Domino

by Chris Barnhart

  Domino

  By

  Chris Barnhart

  Copyright ©2014 Chris Barnhart

  Published by Chris Barnhart at Smashwords

  Cover by Chris Barnhart

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not just for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  CHAPTER 1

  Avery felt his throat tighten. It constricted, as if invisible iron fingers were crushing him, agonizingly slow, making him fight for every breath. He forced himself to swallow but he couldn't control the shaking. He mopped his brow and the back of his neck with a black silk handkerchief with one hand, the other remained in a white-knuckled death grip on the steering wheel of the Lincoln Town Car.

  The night was hot and sticky, the temperature still near ninety although it was near midnight. Avery fidgeted with the air conditioning controls and slipped a disk into the compact disk player. Not even the soothing strings of the symphony orchestra could calm his tortured nerves. His long, delicate hands trembled as he turned the black sedan from the Bel Air canyon road onto Sunset Boulevard heading east.

  In his twenty-five years, he had never even contemplated doing what he was about to do. He clenched his teeth against the rising nausea and, for the hundredth time, forced himself to relax. It was not like he was committing a crime, he recited over and over again in his mind. He was just taking back what belonged to him. He could not convince his older brother, Byron that the game was over, that they'd been led to the slaughter, to financial ruin. The time had come for Avery to cut his losses and get as far away as possible. Only he wasn't sure just how far was far enough from the Wolfe.

  Byron was such a fool. They had both been idiots to think that Morgan Wolfe could save their asses. The Roth Galleries belonged to him and Byron, or did it? Probably not any more. Avery had tried to make sense out of the financial statements that Wolfe's accountant sent him. Even with a degree in business Avery could not find the paper trail that led to the embezzled profits he knew Wolfe had extracted from the once prosperous, family owned art galleries. It would take an auditor months to find out just how Morgan Wolfe entangled the two brothers in his web and, like a hungry spider, slowly sucked the life blood from the company, leaving a near empty shell. The Roth Galleries were one of the most prestigious art houses in the world, with galleries in Beverly Hills, New York, London, and Rome. They had never been in the red in their thirty year history. Not while Anson Roth was still alive. But the two young Roth brothers didn't have a fraction of the business expertise of their father. When they ran into trouble, it was a little known financier that bailed them out. Then he took control. By the time they found out that their savior was well connected in international crime families, including the Lu dynasty of Asian drug smuggling, and the Sobrieto smuggling cartel in Brazil, it was too late.

  Avery eased the Lincoln Town car off Wilshire Boulevard into the parking garage under the high rise office building, using his plastic card to open the gate. There were only three other cars parked on the street level, die-hard executives burning the midnight oil over some important contracts, Avery thought. He recognized none of them as he got out of the car and stood for a moment to steady his nerves. He looked around for the security guard but the garage was dark and close as the oppressive humidity outside.

  The nape of his neck prickled as he inserted his private key to activate the after- hours elevator lock. He felt impressed with a nameless apprehension, a sensation of lurking peril. Avery reminded himself again that he was doing nothing wrong. The weary repetition of it made his head throb. What he was after belonged to him. He needed it to get away, to live abroad until Wolfe abandoned the empty husk of Roth Galleries and went on to more succulent prey.

  The low whoosh of the opening elevator doors startled him. His heart battered inside his eardrums, and his legs seemed wooden and heavy. The elevator doors closed, and Avery suddenly felt trapped. He had not slept soundly in two weeks, knew he was close to collapse. Any moment he might break apart and his nerves shatter like thin lead crystal. He hunched closer into himself, wedged into the corner of the elevator for the eternal crawl to the eleventh floor.

  The elevator doors at the far end of the floor slid open and Avery stepped cautiously into the oak paneled hallway. The droning of a vacuum cleaner hummed behind closed doors in the far distance. If anyone should stop him and ask questions, he was just getting his forgotten briefcase from his office before embarking on a business trip to an estate auction in London early in the morning. All of the security personnel knew him but that was not a comforting thought. Wolfe had staffed the office with his personal spies, and Avery was suspicious of even the building's outside contracted cleaning crew. He slipped the key into the lock of the Roth Galleries office door and soundlessly eased it open. He was met with only a quiet darkness.

