Stolen Thoughts

by Tim Tigner

  “I’d love to believe that, but I know better. He won’t lose. The evidence may be shifting against him, but Pascal will still benefit from the jury Sackler and Slate picked when they were empowered.”

  “You think that’s enough?” Skylar pressed.

  “I do. One thing you learn while reading minds is that people aren’t easily swayed by logic on emotional issues. Even if that weren’t true, I’d still have to do this. We absolutely, positively have to learn what Pascal has planned—and then we have to stop him.”

  Skylar recognized the look in her friend’s eye. It was a blaze the lawyers had ignited when they killed Chewie.

  “You sound so determined,” Chase commented.

  “I’ve been thinking about it. About his plan to make billions without revealing the technology.”

  “And you figured it out?” Chase asked, moving closer.

  “Not specifically, but generally—based on world history.”

  “I don’t follow,” Skylar said.

  “If someone is making billions doing something in secret, there’s one thing about which you can be absolutely certain.”

  “What’s that?” Skylar asked.

  Vicky glanced down at the lipstick gun. She’d been nervously rolling it between her thumb and fingers. She looked back up and met Skylar’s eye. “It’s evil.”

  73

  Tit for Tat

  With her heels clacking out determination on polished travertine, Vicky walked across the Cathcart Hotel’s lobby toward the man Chase had told her was likely a member of Pascal’s security team. He was sitting in the corner pretending to wait for a colleague to show.

  She stopped directly before him and flashed the key card she had clipped to her purse. “Please tell Mr. Pascal that he has a visitor from Resseque Rogers Sackler & Slate.”

  The bodyguard wasn’t supposed to acknowledge that Pascal was there, but his thoughts betrayed him. “You recognize me, right?”

  Those tits are familiar, and she has a badge. He read the name off her ID card. “Margaret Gray.”

  “He’ll recognize me,” Vicky added.

  “Hold on.” The bodyguard snapped her photo and sent it off with a text.

  Vicky walked around the lobby to hide her anxiety, but stayed clear of the front desk so the staff wouldn’t get a good look at her face. Chase was convinced that if she came and went without drawing attention to herself, the bodyguards would not mention her to the police. Why invite an investigation? Why make themselves look bad? Why risk lawsuits while ruining careers? Implicating the winningest law firm in the world was the exact opposite of a smart strategy, especially when Mother Nature could take the blame. Vicky found the logic solid, and desperately hoped it proved predictive.

  One minute passed. Two minutes. Four. Then the bodyguard signaled.

  “He’ll see you. Follow me.” The large man led her to an elevator, then waved a hotel keycard over the control panel. The button for Floor 20 illuminated. The penthouse floor. She glanced at the bodyguard long enough to grab two nuggets from his mind. He wasn’t suspicious, and Pascal had reserved the entire floor.

  She was met at the penthouse elevator by another burly bodyguard. This one held a metal-detecting wand. “Ms. Gray, may I please see your bag?”

  Vicky handed it over but retained her cell phone.

  He pulled out the headphones, spare phone, and massage oil, then ran the wand over her bag, inspecting every buzz. Once satisfied, he powered off the cell and raised the wand in her direction. “Your turn.”

  She pulled the lipstick and tampon from her dress’s concealed accessory pocket, flashed them to him with an open palm, then assumed the raised hands pose used inside airport scanners.

  After the wanding, he held open her purse. “Please turn off your cell phone and watch, then put them inside.”

  “I need the phone.” She showed him the printing on the back of the case. PARDON MY WANDERING EYES, I’M DEAF. “My phone and watch have voice-to-text. It’s how I hear.”

  “I have to follow protocol. You can ask Mr. Pascal for them back. Meanwhile, you seem to do just fine reading lips.”

  Chase had predicted as much. Vicky nodded acquiescence as she slipped her toiletries back into her pocket.

  He walked her to room 2001, where a second bodyguard opened the door without knocking. He remained in the hallway while she was escorted inside by the man with her purse in his hand.

  “So you’re the brave one,” Pascal said. “Is your boss still huddled in hiding with her partners?”

  “They are fully focused on preparing for tomorrow. I’m here to show you something special.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “It’s a private matter, having to do with our other business arrangement.”

  Pascal’s focus went to her glasses.

  “You know about that?”

  “I’m a very dedicated employee. Ms. Slate trusts me with everything, and I never let her down.”

  “Well then you’ll understand if I ask you to please remove your glasses.”

  She did.

  Pascal turned to the bodyguard. “What’s in her bag?”

  “Her watch, two phones, plus a big pair of headphones and a bottle of massage oil. No wallet.”

  “No wallet?” Pascal asked.

  “I was mugged once. Now I use my watch to pay for things.”

  Pascal nodded then turned to his bodyguard. “Put the bag in the bedroom and leave us.”

  The tech exec studied her until they were alone, then said, “Back to that something special.”

  “Not so fast,” she said, gesturing toward the bar. “Let’s have a drink first.”

