The Athena Factor

by W. Michael Gear

  Christal shook her head. “It’s not right. Trophies suggest a victory. Taking something as a memento of a contest. If that’s the case, what’s the contest? Just breaking security? Why not take Roberts’ Oscar, or Gibson’s whole razor? Trophy taking by its very nature is the removal of something the target values. It indicates assertive-oriented behavior.”

  “So,” Sid countered, “if it’s not trophies, it’s souvenirs.”

  Christal gave him a censorial glare. “You never were much for criminal psychology, Sid. Souvenirs are generally linked to reassurance-oriented behavior. The woman I dealt with in the ladies’ john at the Wilshire didn’t need much in the way of reassurance. Trust me on that. My abs are still tender to the touch.”

  “Really?” Sid asked with animation. “Can we feel?”

  “I thought you had to be on a plane in three days.”

  “It won’t take three days to feel your abs.”

  She gave him a look that would have warped titanium. “You’ll be that long just getting out of intensive care.”

  “Meanwhile—getting back to the case—are we dealing with a symbolic action?” Lymon asked. “Taking someone’s tampon has got to make some kind of point.”

  “Yeah?” Christal asked. “Symbolic of what? That Sheela Marks—along with most every other woman in the world—has a functioning reproductive tract?”

  “At least you know she’s not pregnant,” Sid mused.

  “We weren’t worried about that,” Lymon answered. “And if you assume these things are related, I don’t think Mel Gibson was, either.”

  “If that’s the case, there are way too many people for a sociopath to be involved.” Sid fingered his beer glass.

  “Unless it’s a rich sociopath.” Christal was staring into the distance. “Sid, I’ve just started to understand the things someone with money can do. If you pay enough, you can hire anyone to do anything. I mean, damn, how much does it take to get a camera into an FBI surveillance van? What’s a tampon and some urine compared to that?”

  Sid shook his head. “I don’t know. Does stealing the kind of stuff we’re talking about fit into any of the standard typologies?”

  “It’s definitely one hell of an invasion of privacy.” Lymon pushed his empty bowl back and placed the spoon in it. With a finger he indicated to the waiter that the plates needed busing.

  “Another round,” Sid said as the man picked up the dishes.

  Lymon noticed that Christal was on her second Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. “I’d started to come to the conclusion that she didn’t drink. Sid, you’re a good influence.”

  “Who? Chris? When she gets wound up, you need a funnel with a tube just to keep up with her.”

  “I don’t do that anymore.” Christal had lowered her eyes. Was that an embarrassed flush at her throat?

  Sid shrugged. “No, I guess you don’t”

  “Want to fill me in?” Lymon asked gently.

  “It was just a joke,” Sid said bluffly. Hell, he didn’t lie any better now than he did in the Corps.

  Christal turned her dark eyes on his. “The last time I had too much I crawled into a surveillance van. Just me and my AIC.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” Sid said gently.

  “Nope.” Lymon sensed her discomfort.

  Christal shrugged, fingering her beer. “It’s all right. I made a mistake. Would I have made the mistake if I’d been stone-cold sober? I don’t know. Maybe. Probably. I liked the guy.”

  “He was scuzz.” Sid muttered, and gave Lymon a meaningful glance. “I don’t get it. The guy’s a dickhead, but women always fawn over him.”

  “It was his eyes,” Christal told them. “The way he smiled. How he listened.” She gave Sid a disapproving look. “It’s a trick you might want to learn. When Hank is listening to a woman, he pays complete attention to her. He treats her like at that moment she is the single most important thing in his world.”

  “So? I listen to women.”

  “Yeah, Sid. With half an ear.”

  “But the guy was gutless!” Sid ended with a snort of derision as the waiter laid down another round.

  Christal shrugged. “We didn’t know that until the shit hit the fan. When it did, he took it like a whipped puppy.”

  Sid poured rich dark Anchor into his glass, studied the brown head, and said, “I think his time with Marsha was running out anyway. She was married to him. She knew what a loser he was. Flashy, with no guts. I’d bet he was whining when she threw him out.”

