Trifecta (78 page)

Susan buzzed the office and asked for Tom Mitsuto, which
meant that Michelle was probably checking to see if Tom had been listening.  She
must suspect that he had heard the conversation.

Nakamura rushed down the hall to Michelle's office, but
she had already left for the day.

A
plump, tender, innocent little pigeon, was Omar's
thought when he opened his door.  A rabbit blinded by fear of the hawk.  A pudgy,
succulent pullet.  A scared little mouse.  A dead sparrow.

"Hello, Suzanne," Omar said, ushering her into
his home.  "I'm glad you called.  Please come in.  I'll give you a little background
on the Old Religion."

She was dazzled by the splendor of his living room and
by his own dark, sophisticated charisma.  He noted her looking around curiously,
trying to exude the blasé‚ nonchalance of an older, more cosmopolitan woman.  He
almost laughed, feeling himself salivate internally.  This was going to be fun.

Omar led the way into the kitchen as Suzanne told him she
was on vacation from school at Stanford University.  She had seen his brochure on
beginners Witchcraft and couldn't resist learning about it.

"I'll make us some tea.  Then we can sit down and
really have a chat."

She was not too well educated to be a slave, Omar thought
as he moved around the kitchen, feeling her eyes upon him.  She was one of those
so called modern, liberated woman who believed they were equal to men.  He watched
her carefully as he prepared the special tea.  The brew had no effect on him because
he used it constantly, but it would have a profound soporific effect on anyone unused
to the special herbs.  She was wearing a long Hawaiian skirt with a slit which reached
mid-thigh in the front.  She was really very cute and appealing.  Omar was almost
sorry she would have to be sacrificed.

Her large, doe brown eyes looked interested when she sipped
delicately and asked him if it was licorice tea.  He nodded and drank from the identical
brew so she would be relaxed about the ingredients.  Licorice was a powerful flavor. 
It hid the other elements.  He could tell she was extremely nervous about the whole
situation.

He had known the instant he saw her.  The pigeon was just
a snoop.

Omar was almost certain about the identity of the person
behind this pathetic little girl.  The chubby and clever professor who had dogged
his tail for years.  He would have to be taught a painful lesson.  The idiot misguidedly
thought he could delve into the darker side and end Omar's power. 

Omar watched Suzanne, read the signs, and devised the worse
revenge he could come up with on short notice.  It would make him late for his rendezvous
with Michelle.  But this opportunity was too good to pass up.

When Michelle got home from the office she found
a large Bird of Paradise on her threshold.  It was an enormous, perfect bloom with
lush green leaves surrounding it.  She smiled and picked it up. 

Michelle put the orange flower in her hair, tucked behind
her ear.  It was almost too Polynesian and affected for the actual Hawaiian setting,
but it looked beautiful against her black hair, which she wore loose and straight
down her back.  The flower matched the white silk sarong decorated with orange silk
threads, with the high neckline, of course, that she had been planning to wear. 
Omar had picked the perfect flower, as though he had known in advance her fashion
style for the evening.

Michelle rushed so she would have time to call Heather
and chat a few minutes, but there was no answer.  It was still early, so she ran
down the hallway to Heather's apartment and knocked.  She had a vague disquieting
feeling and wondered if it had to do with the dream she had had of Heather screaming,
in mortal danger.  She had called Heather several times during the day, but the
calls had not been answered.  Michelle was worried as she went back to her own apartment
to wait for Omar.

Michelle grabbed up her purse and hurried to open the door
when she heard a knock.  She felt her eyes open wide in shock.  In front of her
stood a hulking presence, at least six and a half feet tall.  She was looking straight
at his top collar button.  She had to crane to see his face. 

Michelle almost slammed the door.  Then she noticed he
was holding out a card.  He moved it right in front of her eyes.  It took all her
nerve to take the card because she was mesmerized by the giant with the frightening,
thick features before her.  The man's nose was flat and wide, appearing as though
it had been broken several times and squashed flat against his face.  His mouth
and lips were large and blunt.  The whole visage looked like it had been carved
from cement.  The only small parts were his eyes, which were slanted and folded
away in heavy lids.  She guessed he weighed in at about three hundred muscle-bound
pounds.