  ARCHIBALD PASCAL had no trouble getting women, but doing so during his sexual assault trial would be extremely ill advised. Meeting with his attorney, however, was entirely acceptable. Plus, Ms. Gray promised to be more than just an hour’s entertainment. There was a sparkle to her eyes, a sultry something in her gaze, and of course the temptation of forbidden fruit.

  Scarlett Slate had sent her, of course. Perhaps against her will, perhaps not. Clearly she was there for a bit of quid pro quo. The usual female quid for his extraordinary quo. His billion-dollar idea.

  The lawyers of RRS&S were hedging their bets.

  That was not a good sign in regard to his assault case, but it was understandable. He’d have been disappointed if they hadn’t shown the spunk to try. And this offer was both a bit creative and insightful. This was conceivably one of his last free nights for a long time to come. Scarlett had shown a savvy bit of psychological insight there, although she’d underestimated his ability to keep secrets. Perhaps the story of his long-ago lapse with Ms. Maestretti had inspired her. In any case, he wouldn’t be tricked or seduced into revealing his big secret to their Mata Hari. But he most assuredly would enjoy the game. The cat and mouse. The tit for tat. “Sounds delightful. Can you make a good martini?”

  74

  Sidewalk Slip

  FREDO BLANCO FIGURED that he owed much of his success to two distinct personality traits. The first was a naturally calm disposition. He could operate normally in extremely abnormal situations. Stressful, dangerous, and dreary situations. As long as he wasn’t worried about infectious pathogens, he could perform pretty much anywhere with the same insouciance that prevailed at ballgames and brunches.

  The second secret of Fredo’s success was his relentlessness. That characteristic resulted from his loving the hunt every bit as much as the kill. The process of detecting clues and anticipating moves energized him. While his targets grew weary from endless fear and perpetual motion, he grew stronger. He built up while they wore down until success became inevitable.

  The incident in Pasadena had been disappointing and most unpleasant. While he was mad at himself for not anticipating the bulletproof clothing, he was pleased with his success at walling off the bloody memory.

  Best of all, Fredo was now getting his second shot at that mark sooner than expected th
anks to his anonymous employers supplying additional information. Crucial information. They’d let him know that Victoria Pixler might be hunting Archibald Pascal during his trial in New York City. His clients also happened to know what half the local press wanted to uncover: the location where the legendary entrepreneur was staying during the last week of his trial.

  The Cathcart Hotel was a nineteenth-century twenty-story French Renaissance–inspired château-style building that dripped wealth and oozed tradition. The elegance of the lobby and fastidious nature of the employees did nothing to deter the white elf, however. He immediately placed facial recognition cameras covering both front and back entrances.

  While such an installation might sound tricky, especially in a location as busy and sophisticated as New York City, there was actually nothing to it—if one was bold and invisible. Dressed in his usual hide-in-plain-sight disguise, a janitor’s uniform, Fredo had simply “serviced” the emergency exit signs. He did so while the lobby staff were swamped checking guests in and out, and the maintenance staff were occupied resolving issues he’d created.

  Fredo always used the best equipment and the most sophisticated software, but this time he’d also been able to feed the facial recognition system plenty of high-resolution imagery, thanks to his target’s prior public persona. As a result, very few false positive alerts appeared on his phone. Nonetheless, he’d almost dismissed the one from the Cathcart’s front lobby.

  The face in the photo was right, but the woman pictured was blonde, busty, and dressed in a provocative burgundy dress. People disguising their appearances usually went for inconspicuous options, whereas this woman was sure to attract amorous eyes. Having learned to trust his software, however, Fredo took a closer look and decided that the identification had likely been accurate.

  He smiled as the implications registered. Victoria Pixler wasn’t stalking Archibald Pascal from the high grass. A lioness eying a lone hyena. She was hunting him undercover.

  Fredo could fall for a woman like that. A woman with the balls and brains of a man. Too bad this one wouldn’t be “available.”

  His employers had attempted to modify their order from kill to kidnap. They’d pushed hard for that. All five of them had gotten on the phone to put the pressure on. Fredo had pushed back. “If you told me she was hiding out in a mountain retreat, I’d say ‘no problem.’ But you just gave me the name of a luxury hotel in New York City. That means lots of eyes, lots of cameras, and no convenient place to park a car. I can’t be hauling unconscious bodies around in that environment. I’ll do what I can, but I offer no guarantees.”

  “We need her alive,” the silky voiced one had insisted. When Fredo again pushed back, the others again chimed in. They were nervous. An emotional state the assassin had not detected in them before.

  After their second round of pleas, Fredo forced them to decide. “I’ll do my best, but if kidnapping is not possible, do I let Pixler go, or kill her?”

  The phone muted for a minute, then the chorus of voices came back on. “Kill her.”

  That predictable reply had sealed the psychic’s fate. He wasn’t going to risk his freedom to improve client satisfaction. Of course, he could have asked for more money in exchange for the guarantee requested, but that would have been an amateur mistake. Getting greedy and overextending was what landed guys like him in prison.

  Given the way Pixler had entered the hotel, Fredo figured she would likely exit the same way. Out the front door, chin high, heels tapping. An assassin who would vanish before anyone became aware of her crime. He knew the tactic well, and admired her for using it. Stealth was a good choice, given Pascal’s contingent of bodyguards. Three by Fredo’s count.