  “Whining is underrated,” Lymon offered. “I whine a lot. It helps me get my way.”

  In the middle of a swallow, Sid laughed—and almost puked as he coughed and pawed for a napkin.

  “You whine?” Christal asked. “When? Can I watch next time?”

  “Sure. I think I have a whining session scheduled for next week. Check with June. She does the calendar.”

  Sid coughed again, belched, and placed a hand to his stomach. “Excuse me. Damn. You shouldn’t do that, Lymon. Not when I’m vulnerable.”

  “You’re always vulnerable. Speaking of which, when are you going to get off the government dole and come work with us real professionals?”

  “If you’re going to tempt a federal employee,” Christal said, rising, “I’m off to the ladies’ room.”

  “Keep an eye out for Copperhead,” Lymon called.

  Christal shot a look over her shoulder. “I hope she’s there. She and I have this little thing that we need to settle.”

  They watched her walk to the hallway in the rear.

  “Damn, that’s a nice sight,” Sid said with a sigh. “I really miss having her around. Not only is she just a good kid, but I used to spend half the day dreaming about that body.”

  Lymon chuckled. “You’re married.”

  “So? I can still dream, can’t I?” Sid refolded his napkin. “Okay, yeah, I guess I fell a little in love with Christal. Who wouldn’t?”

  “Hank?”

  “Shit! But for him, she’d have had a dynamite career.” Sid shook his head. “Weird thing. You and I both know it’s not the first time a male and female agent made whoopee on surveillance; they just didn’t do it when the target was Gonzales. We’re still trying to figure out how the hell he got a camera into that van.”

  “Someone in the Bureau?”

  “Probably.” Sid looked up. “If Gonzales found out that Hank Abrams was in charge of the investigation, it wouldn’t have taken him long to figure out just what kind of guy he was. Half the WMFO knew he was screwing around on Marsha.” He made a face. “Fucking pretty boy.”

  “So why don’t you ditch the bullshit? I could use a partner.”

  “Me? A partner?”

  Lymon made a gesture of surrender. “Well, maybe. We’d have to see if June would hire you.”

  “That’s the secretary?”

  “Don’t call her that to her face.”

  “Right.” Sid paused, jerked his head toward the women’s room. “So, how’s she doing?”

  “Good. You steered me right. If she likes the work, I’d like to keep her.”

  Sid seemed fascinated by a spot on the tablecloth when he said, “You thought about asking her out?”

  Lymon gave him the evil eye when he finally looked up. “Is that why you sent her out here?”

  “You seen a more beautiful woman recently?”

  “I work for Sheela Marks.” Lymon grinned at Sid’s sudden discomfort and added, “I only owe you my life and my soul. Don’t try to play matchmaker for me.”

  Christal returned a moment later and dropped into the chair with an easy grace. “So, did you guys get an angle on the celeb hits while I was gone, or did you spend the whole time talking about me?”

  “Talked about you,” Lymon said blandly. “You’re a lot more interesting.”

  Sid had recovered completely, saying, “Well, if it’s not profit motivated, it’s payback, right?”

  Lymon made a helpless gesture. “Sheela’s nev
er done a movie with any of those people.”

  “Any personal relationship with any of them?” Christal asked.

  “Outside of bumping into each other at parties, no. Well, sure, there’s the professional similarity, but that’s about it. Are there mutual friends? You bet. It’s the film business. Everybody knows everybody.”

  Sid leaned forward. “Maybe it’s someone who got stepped on. An actor who lost a key role to Marks, or one of the others? Maybe it’s something simple like they were repped by the same agency or something?”

  Christal shrugged. “I can start checking on that.” Her expression dropped. “One thing about the Bureau. You can always get people to do the scut work.”

  Sid cocked an eyebrow, lowering his voice. “So, Lymon. Assuming you find this guy, what are you going to do about him?”

  Lymon tried to keep his voice calm when he said, “Paybacks are a bitch, aren’t they?”

