half an hour. I'll watch the place."

Dottie straightened her bun and backed toward the door, never taking her eyes off Harrison.

"Call me an old lady again and youll be searching the sewers for your nuts," she said. "Sissy, you want me to call the cops?"

"Dottie, he
is
a cop."

"I could tell," Dottie said. She slammed the door behind her.

"Jesus, Harrison, you didn't have to manhandle her," Sissy said.

"Get in the back room. You have some explaining to do."

"Hey, easy does it, Lukey-Wookey," she cooed, thrusting her perfect breasts toward him. "Dottie has a bed back there. Why don't we take advantage of it? You can learn firsthand what makes me so valuable to the Organization."

Harrison shoved her roughly through the beaded curtain into the back room.

"If it turns out you've been playing both ends against the middle," he said, "the only organization you'll be valuable to is the International Brotherhood of Cemetery Worms."

Sissy faced him defiantly. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said with conviction.

"I'm talking about a hand belonging to Arthur Hightowers lawyer that was just delivered to Rob Rutledge in a box. That sound like anyone's technique you know of?" He shook his hook at her for emphasis.

"Stefan is involved in this?" she asked incredulously. "I thought he was dead."

"On the contrary. He's still happily making other people dead, most recently, I suspect, Attorney Joe Kellogg."

Everyone in the Organization--the O, as most referred to it--knew that Stefan Ghorse had severed Harrison's left hand, and then tied a tourniquet around the stump, allowing the agent to live to face the humiliation of having been trapped, then maimed, by his quarry. Harrison, a legend for his toughness and uncompromising honesty, had vowed to get even, but five years had passed, and Stefan was still in the dissection business.

The O was a highly secret collaboration with murky origins and financing. Only a few select operatives even knew it existed. The initial goal of the O was to stop international terrorists functioning around the world. Over the years since its creation, though, the group had extended its range to include large-scale narcotics traffickers, arms dealers, and now, those who would foment international financial chaos.

"Kellogg was a jerk," Sissy said. "He made a pass at me the first time he met me."

"You should have taken him up on his offer. I suspect he was one of the very few who knew what Rutledge and Hightower were up to."

"I was dating his boss's son, for chrissakes. Talk about disloyal."

"Sissy, as far as I'm concerned, you define the word."

"Up yours, Harrison. I've always done whatever those buffoons running the O have asked of me."

"And then some. You were just supposed to date Morgan Hightower to get close to his old man--not to
marry
him."

Sissy favored him with another coy smile and fingered the two-carat ruby pendant suspended over her spectacular cleavage.

"He made me an offer I couldn't refuse."

Harrison's ebony eyes flashed.

"The security and stability of the world as we know it is hanging by a thread, and all you can think of is adding to your jewelry collection. What a gal. Now, what do you know about Kellogg? Was he Hightower and Rutledge's point man?"

"Kellogg's a pretentious fop with more weaknesses than a Yugo. If they made someone that vulnerable their point man, they're not bright enough to pull off anything this big. Kellogg may have known some parts of their plan, but I seriously doubt he knew everything."

"Well, that hand tells me that whatever Kellogg knew, Stefan and his employers know, too."

"Such brutes. If they had half a brain, they would have known that a pair of talented lips in just the right spot would have gotten more out of Kellogg than any oversized, cross-dressing torture master ever could."

Without warning, Harrison brought his hook up under Sissy s chin, forcing her onto her tiptoes.

"Sissy, mark my words," he said through clenched teeth. "If I learn that you're holding out on us, you're going to need prostheses in places they haven't invented them for."

He lowered the hook and brushed the curved edge up her crotch. Then he whirled and stormed from the shop.

Shaken, Sissy sank to the corner of the bed. His loss to Stefan Ghorse aside, Harrison was as brilliant, tough, and determined as anyone in the agency--most definitely someone to be careful of, and if necessary, to be dealt with. It was several minutes before she felt able to stand. As she did, there was a firm knock on the alley door behind her.

"Yes?" she said.

Its
me.

Sissy opened the door a crack, then all the way.

"Where in the hell were you when I needed you?" she said.

It's a strange
world, Ms. McGee . . . There's more to it than you know . . . Talk to the reporter . . . Patrick Roswell ... I think you two should get together. . . Not everyone wants you to lose . . .

Devin propped her feet up on her desk and replayed the bizarre exchange with the even more bizarre Fran. The Hightower case had been strange from the beginning. With limitless piles of money at her disposal, and a case against her that was hardly open and shut, Julia had eschewed the high-powered firms in favor of a young solo practitioner with a limited, albeit reasonably impressive, record as a criminal attorney.

Why?

Julia had never told Devin the reason she had been chosen as her defense counsel, but subsequently, Joe Kellogg, the Hightower familys attorney, took credit for recommending her. Never taking his eyes off her breasts, he had praised her work on behalf of the son of a friend of his, whom Devin had gotten cleared of an assault charge. In fact, she had put together a rather brilliant defense for the kid, but enough to justify placing a billionaire s wife in her hands? Extremely doubtful.

Why?

Now, with the case against Julia still riding a motive/method/opportunity high, she was being told by a gigantic wacko with a blond wi
g t
hat there was more to this case than she knew, and that Julias survival might depend on a reporter named Roswell.

"What in the hell is going on?" Devin said out loud.

Retrieving the phone book from the shelf across her office would have meant taking her feet off her desk and thus leaving her favorite comfort zone. Instead, she pulled the phone over by the cord and dialed information. Why not? she thought as she wrote down the number of the
Gazette.
With a $20,000 retainer in the bank, she could afford to run up telephone expenses like the big boys.

"The
Gazette
, may I help you?" the receptionist asked, her accent heavy Brooklyn. Devin thought she could hear the woman snapping her gum.

"I'm trying to locate a reporter named Patrick Roswell," she said.

"We got a Patrick Roswell working here, ma'am, but he ain't no reporter. He's in sales."

"Sales?"

"You know, advertising."

Devin lowered her feet to the floor.

"He sells advertising?"

"That's what I said."

"Why did Wacko say he was a reporter?" Devin thought out loud.