  He threaded his way in the inky blackness, past the receptionist's desk, the accounting department, and down the hallway that led to the executive's offices. Wolfe's door was locked and there was no light in the window when Avery had scanned it from the street. Yet Avery still felt a chilling fear as he crept past that office door. He didn't let out his breath until he had closed the door of his own office and snapped on the small brass desk lamp.

  Now, he worked quickly and methodically according to his plan. Adrenaline kept him in constant, fluid motion as he dug his briefcase out from under his desk and set it open on the credenza. From a hidden floor safe he took handfuls of bound stacks of hundred dollar bills and laid them neatly in the bottom of the case.

  A door slammed somewhere in the distance and Avery froze, heart pounding. He dared not move until he was certain that it was just the cleaning crew down the hall or some diligent late night office worker on the floor below. Avery relaxed when the office had settled once again into a deep silence. He took a file folder thick with documents, financial statements, and related papers from the safe and laid them on top of the money. Then from a hidden alcove in his desk, he removed two airline tickets, considered a moment, tucked one in the inside pocket of his coat, the other he returned to the credenza. The phone suddenly rang.

  Avery jumped. He was mesmerized by the blinking green light, his throat constricted and his pulse raced. He wouldn't dare answer it, and almost sagged with relief when the automatic voice-mail picked it up after the fifth ring. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and placed it in the desk drawer. There was only one more item, one last thing he had to take with him. He bent down to open the credenza's hidden sliding panel, and took out the black velvet box. He brought it up under the light and opened it carefully. It was a tiny winged crystal angel.

  "You can't run from it, Avery," the quiet voice was like a gust of icy wind. Avery looked up, startled, then relaxed and almost smiled, until he saw the gun. His older brother looked haggard and drawn, pasty and slump shouldered, with deep circles under his doleful blue eyes. At twenty six, Byron Roth looked fifty. The pressures of the past two years had been monstrous. The Glock 19 quivered slightly in Byron hand.

  "It's all over, Byron," Avery said quietly, gaging the tension that could explode in Byron at the least provocation. "You read the detective's report."

  "Where the hell do you think you were going to go?" Byron replied.

  "If you were smart you'd get out too. Wolfe has been an ugly tumor on our business. We let it grow too long. It's inoperable, Byron. We're dead financially. Not to mention the forgeries. But we’re not supposed to know
about those, are we?

  “We're in too deep, Avery. You know that. Wolfe won't let you get across the street with that money."

  "It's my share, Byron. I earned it legally and legitimately. I'm not taking anything that belongs to Wolfe."

  "Everything belongs to Wolfe, you stupid fool. If you leave, what happens to the galleries?" Byron almost whined, his voice cracking with strain. "I can't do it alone. Not with Wolfe's nose in everything. You can't just cut and run because things are rough."

  "Things aren't rough, brother," Avery snapped. "They're out of control. Did you ever actually read the report I gave you?"

  "He's not as bad as your private detective made out," Byron insisted, trying desperately to control the flames of rage slowly consuming him. "Wolfe pulled us out of the red like he promised. You have a good life that this company pays for. Don't blow it, Avery."

  "Where the hell will the money come from?" Avery asked. "I'll tell you where. It sure as hell won't come from selling art. I know that crap in the warehouses isn't worth the play dough it's made out of. The Matisses and Cezannes are fakes. Excellent ones, but fakes none the less.

  "I'm warning you, Avery, don't cross Wolfe."

  "I'm outta here."

  Byron pointed the gun at his brother's heart. "The money stays," Byron said flatly. "Wolfe's orders."