  Christal was watching him, hearing more than he wanted to say. He tried to decipher the look she was giving him. Definitely evaluative.

  “Be very, very careful, old friend.” No levity could be heard in Sid’s voice.

  Sheela Marks’ filmography consisted of no less than thirty-three titles, and it didn’t take Christal long to figure out that this research, like so much that she had done as a federal agent, was tedious, long, and monotonous. Having the dates when the films were made was just the beginning. From there she went to Daily Variety, flipping through the editions looking for Sheela Marks’ name. Then she painstakingly had to figure out who was in or out of the deals. After eight hours she had a list of several hundred names and that was just the actors. Including directors, she could add another fifty. Factor in another twenty-two when the producers were included.

  She considered her list, tapped her pen, and glared at the stack of weeklies as she considered having to repeat the effort for each of the other names.

  “Ma’am?” the librarian asked as she walked up to the carrel. “Are you about finished? We’re closing in fifteen minutes.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Christal stood, feeling the ache in her back, and began collecting her things. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Several names were rubbing against her thoughts as she stepped out into the tawny light of an LA sunset. One of them was Manuel de Clerk.

  She pulled out her cell, dialed the office, and got the answering machine as it identified the company and stated the normal operating hours for Lymon Bridges Associates. June, it appeared, got to keep a normal human being’s work hours. She called Lymon.

  On the second ring he answered, “Bridges.”

  “Lymon? Anaya. I’m looking for Tony Zell’s number.”

  “Agency or personal?”

  “How do I get ahold of him tonight?”

  “Got a pen?”

  “Ten-four.”

  She scribbled the number he gave her on the corner of her legal pad where it stuck out of her purse. “Thanks, Lymon.”

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “You’re a funny man, boss. A stitch a minute. When would I have time for pleasure?”

  “So what have you got?”

  “Did you know that Sheela Marks got Manuel de Clerk bounced from Blood Rage? The guy was supposed to play the lead. Sheela insisted they find someone else.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She got him chopped out of a real juicy role.”

  “And you’re thinking Manny’s been holding a grudge?”

  “I want to talk to the guy. I figure Tony can open the door for me. Does he represent de Clerk?”

  “Nope. But he knows who does. Give Tony a call. Keep me informed.”

  “Right.”

  “Christal?”

  “Yeah?”

  “About de Clerk. Do me a favor. Be discreet, huh? Don’t piss the guy off. It would really upset my digestion if his lawyer started baying outside of my bedroom window over some silly slander suit.”

  “Gotcha, boss.”

  She hit the end button and dialed Tony.

  He answered on the third ring. Music was blaring in the background. “This is Tony.”

  “Mr. Zell? I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Christal Anaya, working for—”

  “Cool! Christal! Hey, I’ve been thinking about you. You know, you promised me dinner, babe.”

  She made a face. Babe? “I was hoping you could direct me to Manuel de Clerk. I need to speak with him concerning the events at the Beverly Wilshire the other night. Nothing important, just some questions. Strictly business for LBA.”

  “Yeah. Glad to help. It’ll cost you, though.”

  “How’s that?” she asked coolly.

  He broke into hysterical laughter. “Hey, Christal, you’re too far out there! Chill out, babe. I don’t need a bribe—at least not like that. Dinner. Tomorrow. Eight-thirty. You say yeah, I give you the number of Manny’s digs and a phone call to let him know you’re coming. Cool?”

  “Cool.”

  “Fucking A! And don’t forget, you already said yeah at the reception just before you hammered that bitch that tried to snag Sheela.”

  “I did?” Maybe he didn’t remember who hammered whom?

  “Hey, I shoulda got it on tape, huh?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Right! What’s your number? Let me make a few calls. Maybe Manny can see you tonight. Just professional, huh? Don’t make me jealous!”

  She lifted her lip, but said in a sweet voice, “I wouldn’t think of it.”

  She hung up and waited. Within five minutes, her phone rang.

  “Hey ya, Christal? Tony here. I got it worked out.”

  “Okay. What, when, and where?”

