Mosaic

by Gayle Lynds

  Anxiously they turned west to find the Chieftain Hotel. Waste paper had blown up against buildings. Graffiti marred walls. And a dozen adults and children were lined up to enter a church soup kitchen. A priest in a black suit and white collar was talking with several.

  The Chieftain Hotel was narrow and age-dirtied. They trotted down the alley next to it and found a fire escape and door. Sam tried the door. It was locked.

  So they returned to the front and walked boldly in through the hotel's main door.

  "Let me do the talking," he said. But the gray-faced man behind the desk only glanced at them. They moved purposefully past and up the steps.

  "Want a room?" the man demanded suddenly. "Thirty dollars a night."

  "Thanks," Sam tossed over his shoulder. "We're just visiting."

  They climbed to the third floor. There was a faint odor of urine. Sam glanced at Julia, at her dark face with its fine features, at the blue eyes so startling in contrast. He had a moment of uncomfortable déjà vu, of other hotel corridors and the violence that lurked on the other side of the wrong door. He slipped out his Browning.

  She pulled out her pepper spray.

  They moved quietly down the hall and approached the door with nerves on edge. They listened but heard nothing. Sam put a finger to his lips, twisted the knob, and inched open the door. Still no sound. Julia pulled on his arm, and he stepped back. He watched up and down the hall as she pressed her face against the crack.

  She listened, tried to feel body heat, used all her proprioceptors, and smelled—

  She swallowed bile. "Blood."

  He pushed open the door. They slipped into the lighted room, and she closed the door as he covered the small area with his Browning. It contained only a sunken bed, a scarred table with a lamp, and a wood side chair. There was no sign of Staffeld. But the bathroom light was on. Julia had a sinking feeling, as if everything they'd tried, everything they'd done, had failed, and they were about to find one more failure. And this time they were going to like it even less.

  Without speaking, they strode across the room to the bath. They stopped at the open door. The odor of blood was an overwhelming stench. Julia swallowed hard. On the cracked tile of the wall over the tub was painted a single sentence in bright red blood: "I've done my duty."

  Sam's gaze traveled from the bloody words back down to Geoffrey Staffeld, whose bulbous body lay naked and grotesquely peaceful in the tub's water. The veins in both wrists had been sliced, and the wounds gaped open like a Roman senator's. His entire body was chalk white, drained of life. Dead.

  "He's killed himself." Julia's stomach wrenched, and she turned her head away.

  Sam sighed. "What do you suppose he meant by 'I've done my duty'?"

  The stink from the blood in the warm tub water was making Julia light-headed. She walked back into the bedroom to gather her wits. She saw a pistol lying on the table next to a briefcase. She picked up the pistol and dropped it into her jacket pocket.

  "Creighton's going to love this," Sam muttered as he left the bathroom. "The guy who was burying Douglas Powers for him is dead. Can't be questioned by the government. Can't spill that he was paid or somehow made to do it. But on the other hand he's not around to go before the press again and report some new monstrosity for Creighton. The poor bastard must've seen no way out, or maybe he was helped by one side or the other."

  "Creighton's or Powers's people?"

  "It's possible." Sam nodded soberly. "We know Creighton's not lily white, and it seems as if Powers is. But maybe Powers has some overenthusiastic supporters. Today, you never know."

  "It's horrible to think, but you're right." Julia sighed. "We'd better get out of here."

  "The fire escape," Sam decided.

  They left the little room and hurried to the window at the end of the corridor. They quickly climbed down three flights of metal stairs to the alley, strode around the building to the sidewalk, and left the Chieftain Hotel behind.

  As they reached the end of the block and turned, out of sight from them a car pulled up and parked before the hotel. An Associated Press identification ticket hung in the front windshield. A woman and man got out and ran up the front steps. The man had a camera around his neck and a bag of equipment hanging from his shoulder.

  By then Julia and Sam were moving alongside tenements again. More people were lined up at the free food kitchen they'd passed earlier. Their faces reflected a variety of backgrounds—Peru, Mexico, Morocco—as well as the white, brown, and black faces of generations of poor Americans. A nun came out to talk to the priest who'd been chatting with them.