  He would need to account for them too.

  Eliminating the tech CEO’s protectors wouldn’t be problematic in and of itself. Fredo was highly effective because even the professionals never saw him coming. Three seconds, three shots, and the guards would be gone. Pop pop pop. But that would create a conspicuous and messy scene. He hated those. Best to wait for her outside. Maybe she’d screw up and the bodyguards would do the dirty work for him.

  If Pixler did survive her mission and emerge alive, Fredo would simply brush by on the sidewalk and stab her heart with his stiletto.

  75

  Détente

  VICKY IGNORED Pascal’s pat-the-couch invitation as she handed him a drugged martini. “We have something in common, you and I,” she said, taking a seat across the coffee table.

  “And what’s that?” he asked, his tone telegraphing both that he was up for the game, and that he planned to win.

  “We are the only two people who have figured out how the partners of RRS&S do what they do.”

  “Really? You figured it out? They didn’t tell you?”

  “I did. It was a lucrative discovery, I assure you.” She raised her glass.

  “Well played,” he said, taking a sip. “And well made,” he added, raising the glass again before a second swallow. “So now Scarlett’s hoping you’ll put your intelligence and intuition to work on me?”

  “A sensible move, given that you’re guilty of the charges—and many more. Wouldn’t you agree?” It was a risky play, calling him guilty to his face. But Vicky needed to know, given what was to come.

  He studied her sideways for a second, as if trying to read her mind.

  She winked.

  “You weren’t repelled by the challenge?” he asked.

  “Fascinated is more like it. What a mind you must possess, what spectacular genes, to have conceived and executed so many brilliant business plans.” As Vicky spoke, she thought she could see the Rohypnol going to work behind his eyes. Then again, perhaps that was wishful thinking.

  “I work very hard. The press makes it look like my businesses were overnight successes, but they were all years in the making. Trust me, I’ve had my share of failures and sleepless nights.”

  “Speaking of big brains and sleepless nights, my colleagues have been burning the candle at both ends trying to figure out your latest billion-dollar idea.”

  “And?”

  “They’ve gotten nowhere. Despite the knowledge that it’s possible. Even with the clue of knowing who figured it out. They’ve got nothing. They’re worried you’re bluffing. Are you bluffing, Archie?”

  “To what end? To get them to work harder on my defense?”

  She ran a fingertip around the rim of her martini glass. “That would make sense.”

  “Not really. There’s no evidence they need to work harder. They’ve literally never lost,” Pascal said, his eye on her finger.

  “But why risk it? Tell me, just between us, is it real?”

  “It’s real.”

  She continued toying with the glass. “If it truly is, then answer one question. Hypothetically speaking, how would it be possible to generate billions in revenue without exposing the technology that makes it possible?”

  Pascal held her eyes. “What happens if I play along with your hypothetical game?”

  “Well, then we can take it to the next level.”

  “And what level is that?”

  Vicky rose and collected Pascal’s glass for a quick refill, adding sway to her stride during her round trip to the bar. She wouldn’t use the second tablet yet. Her plan was to playfully stir it into his drink when the time was right. For now, another martini should provide sufficient lubrication. “Depending on your answer, it might be the level that involves my toys.”

  “I would love to play with your toys.”

  Vicky smiled but said nothing.

  “Okay. I’ll give you an example. Google makes billions off its search engine, right?”

  “Right—” She was doing it. He was talking! More importantly, he was thinking.

  “And everyone knows that, right?”

  “Sure—”

  “But how does Google do it? Why do they win the search engine battle?”

  “Their algorithm is the best.”

  �
��Exactly. Their algorithm is the best. But what’s in their algorithm?”

  Vicky struggled to fight back her excitement. “Nobody knows. That’s the big secret.”

  “There you have it.”

  One can only hope. “So you’re going to make a better search engine?”

  “No. That was just the hypothetical example you asked for. Now, fair’s fair. Tell me about your toys. The massage oil I can guess. What about the headphones?”

  “They cancel noise, helping you focus and heightening the pleasure.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Oh, no. That’s not it at all, Archie. That’s just a chocolate sprinkle. There’s a whole cupcake underneath.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “I thought you would,” Vicky said, playfully bringing a finger to her lips.

  “Tell me about the frosting.”

  “First, you tell me what’s not hypothetical.”

  “I will be delighted to. But only after your partners win my freedom.”

  “So it’s not a better search engine?”

  “No.”

  “Is it similar?”

  “How about the cake? Tell me about the cake?”

  “Finish your drink, and I’ll think about it.”

  Pascal did.

  Vicky made another. This time, she sat beside him on the couch when she brought it back. “Can you imagine … what sex is like … when your partner is eager to please you … and she can read your mind?”

  Pascal blinked a few times, then grew a broad smile.

  Vicky dipped her nail in his drink and began stirring suggestively. “If not the next Google, then what?”

  “If you’re really nice, I may tell you in the morning.”

  “Really?”

  “Honest.”

  “What, exactly will you tell me?”

  “What it’s like.”