  "Has he gotten to you that much? You'd shoot your own brother? Byron, think, man. Look what he's doing to us. He's got us terrified of him." Avery looked down the barrel of the gun and swallowed hard. "And terrified of each other."

  "Don't run, Avery," Byron pleaded. "Stick it out a few more months. I have a plan to buy him out. I need you." The gun was shaking. Avery knew Byron could never go through with it, no matter how terrified he was of Wolfe.

  "You can't buy someone like Wolfe out," Avery grinned bleakly. "He's not going to leave until he's done with us, until Roth Galleries Corporation is an empty, pitiful shell. Get a grip, Byron." Avery looked at the crystal angel in his hand. "This was mother's favorite. I didn't think you'd mind my taking it."

  Avery laid it carefully in the velvet box and put it in the briefcase, snapping it shut with a definite finality. He slid the case off the desk, and with his eyes never leaving Byron's face or the gun pointed at him, Avery started toward the office door.

  "Don't," Byron cried.

  "Go home and get some sleep," said Avery sadly. "You have a family to take care of."

  Avery shouldered past his brother, the pain and anguish evident in every line of Byron's face. His lips quivered as he tried one more time to stop Avery from incurring the dreadful wrath of their company president.

  "Avery!" he yelled. "He'll find you, Avery!"

  "My flight to Singapore leaves in half an hour. He'll have to be quick."

  "What about me?"

  "There's another plane ticket to Singapore in the hidden drawer of my credenza. If you're smart, you'll use it."

  Avery knew that if Wolfe found out he was cutting out with over two and a half million in company funds, he would strike as swiftly and deadly as a cobra. Avery had spent this last month refiguring the financial statements, and came up with a realistic, legitimate profit figure, back salary, bonuses, and commissions on the books he should have received in the last year, as well as benefits. Then, using Wolfe's scheme of bogus sales, he was able to amass through expense checks, drafts, and wire transfers, over two million due to him into foreign accounts and half a million in cash. He also photocopied all of the documents proving his right to the money should there be any legal squealing from Wolfe.

  The elevator doors slid open and Avery stepped into the parking garage. It was as he had left it earlier. The same three cars were parked near his. Only Byron's Mercedes was a new addition.

  Half way to his car, Avery stopped. He wasn't sure that he'd heard the sound. It was almost an inaudible click like the distant chirp of a cricket. He switched the briefcase to his other hand and fumbled in his pocket for his car keys. Then he heard the scraping noise again. This time he was certain it came from behind him. He turned slowly, his eyes searching the shadows. Nothing, no movement at all. He saw only the garage entrance with the gate arm stretched across the driveway, the empty attendant's kiosk, and the bright lights of the boulevard beyond.

  His car was still seventy-five feet away from where he stood. The entrance was half that distance in the opposite direction. In a couple of strides be could be out on the lighted street, a half a block from the Beverly Wilshire Hotel and a taxi cab. He had a twinge of regret leaving behind his cell phone. He swallowed sharp bile at the back of his throat and wiped sweat from his eyes. Panic closed about him like shrink wrap and sucked at his remaining strength. He turned and headed for the garage entrance.

  The first bullet from the silenced gun slammed into the trunk of the parked car not a foot from Avery's hand.

  "Shit!" Avery hissed as he ducked low between two of the parked cars. The second bullet took a thumb sized chunk out of the concrete wall directly above his head. He sat crouched with his back to the wall. The parking garage was eerily silent. Avery strained to hear the sound of footsteps. He had to get to the street.

  Terror licked at the edges of his being and the impulse to sprint to the entrance was overwhelming. Yet, he didn't know where the gunman was. He knew it couldn't be Byron. His brother's gun had not had a silencer. It had to be one of Wolfe's assassins. If it was, he had small chance to get to the airport alive with the briefcase. He had to hide the case somewhere and disappear down into the cracks of the city until it was safe. He had to make it to the hotel across the street but first he had to get out of the parking structure alive.