  Julia stopped to stare at the priest's simple black suit with the white clerical collar. She glanced at the sign on the kitchen: SPONSORED BY THE ORDER OF SAINT DOMINIC. She groaned aloud. "Sam! I can't believe how stupid I've been! It's been there all along, right in front of me. I know where my grandfather's got to be."

  But as she spoke, Sam suddenly grabbed her arm. "Don't look back. Maya Stern's behind us. Let's go!"

  Julia glanced over her shoulder anyway and saw a trio hurrying toward them—her mother's killer and two men. The street teemed with people and traffic.

  Julia and Sam raced away down the street. And instantly stopped.

  "Ohmygod," she gasped.

  Two more muscular men were heading straight toward them. She and Sam were bookended, with Stern and her two behind and another pair ahead.

  Julia didn't hesitate. Neither did Sam. Like a seasoned team, they turned on their heels and sprinted into traffic.

  49

  11:43 AM, MONDAY

  In the dingy room at the Chieftain Hotel, the woman from AP stared at the corpse in the tub. It was Geoffrey Staffeld. She'd been one of the reporters at his press conference yesterday afternoon, and her story and the photographer's photos had quickly gone out over the wire to newspapers, magazines, and radio and TV outlets all across the country.

  "God, what a mess," she said to her photographer.

  "No shit. And we wonder why we love this work." He was shooting photos from different angles of the limp corpse in the water. "Wonder why he did it. Hell, he could've made a bundle on a big book deal." His camera flashed, and he moved again. He focused his lens. "I can see it now: The Man Who Killed a Presidency."

  The woman turned away. "Yeah. I wonder why—"

  They were here because of an anonymous tip that'd been phoned directly to her. It was from a man who claimed to have seen Staffeld here in this room and was telling her because he'd read her bylined story about Staffeld's accusations.

  She hadn't expected to find Staffeld dead. A suicide.

  She had to phone the police, report it. But first—

  "You got any gloves?" she called toward the bathroom. She was known for her hard-hitting exposés, and she hadn't acquired that reputation by being shy.

  "Yeah. Latex. In my bag." The photographer stuck his head out the bathroom door. "Don't get too entrepreneurial. You don't want to be arrested for screwing with the scene of a crime."

  "We. They're your gloves." She snapped them on.

  "Goddammit." He went back to shooting. "The cops could be here any minute."

  She searched quickly through the small suitcase of toiletries and clean underwear. Nothing. She headed for the briefcase. She snapped open the lock. On top were the documents Staffeld had let them photograph yesterday. She quickly flipped through them. And stopped. A thrill pumped adrenaline straight to her brain. Exhilarated, she read quickly through the new papers. Then she found new photos—

  Her pulse raced. "Forget the dead guy! Come here. I want shots of all of this. What a depraved sonofabitch. No wonder he killed himself!"

  11:44 AM, MONDAY

  Traffic slowed. The street was packed with nose-to-tail vehicles. The air stank of exhaust, and suddenly the sun was hard and metallic. Julia and Sam raced among the cars, trying to escape. Julia's leg pulsed where the bullet had grazed it yesterday.

  There was no time to think. No
time to be afraid. Run, run. Faster!

  Maya Stern pounded behind them. Inside she smiled. Despite Sam's and Julia's disguises, they'd given themselves away when they'd come down the fire escape and run from the alley. She'd left a man behind to report when the AP reporter and photographer arrived. He'd seen Sam's and Julia's furtiveness, studied their body types and movements carefully, and alerted her. His suspicions were right.

  Now she stopped and double-gripped her pistol. She aimed and fired even though Austrian was too far away to be an easy target.

  Julia was sprinting. The shot blasted past her ear like a nuclear-armed missile and splatted into the hood of a Dodge junker. Inside the car someone bellowed with fear.

  Julia and Sam couldn't stop. They raced on. Two more bullets ripped through the air over the rumble of car motors.

  Julia pulled out the pistol she'd taken from Staffeld's hotel room.

  Sam saw it. "Dammit! Did you steal another gun?"

