“It’s good to see you again,” Wil said when the meeting broke up. It was the first chance we had to be alone. We’d talked a few times over the previous couple of months and exchanged emails. I had some hope things might heat up between us, but that hadn’t happened.
“Can I buy you dinner?” I asked, feeling almost the same way as I did when I asked Robbie Conklin to a dance when I was fourteen. He said no, breaking my heart and making me the laughing stock of the whole school.
“Yes, I’d like that.”
I realized I’d been holding my breath and tried to let it out without appearing too obvious.
I called and got a reservation at Lilith’s, then rode home to shower and change. It was one of Nellie’s days off, but Richard was out of town. I called my dad, and he offered to fix her dinner, so Mike took her over there.
It took me three changes to decide on a dress, and then I had to decide what to do with my hair. I was caught in a bombing four months earlier, and the doctors shaved my head. When it first grew out, I had it shaped into a pixie cut and thought it was cute. Past a certain length, however, the curls took control, and it always looked like a tousled mess. It probably would take another foot of length for the weight to make it manageable. I projected several hairstyle images, then said to hell with it, dragged a brush through it, and left it natural.
After all, Wil was the one who took me to the restaurant that got bombed. And besides, we were just friends. Why was I concerned about how I looked? I didn’t want him to hit on me, so why try to look sexy and desirable? Of course, I did want him to pay attention to me. How humiliating would it be to have dinner with the sexiest man in town and have him staring at other women? Not that I cared who he stared at. After all, we were just friends.
Somehow, with all the musing and outfit changes, I arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes late. Wil was waiting at the bar, and I noticed a number of my mother’s employees, men and women, wandering through and not-so-discretely staring at him. The bartender was hovering close to Wil and doing her best to make sure he noticed her cleavage.
As soon as I walked in, he hopped off the barstool and rushed toward me.
“You look ravishing,” he said with a big smile. He reached up and tried to tuck a stray curl behind my ear, but it immediately popped back out.
I turned to the maître d’ and said, “We’re ready, Ramon.” He nodded and led us to the table I’d requested, in a dark corner where we could see the room and also have our privacy.
“It’s good to see you again,” Wil said.
“Yes. It has been a while.”
“I’ve been busy. We’re going through a reorganization, and—”
I reached out and put my fingertips on his lips. “Don’t tell me about it. I hate that word. When I was a kid, that always meant that our friends were moving away.”
“Oh. Okay. I did call.”
“Twice. After I’d called you. And I called you twice. The last time, we spoke for less than five minutes. You were in a hurry—had a hot date, I guess.”
“A plane to catch. I was in San Francisco.”
“Yes, I know about those business trips. Don’t even have time to write an email late at night.” I knew I was coming across as petulant, and tried to control it.
The waiter brought the wine, and I ordered for both of us. “Trust me. You’ll love it,” I told Wil.
“So, tell me about this chameleon,” he said.
“Not now. Later. It would ruin my dinner.”
An uncomfortable silence ensued. I didn’t know what to say, and it seemed he didn’t either. Our appetizer came and we shared it. The waiter refilled our wine glasses, and I ordered a second bottle.
“I think about you all the time,” Wil suddenly said. “I miss you.”
I stared at him, feeling stupid because my mind had gone blank, and I didn’t know what to say.
I finally managed, “Hard to find girls in Chicago who enjoy bombings? Wimps.” My voice came out kind of squeaky, so I took a sip of my wine. “You know, it’s okay. I like you, Wil. I don’t have many friends. A lot of acquaintances, but few close friends. I like being your friend.”
“I’d like to be more than friends. I thought you wanted more than that. Don’t you think we could see if something more develops?”
I didn’t want to tell him that when he had his thigh pressed between my legs and his tongue down my throat, I wasn’t thinking at all. The man had a talent for kissing me into a state of mindless frenzy.
What I said was, “When I am thinking about us, I’m thinking that you and I are a bad idea.”
Our meals arrived and saved me from continuing the conversation. After we’d eaten and moved on to coffee and cordials, I decided I could think about Grenier. My mind shied away from that less than talking about Wil and me.
I filled him in on what had happened to date, including my suppositions and observations of Grenier as a chameleon.
“How many other chameleons have you known?” Wil asked.
“None. Dad says he’s heard of others, but none of us are volunteering to go on a news show and demonstrate our abilities.”
“I wonder why.”
I blinked at him, then realized he was serious. “Did you take any history classes when you were in school? No, wait, let me rephrase that. Were you awake during any of your history classes? Heavens. Scientists and governments, and the corporations’ scientists, did unspeakable things to mutants. It wasn’t until the mutie uprisings in the early twenty-second century that the corps decided that dissecting and torturing us was too costly and bad PR.”
“Yeah, but that was a long time ago. No one experiments on people like that now.”
“Uh, huh. Wil, if you’re that gullible, why don’t you just give me all your money? I promise I’ll do good things with it. Honest. It will save you a lot of pain later, because if you’re that damned dumb, some swindlers are going to take it from you anyway.”
He stared at me for a moment, then started laughing.