Michelle glanced at the card which read:  Omar Satinov. 
Underneath it was the name, Samson Stoker, Chauffeur.

The man opened his mouth to smile and all Michelle saw
was blackness and teeth surrounding the dark aperture.  The smile disturbed Michelle
and she shrank back because it was vacant, silly and wrong, as though the man was
either emotionally disturbed or slightly retarded.

Michelle didn't want to be rude to someone with a terrible
handicap, the inability to speak, but her heart was thudding in her chest and she
could feel her hands become clammy as she handed back the card.  She was also angry. 
Omar had no right to foist this man upon her without some prior explanation.  The
guy was just too scary, even though his brown hair was carefully combed and he was
wearing a dark suit with a tie.  If Omar could take the time to leave a flower,
he could have warned her.

The giant made a motion with his hands like he was turning
the wheel of a car.  He gave that awful grin again, which was stretched out, but
closed this time, so as not to shock her with the lack of tongue, she guessed. 
The smile was childlike.

"You're going to take me to Omar?"

The man nodded vigorously.

"Omar didn't mention that he would send a chauffeur."

The man waggled his head as if to say he didn't know what
Omar had intended.  The head movement mimicked a feeling of perplexity perfectly
and Michelle thought her first impression might be wrong.  He might not be as stupid
as he appeared.  Still, the idea of him behind the wheel of a car was foreboding. 
She just stood there because she didn't want to go with him and was trying to think
of a rational excuse.

The man pulled car keys out of his pocket and waved them
in front of her, as if she were the one who was a little slow.  Then he pointed
to himself and made the driving-a-car motion again with his hands.

Michelle nodded at the giant, and started to lock the door
when the phone rang.  She told him to wait a moment and ran back inside.  It was
Nakamura saying that he needed to speak to her privately.  Could he come over? 
Michelle explained that she was just leaving.  He was so insistent that she said
maybe they could talk on the phone later that evening.  She would probably be home
by eleven.  Nakamura said he could come over then, if that was okay.  Michelle didn't
want to agree but couldn't think of an excuse. 

Damn, now she would have to be home early, Michelle thought
as she locked her door for the second time and walked down the hall with the mammoth
guy.  Samson had crooked his arm and stood there, stock still, like he expected
her to take it.  When she put her hand on his arm it felt hard as marble.  She suddenly
remembered hitting a man who was so big and strong he felt like a cement statue. 
It was a monstrous flashback of fear and Michelle quickly disengaged her hand from
the giant's arm.  Then she smiled up at him apologetically.  Poor man was probably
used to people shrinking away from him.

Samson Stoker turned out to be a fine driver.  He took
her to the Sheraton Hotel, escorting her personally to an elegant dining room. 
He made sure she was comfortably seated and then left.  She had to wait almost a
half hour for Omar and she watched the people around her drinking lovely looking
cocktails.  She could almost feel herself drool in envy.  This not drinking situation
was uncomfortable, and it felt childish, as the waiter continuously came around
to see if her soda with lime was adequate.  She felt unsophisticated and chain smoked.

"The flower is lovely against your hair.  It has a
pagan quality, just right for the most beautiful woman in the room." 

Omar was standing at the table and she hadn't even noticed
his arrival because she had been worrying about Heather's physical condition, about
how thousands of dollars had made its mysterious way into her office, the fact that
common objects in her own apartment had been moved, (maybe she was going crazy or
having a serious nervous breakdown), about a new job in a foreign country, but mostly
about a murderer/rapist here in the islands with the same MO as the man who had
attacked her.  She was also worrying about what Nakamura thought was so urgent and
private that he had to speak to her alone and in person.

Seeing Omar, splendid and immaculate in a beautiful light
tan suit was delightful relief from all the anxiety, but she felt a little uncomfortable
at the extravagant compliment.

"I'm sorry about being so late," Omar said as
he seated himself.  "I had to take care of some business.  It took longer than
I had anticipated."

The waiter was at Omar's side in a flash, practically quivering
to take his order.

"You don't mind if I have a drink?"