  "It seemed like a good idea."

  Sweating, they dashed toward the intersection. Behind them Maya Stern directed her men to spread out. They careened along the gutters and wove among the cars and trucks, trying to get clear shots. Stern's heart was pulsing with the cool excitement of the chase. Of the hunter closing in.

  Just as the light turned green, Julia and Sam blasted into the intersection and around the corner, running among the cars that had stopped.

  Faster. Faster.

  First Sam looked back, and then Julia. Two of the men were gaining on them. In a few brief seconds Julia saw they had the lean faces of desert jackrabbits, and the speed. They were serious runners, but they weren't shooting.

  "Janitors," Sam panted.

  "They're going to catch us!" she warned.

  He gave a brief, brittle smile. "Really?"

  A taxi had pulled up to the curb ahead, and Sam had plans for it. As his feet pumped and sweat poured off his face, he grimly noted the driver had gotten out and was carrying an elderly woman's groceries up to a stoop. The taxi's motor was still on. Sam could see the gray tail exhaust

  "This way!" Sam snapped. He angled toward the taxi.

  Without arguing, Julia followed.

  The traffic started up again, moving slowly at first like the beginning of a centipede's crawl. Horns blasted at them, and drivers' disgust bellowed in the metallic sunlight. Julia was panting. Fear drenched her. Also anger. Fury. But she'd gotten so accustomed to the fear that it seemed no longer pertinent.

  Just as they neared the taxi, a shot cut across the top of Sam's left shoulder. It stung like hell and for a brief moment it seemed as if he might lose his balance. But it'd just sliced through the top of his big jacket and barely creased the skin. The closest two pursuers—the runners—were just a few yards behind and not bothering to stop and aim.

  "Get in the taxi!" Sam ordered.

  She smashed against the driver's door because she hadn't bothered to slow. The impact left her momentarily breathless. She yanked open the door and saw instantly it had an automatic transmission. She could drive.

  From the stoop the taxi driver called, "Hey! Get away from my cab!"

  In a single, smooth movement, Sam turned and reversed direction. There was a moment of surprise in the pair's lean faces as Sam opened his arms wide and crashed full force into them, capturing them with his unexpected attack. Using momentum and sheer strength, he slammed them back against the open bed of a pickup that was creeping ahead with the traffic. He could feel their spines crunch against the steel lip. Their eyes showed white. One groaned. They dropped to the pavement.

  In the car behind the pickup, the driver stared out through his windshield at Sam, terror thickening his grizzled face. He stomped his brakes just before he ran over the two crippled Janitors. And Sam spun around.

  The taximan was racing to save his cab. Maya Stern and her Janitors fanned out.

  Julia slammed the taxi into reverse, rammed it back up over the curb, and pointed the nose at an angle into the lane of traffic that was free because of the two downed Janitors who were blocking it.

  The young taximan arrived at her open window. "Get out of my cab!" he roared.

  She stuck her pistol in his face. "Go away and I won't have to shoot you."

  His eyebrows shot up. He lifted his hands over his head and danced back. "Hey. No problem. The cab's yours. Time for my break anyway."

  Sam turned again. Behind him Maya Stern closed in.

  Julia had seen Sam do the maneuver often enough—As he ran, she threw the transmission into drive and hit the accelerator. The car crashed heavily into the two Janitors who were preparing to fire, and Sam jumped into the passenger seat.

  Suddenly Maya Stern was at the driver's side. Her dark hair was tucked back into her hooded sweatshirt. Sweat glistened on her face. Otherwise her face with its perfect features was immaculate in its total calm. Abruptly Julia felt a blast of hatred from the killer, of total will and confidence. Stern paused to aim.

  Julia lifted the gun she'd stolen. This woman had killed her mother. Julia pulled the trigger and stomped the accelerator.

  Stern's bullet ripped through the taxi's back door. Julia caught a glimpse that told her hers had gone wild. She hoped it hadn't hit anyone. She wanted to fire again, to kill Maya Stern, but she couldn't afford the risk. She had to get to her grandfather, and then to Creighton.