“If you want to believe in the benevolence of the scientific community, that’s your business,” I said. “Personally, and I think I speak for most mutants, I’ll let someone else volunteer to be first in line to be tortured to death.”
“You really believe that.”
“Yes, and so does damned near every mutant I’ve ever met. Wil, the university here will pay muties to participate in research studies. People sit in the enclave and let their babies starve instead. That should tell you something.”
He seemed to study my face for a while, then shook his head. “So, getting back to this Grenier guy, you really think we need an assault company to deal with him?”
“He scares the hell out of me,” I said. “Think about it. If I wanted to kill someone, how would you stop me?”
“Lay a trap and bait it.”
“Yeah. Let me know when you figure out what kind of bait to use. He’s willing to take targets of opportunity. Believe me, when you’re invisible, scouting a target is very easy. We don’t even know who his priorities are. We thought we had a pattern, then he breaks it with the Ruiz killings. He’s actually broken the pattern several times. He didn’t go after Connelly’s mistress before going after the family. He didn’t go after Ruiz’s mistress, either.”
“And what do we know about him before all this?”
I winked at him. “Inspector Donofrio and I have had a very difficult time with that question. I’m hoping that the Chamber’s grand-high poohbah of security will be able to open Entertaincorp’s files. After all, they did ask for your help.”
A smile grew on his face. “Yes, they did, didn’t they? You know, you may have the most devious mind of any woman I ever met.”
“Flatterer.”
I flagged down the waitress, paid the check, and asked her to call me a taxi.
“I can give you a ride home,” Wil said.
“Yes, but when you do that, you walk me to my door like a gentleman, then you get
frisky in a very ungentlemanly way. Let’s not do that tonight.”
“You don’t seem to mind me getting frisky,” he said with a smirk.
“If I did, you’d be dead. That’s not the point.”
He licked his lips, and I could tell it was a nervous thing by the pensive look on his face, but I had to look away. I could just imagine…
Outside, I gave him a quick hug before climbing into the taxi and said, “Should we meet at CC headquarters?”
“I’ll set up a meeting with Director Pong at Entertaincorp and call you,” he said. “I think your idea about getting more of Grenier’s background is a good one.”
Chapter 14
When I got home, I did some research to prepare for the meeting with Pong the following morning. Wil called at eight.
“Did you get the meeting?” I asked.
“Yes, but he wants to meet only with me.”
With a chuckle, I asked, “I’m not corporate enough for him?”
“Probably not. Either that or he doesn’t want to air their dirty laundry with a local.”
“I’m crushed. Hey, I did some checking last night, and I think I’ll go after the information we’re seeking from the other direction. You know, Grenier’s mother is still alive and living here in the city. The old man didn’t leave her much of his estate, just a trust fund and an apartment. She gets his pension from Entertaincorp. Left the son even less.”
“Oh, really. Who got the riches?” Wil asked.
“Most of it went to his brother, a couple of million to his mistress, and five million to their daughter.”
“His daughter?”
“One might presume. She’s about five years younger than Peter. So, you meet with Pong, I’ll go hit up Mrs. Grenier, and we’ll meet up later and compare notes. Try and get a DNA profile.” While wealthy families might steer away from DNA analysis, corporations routinely checked employees’ DNA as part of the hiring process. No sense in hiring someone who had or might develop an expensive genetic disease.
I considered calling ahead, then decided doing that would make it easier for Stella Grenier to dodge me. I dressed a little nicer than usual and rode my bike over to the address I had for Peter’s mother. It was in a luxury building, but definitely a couple of steps down from the estate I assumed Vice President Jack Grenier had owned.
Disabling the keypad on the outer door, I slipped into the lobby and took the elevator to the eighth floor. The documents I’d read said that Stella had a two-bedroom flat, but that didn’t do it justice. The building was very upscale, with an enclosed garden and a swimming pool in the rear, and her corner apartment was on the top floor.
“Yes?” The stunning older woman said when she answered the door. I didn’t know what I expected, but Stella Grenier was mid-to-late fifties, blonde, and nearly six feet tall. She appeared ready to go out, wearing a dark-blue designer dress, her hair in a French twist, and her makeup immaculate. Shopping? Where would she go at nine o’clock in the morning dressed like that?
“Stella Grenier? I’m Elizabeth Nelson.” I showed her my security-consultant identification. “I’m working with Entertaincorp and the Chamber of Commerce. I’d like to ask you some questions about Peter.”
She looked me up and down, and I was glad I’d dressed professionally. Her eyes finally focused on my face. “What has he done?”
“Killed about two dozen people.” I still hadn’t shared Peter’s tablet with anyone. It contained vids of him torturing six girls and women. Although the vids didn’t show them die, I assumed none of them survived.
Stella blinked at me, then stood aside. “Come in.” She showed me to a sitting area and indicated a chair, then sat on the couch across the coffee table from me.
“I haven’t seen my son in almost a year,” she said, “so I’m not sure how I can help you.”
“We’re trying to build a profile, and to do that, it helps to have some background information. An idea of his childhood and his temperament. That sort of thing.”
“Peter was an unusual child. Have you seen pictures of him?”
“I’ve actually met him,” I said.