  Avery took a quick scan of the garage entrance over the rear fender of the car, then dropped into a crouch against the cement wall, his shoulder painfully wedged against the front bumper of the parked car. He hugged the briefcase tightly to him until his hands were nearly numb from the pressure. The stillness pressed heavy into his chest and he was conscious of every labored breath.

  There was no movement, no minute changes in the light and shadows. There was no sound, no whisper of motion. The entrance was ten steps away. Ten steps to freedom. Avery had only to gather his strength and courage for the last, mad, dash of his life. He squeezed his eyes shut and gathered his strength.

  Slowly he filled his lungs with air. His eyes snapped open. It was the blind, black instinct of self-preservation that held him ridged as a statue. His throat tightened in a strangled scream, his eyes widened as though he would breathe through them.

  The gunman slid slowly over the hood of the parked car like a great cat on a silken couch. His small heavy-lidded eyes glittered malevolently in the gloom and he smiled with white uneven teeth. Avery's body jerked like a puppet as the rounds were pumped from the silenced gun. The assassin reached over and plucked the briefcase from where it had fallen from Avery's bloody hand, just as the black Cadillac pulled to a stop behind the parked car.

  The gunman waited as the rear side window slid down half way.

  "It's done," the gunman said in a low voice, as he passed the briefcase in through the window.

  "Clean up here, Marco," replied a quiet voice from inside the dark interior of the sedan.

  "Yes, Mister Wolfe."

  The window closed without a sound. Before the Cadillac had negotiated the U-turn out of the garage, Avery Roth's body had disappeared and there was no trace that a murder had just taken place.

  CHAPTER 2

  Clarissa Hayden stood poised on the edge of the diving board, bouncing lightly, anticipating the dive into the compelling depths of the black-bottom pool. She hesitated, still savoring the sweet taste of victory. The diamond on her left hand caught the late afternoon sun and flashed a brilliant prism of light on the pool deck. She could not suppress the wide grin or the euphoric ebullience that had lingered since dinner last night.

  He had reserved the private dining terrace at the Moaki Restaurant overlooking a rugged surf and blazing we
stern sunset. He had proposed formally, sliding the twelve carat diamond sensuously onto her finger, his violet eyes never leaving her face. He had held her in his arms as the joyful tears glistened on her cheeks, and walked with her arm in arm down the deserted beach, careful not to disturb the meticulously created mood. She had worn the perfect dress, he the perfect, radiant smile. The performance had been flawless, but that's exactly what it had felt a little like. A performance, well-rehearsed, executed in black and white, like Lombard and Gable. It put only the slightest restraint on the exhilarating realization of the perfect dream.

  Soon his world would be hers. This Mediterranean style mansion in the hills above Los Angeles, the art, the antiques, the social status of the wife of an international mogul instead of being considered merely one of his ornaments. She would finally have the respect and privilege of elite society. There was only the merest hint of doubt about his insistence that she give up her moderately successful modeling career. At twenty eight, Clarissa was feeling the pressures of her age anyway. The assignments were getting fewer, the demand was less intense, as younger models in their late teens took the spotlight and new found stardom on the covers of Vogue and Harpers.

  Tonight, they were to formally announce their engagement at a party given for them by the cosmetic baroness, Sylvia Cheswick. On December thirtieth, a month and a half away, Clarissa Hayden would become Mrs. Morgan Wolfe.

  From the vantage point of the diving board, Clarissa looked out over the wrought iron patio railing to the sprawling city below. The sky was a pristine blue, one of those rare days when the smog took the day off and teased the Angelenos with a taste of real air. The white billowing thunderheads rising like plumed sentries over the mountains to the east threatened an autumn storm. It gave Clarissa a pang of dread. She hated storms and rain. They brought back the awful nightmares of a night long ago, of a young fifteen year old runaway on the streets alone and terrified. Clarissa pushed the thoughts out of her mind. That was then. This was now, and now was the actuality of her dreams. She stared again into the depths of the diamond and knew that security was a month and a half away.