  Julia turned the wheel and sped away. "I missed," she told Sam. "Dammit."

  "With Stern there's always a next time." Sam stared worriedly at her. Her oval face with the small features was intense beneath the sweat-streaked makeup. Her blue eyes raged, and her full, provocative lips seemed thicker than usual. There was fear, too, but it was overridden by a dangerous mixture of fury and exhilaration. He thought about last night—her passionate hands, the beautiful hungry body. He remembered the tenderness and excitement and joy. But in this moment, that woman was gone, changed by pain and circumstances into a would-be killer. He didn't like it, but he understood it.

  As she sped the taxi away, she asked, "How did Stern find us?"

  "Maybe she was going to check on Staffeld to give him more instructions," Sam said. "She could've arrived just as we left the hotel."

  "Or expected us to show up sooner or later," Julia decided. "Those men who tried to kill Graffy . . . I'll bet they were Janitors."

  "Why would they be hanging around Staffeld's hotel?"

  "To protect him?"

  "That's possible. Or maybe to kill him."

  "If Creighton was finished with him, it makes sense." She drove with one eye cocked to the rearview mirror, but she saw nothing suspicious behind. She nodded at the pistol she'd laid on the seat between them. "I guess that's double-action, too."

  "Almost all are today. You stole another fine one. A Beretta."

  "How big?"

  "Nine millimeter."

  "At last, something powerful. I'm getting good at this."

  He watched her beautiful face. "Don't get too good."

  50

  MEMOIR ENTRY

  In my mind, Austrian and Redmond were equally responsible for Maas's death.

  I used to think they were alike, almost identical. When I found them again, I watched their business thrive, their families grow healthy and rich, their statures in society rise. They had taken so much, but they had not been punished. Instead they seemed to have been rewarded with happy, successful lives.

  What could I do? I puzzled about it. And then I had a solution. I must tell their oldest sons—

  12:02 PM, MONDAY

  OYSTER BAY, NEW YORK

  The mansion and grounds at Arbor Knoll were alive with festive preparations. A tall white tent with heaters powered by a big generator straddled one of the tennis courts for the media's use. Cooks labored in the hotel-sized kitchen, since bringing in catered food was deemed too risky. Telephones rang. The Secret Service was busily doling out assignments to the additional agents who'd arrived to patrol the grounds and man the main gate to monitor arri
ving guests. The county police had sent extra personnel to guard the more remote entrances and to control the crowd that was already gathering outside not just to show their support for the candidate, but to see the high, the mighty, and the notorious who were scheduled to attend.

  TV crews were setting up by the mansion's front steps to film each glittering arrival. It was going to be an afternoon and evening of formal dress, expensive wines and liquors, a seven-course gourmet feast, and a dance orchestra in the enormous, mirrored ballroom on the third floor.

  As he strolled among the organized chaos, Creighton smiled deep within. He'd just had a phone call from Maya Stern. Julia and Keeline had shown up at Staffeld's hotel as they'd expected after the incident with the musician–dope-runner Graffy O'Dea. Staffeld was disposed of, and now Maya Stern was tracking down Julia and Keeline. It was turning out to be a great day.

  Brice appeared at his side. He was in his usual cowboy boots, jeans, and flannel shirt. His faded red hair was swept back neatly, and his ruddy face spread in a grin. "Douglas Powers, eat your heart out."

  Creighton chuckled. "So you've decided you like politics after all."

  "The way you do it," Brice said comfortably, "absolutely. Take no prisoners. Hell, you could've been a business titan, Creighton. Greater even than the old man."

  "Perhaps. But president will do."

  David joined them. "There you are."

  "Come on," Creighton invited. "I've got something that will amuse you."

  He led his brothers past the masterpieces of art that lined the great hall. They were so accustomed to the stunning beauty that they no longer even noticed them. They stepped into the elevator, and Creighton pushed the button for the third floor.

  As the cage rose, David scowled at him. Although he'd wanted no details of Creighton's dirty trick, it was obvious from the newspapers the key role Geoffrey Staffeld was playing. David had guessed immediately where the millions Vince had needed had gone.