“Well, then you know that his looks are unconventional. Children can be very cruel, Miss Nelson. He had a difficult time in school, and that continued through his university years.”
“How did he do in school?”
“Top honors. There’s nothing wrong with his mind. You know, when children are isolated, they sometimes take refuge in reading and their studies. He has a gift for mathematics. I tried to talk him into architecture, but logistics interested him more. He said that buildings were static, but logistics dealt with moving pieces that constantly changed.”
Just a misunderstood nerd. I asked some questions about his other activities and interests, but I didn’t develop much of a picture from what she told me.
“After graduation, he got a job with Entertaincorp in their logistics department,” I said.
“Yes, Jack, my husband, helped him get the job.”
“And your husband retired…” I let my voice trail off.
“Almost ten years ago. Peter was twenty-five and settling into his career.”
“And I understand that your husband passed last year.”
“Yes, fourteen months ago. He had a heart attack.”
“Did that upset Peter?”
“Oh, yes. He loved Jack.”
“Did Jack love Peter? My understanding is that Peter’s inheritance was rather small.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at, Miss Nelson?”
“Who was Peter’s real father? A quick read of your husband’s will indicates there was some friction between Jack Grenier, and you and your son.”
Stella stood abruptly, walked over to a sideboard and poured herself a drink of a green liquid from a bottle I didn’t recognize. “Drink, Miss Nelson?”
“No, thank you. I’m good.”
She took a healthy swallow, then turned to me.
“Jack and I had been married a couple of years and he wanted a baby. We tried and weren’t successful. I was out with a friend, we had lunch and went shopping. When I picked up my car at the garage, one of the men there assaulted me.”
“I’m so sorry. And that’s how you got pregnant?”
“Yes. Jack wouldn’t touch me after that. Miss Nelson, can you imagine what it’s like to spend thirty-five years married to a man who refuses to sleep with you? Who would rather go to bed with whores?”
“Do you know who the man was who raped you?”
“Oh, yes. Boris Nowakowski. He still lives here in the city.”
“Is Peter aware of who his father is?”
She shook her head. “No, not unless Jack told him, but I never did.”
“Mrs. Grenier, did Peter ever have any pets?”
She froze with her glass halfway to her mouth. Her expression was that of a rabbit in the headlights, then it gradually turned rather ugly, her face twisting, and her upper lip curling.
“No,” she said shortly. “He was allergic.”
“I understand that his divorce was rather messy.”
Stella’s ugly expression deepened. “That whore. She told every lie in the book about my son. Robbed him of everything he’d built. Stole his children.” She downed the rest of her drink, then said, “I don’t believe you. If Peter was going to kill anyone, he’d have killed that bitch. I can’t help you. Get out.”
I walked to the door, then turned. “You have a daughter, younger than Peter, I believe. If your husband never touched you after the assault, who is her father?”
“None of your damned business. Get out.”
Nowakowski was easy to find. He lived in an apartment near Lilith’s. Not the nicest part of town, but far from the worst. I rode over there, took the stairs to the third floor, and knocked on his door.
The man who answered was huge. He filled the doorway and had to bend over to look through it. All he was wearing was an undershirt and a pair of d
ungarees.
“Boris Nowakowski?”
“Who wants to know?”
I showed him my identification. “I’d like to ask you some questions about Stella Grenier.”
He laughed. “I ain’t got no time for questions unless you got money. Time is money, ya know?”
I flashed a payment card and he ushered me in. The apartment wasn’t small, but with him in it, it looked tiny. He had to duck around the ceiling light in the living room. I figured him at seven-feet-plus and more than three hundred pounds. Not fat. He looked like a weightlifter. Shaven head, heavy Slavic features, but rather handsome. I guessed he was late fifties—around Stella’s age.
The apartment itself was clean and comfortably furnished, the furniture all being rather oversized and overstuffed. Pictures, mainly landscapes, hung on the walls. The exceptions were pictures of Stella, one with Nowakowski and Lake Ontario in the background. They were both smiling and a lot younger.
He held out a credit card, and I transferred a hundred credits. After studying his card, he said, “What do you want to know?”
“Mrs. Grenier told me that you raped her thirty-five years ago.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Did you know that she got pregnant that night?”
Nowakowski started laughing. “Is that what she told you?” He shook his head. “It figures.”
He sat down and motioned me to the couch. “I worked at a parking garage as a security guard,” he said. “She came in all the time and flirted with me. I flirted back. One afternoon, she came in kinda tipsy, and the flirting got physical. Did I rape her? Maybe. She didn’t fight very hard. But it was thirty-eight years ago, and that’s not when she got pregnant.”
“Oh?”
“Naw. She liked it rough. Came back. I screwed that broad at least once a week for the next two years. Then she got pregnant and broke it off.”
“You’re a very large man,” I said. “Do you know anything about your ancestry?”
He laughed. “Long line of guards and soldiers.” Heaving himself out of his chair, he went to a cabinet and pulled out a large book. Sitting down next to me on the couch, he opened it across our laps, revealing a scrapbook with photos and clippings from when print media still existed.
Chameleon's Challenge (Chameleon Assassin Series Book 3) Page 11