Michelle shook her head, but she did.  Especially when
he ordered a Galliano gimlet, her very favorite drink.  She reminded herself that
she reacted to alcohol in a chemically different way than most people.  It was nothing
to be ashamed about.  She certainly couldn't help it.

The evening was pleasant and Michelle enjoyed herself,
but something seemed to be missing and she couldn't figure out what it was.  Omar
had laughed at her jokes and was an amusing conversationalist.  He was endlessly
polite.  He spoke French to the waiter.  He made all the right moves and there seemed
to be powerful chemistry between the two of them. 

That was when she realized that he was coldly clinical
and detached.  He was acting the charade of the perfect gentleman, interested
in the lady he was with, but when she thought about it  on the way home, with
the giant driving, she realized that she had felt a silly infatuation over his
dramatic handsomeness, but they really had nothing in common.  She was
chagrined that she was so superficial and shallow to have been mislead by his
looks.  She smiled at the thought that she was a female chauvinist, interested
only in Omar's amazing physical persona.  But there were advantages to this
vacant relationship.

Omar liked her and she liked him.  She was not love-struck. 
She was a woman who had lived without sex for too many years.  Michelle decided
she would have an affair with Omar. 

While they were eating she had asked what had happened
to Samson Stoker, why he couldn't talk.  Omar just said that he had a terrible
accident.  When she tried to get information about his 'sisters' he seemed irritated
for the first time.  He said he had several.  End of conversation.  Period. 

He was nice, courteous and very cold, almost calculating,
the way he played his part.  It was a subliminal perception that he was not interested
in her even as a potential friend, but only as a bedmate.  All and all, it was a
good experience.  She had not trembled once, alone in the presence of a man. 

Michelle noticed that Omar's eyes no longer seemed fascinating
because he was constantly staring at her.  Really, the eyes were penetrating, disturbing
and a little scary.  Like he could see into her very soul.  Also disturbing was
the fact that he had retained the habit of touching her hand or arm as he spoke,
and each time she received a tiny, unpleasant electrical shock.  Once she even thought
she saw a tiny spark fly from his hand before she felt the electrical jolt.  She
wondered with a little shiver of anticipation what would happen with more intimate
contact.

Michelle closed the door to her apartment with relief,
thankful that Omar had not tried anything physical with her.  He had suggested
she come to his apartment, have some tea and talk, but she demurred.  He had
not insisted or tried to induce her to come with him.  She was so thankful at
his un-pushiness that she believed he was a very nice man.  She had decided to
sleep with him, but she wasn't quite ready tonight.

Michelle had less than a half hour before Nakamura would
arrive but she grabbed her purse, briefcase and a Polaroid camera.  She got her
car out of the garage and drove rapidly to her office building.  Once inside the
Heroshi suite she locked the door to her own office and checked her credenza.  The
bag was still there.  She closed the draperies and emptied the contents of the bag
onto the beige carpet.  Afraid to touch the money packets with her fingers, she
covered her hands with paper towels and moved the paper bands that encircled each
pack, fanning the bills so that the serial numbers showed.  She took several pictures
of the cash and then put a sheet of paper in her typewriter:

TO THE POLICE:

THIS MONEY MIGHT BE FROM THE ROBBERY AT THE AMERICAN HAWAII
TRUST BANK IN THE LANAI BUILDING ON KALAKAUA AVENUE.  PICTURES OF THE CASH ARE ENCLOSED. 
THERE ARE NEGATIVES AND OTHER PHOTOGRAPHS RETAINED BY THE PERSON WHO FOUND THE CASH.

Michelle believed the warning of more pictures might keep
the policeman who opened the package from pocketing the money.  It was depressing
she would have to stoop to a threat, but this wasn't Disneyland.  Merely paradise.

Michelle had to leave her own office for a zip-lock postage
bag.  She peeked out of her office to make sure no one had come inside before going
into the storage room.  She kept glancing at her watch and trying to rush because
Nakamura would be arriving at her apartment in a few minutes.  But she felt compelled
to be rid of the money, now, tonight, as soon as possible.

She put the money, pictures and note into the postage bag
and then used the telephone directory for the address to the nearest police station. 
She typed a label and attached it to the bag.