  “His digs, babe. Nine o’clock tonight. Ring one long, two short and one long. The gate will open. He’ll be at the big house.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Zell.”

  “Hey, babe. It’s Tony. No sweat. Dinner tomorrow, right?”

  14

  Lymon’s garage was a three-car affair. In one bay he kept a gray ’92 Toyota Land Cruiser, in the next his personal car, a Jaguar S type, and finally his motorcycles. In the rear a pristine 1975 Moto Guzzi California Highway Patrol model rested on its center stand, the chrome fenders gleaming. His BMW stood closest to the door, the bodywork removed, the rocker boxes off to expose the oil-slicked valve assemblies. Finally a red-and-bronze 2003 Indian Chief Deluxe canted on its sidestand, the thick fenders waxed and shining. The leather saddle had a waxed look, and chromed diamonds glinted in the skirt. Two fringed leather saddlebags hung low at the rear.

  A radio on a shelf in the back was set on KABC to make white noise as Lymon worked on the BMW. His red toolbox was open, several of the drawers at half-jut. He sat on an inverted bucket and used an Allen wrench to turn the BMW’s crank to top dead center. Air sucked and puffed from the empty spark-plug holes as the valve springs compressed and then released. Lymon glanced in the inspection hole for the timing mark. As his fingers wiggled the rocker arms, he rolled the events of the last two weeks around inside his head. The thing that stuck with him was the look of terror in Sheela’s eyes, the pulsing of the vein in her neck after the attack at the St. Regis. That was followed by her abject humiliation at the Wilshire. What in hell could he have done differently?

  The soft whisper of an engine and the rasping of tires intruded. He looked up, seeing the long black nose of the limo rounding the curve of his drive and pulling to a stop.

  He stood, grabbing a red rag and wiping his hands as he walked to the open door. Paul was giving him a worried look when he opened the driver’s door and started around the front of the long vehicle.

  “Paul? What the hell are you … ?” Lymon stopped short when the rear door opened and Sheela climbed out. She was carrying a canvas duffel bag with one hand, her purse hanging from her shoulder.

  “He’s doing what he’s supposed to,” she called, striding toward him. “Thank you, Paul. Please take the car home. Lymon can bring me when I’m fin
ished.”

  “Hey,” Lymon protested. “Sheela, are you nuts?”

  She made a shooing gesture. “Bye, Paul. And thank you.”

  Paul looked back and forth, confused, and muttered, “Yes, ma’am” before walking back and slipping into the driver’s seat. He put the long black car into reverse and backed slowly around the curve of the drive.

  “This is my home,” Lymon protested. “Sheela, what are you doing here?”

  She was dressed in form-fitting jeans that hugged her round hips and long legs. Thick-soled black boots covered her feet. A gray long-sleeved blouse was tucked into her pants and did little to disguise her famous bustline. She had her red-gold hair in the French braid again. Wary blue eyes met his as she stepped past, frowning at the BMW with its sundry pieces scattered around the cement floor.

  “What’s wrong with your Beemer?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that you have to set the valve clearance every six thousand miles. While I was at it, I changed the oil. That’s in that pan over there. I was just setting the intake side.”

  “So, it’s not really broken.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  She took a deep breath and turned. “I’m escaping, Lymon.”

  Her expression told him everything. The look she gave him melted his heart and overwhelmed his good sense. “Okay. So, you’ve escaped.” He chuckled, wiping his hands. “Now what?”

  She made a halfhearted gesture toward the disassembled RT. “Well, I was thinking of another soda up at that place on the other side of the Angeles Crest.” She turned, frowning at the Indian. “What about that one?”

  He glanced at the canvas war bag in her hand. “Let me guess, that’s the helmet and leather jacket, right?”

  She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “Could you do it for me, Lymon? Set me free again for a couple of hours?”

  “It’s not smart, you know.”

  She stepped closer to him, a desperate soul behind her searching blue eyes. “Hell, I know that. It’s probably going to end in a wreck one way or another, Lymon, but God, if I don’t do something I’m going to lose my mind.”