Mystery Writers of America Presents the Rich and the Dead

by Inc. Mystery Writers of America

  She and Cavanaugh followed Dant and his ex-wife into the nightglow of the plaza outside Lincoln Center. The blare of traffic replaced that of conversations and the string quartet.

  Cavanaugh saw Novak and the rest of the security team coming outside. If they’d worn tuxedos, Dant might have been indistinguishable from his protectors, but as things were, he was conspicuous in his formal evening clothes.

  “He’s heading toward the fountain,” Jamie said.

  Cavanaugh hurried in front of him. “All you needed to do was tell us in advance what your plans are.”

  “Sometimes I don’t have a plan.”

  “Look, just give us a half hour, and we’ll make sure the area’s clear.”

  “The opera’s scheduled to start by then.”

  “Please.”

  “What good does all the money in the world matter if…” Dant shook his head bitterly. “I knew this wouldn’t work.”

  Cavanaugh looked ahead toward the huge circular fountain. Lights shimmered under the water. A tarpaulin covered part of the fountain’s curve. Cones stood in front of a sign: UNDER REPAIR.

  “At least let me check the tarpaulin.”

  “Get out of our way.”

  The explosion had the force of hands shoving at Cavanaugh’s chest. His ears felt slapped. Stumbling back, he closed his eyes from the glare of the blast. He winced as Dant and his ex-wife walloped against Jamie and him, all four of them crashing onto the plaza. Sickening smoke swirled around him. Bystanders screamed.

  “HOW MANY FINGERS do you see?” the doctor asked.

  Cavanaugh told him.

  “What year is it?”

  Cavanaugh told him.

  “What’s your social security number?”

  “You’re kidding, right? You expect me to give you my social security number?”

  “Just wanted to see if you’re alert. Are you sick to your stomach?”

  “No.”

  “Are your ears still ringing?”

  “Not as much.”

  “I wouldn’t try to handle any heavy machinery.” The doctor looked at Jamie, whom he’d already checked. “Otherwise, I think it’s okay for the two of you to leave the hospital.”

  “What about Mr. Dant? Is he okay?” Jamie asked.

  “The same condition as you. I released him twenty minutes ago.”

  “Released him? No. We need to talk to him.”

  “The police wanted to talk to him first. But even without them, I get the feeling it would have been impossible to keep him here. He definitely knows what he wants. Speaking of the police, there’s a detective waiting to ask you more questions.”

  TWO HOURS LATER, Cavanaugh and Jamie were escorted by Global Protective Services agents to a car outside the hospital. They were driven to the security firm’s headquarters at a building in midtown Manhattan, on the fortieth floor, where they met with the hastily summoned heads of GPS’s various divisions.

  “Dant’s been treating his protective team so badly, no one with any talent wants to work with him,” Cavanaugh said, rubbing his forehead.

  “You should buy a lottery ticket,” the director of the Far East division said. “That close to the blast, you didn’t get hit with shrapnel. All things considered, this was your lucky night.”

  “What about the other people in the area?”

  “No serious injuries,” the head of electronic security devices replied.

  “Sounds like there wasn’t any shrapnel.”

  “Maybe the idea wasn’t to kill Dant as much as continue scaring him,” Jamie suggested. “It prolongs the revenge.”

  Cavanaugh nodded, a motion that aggravated his headache. “And once again, whoever’s after Dant had information that allowed him or her to know well in advance where the target would be.”

  “Yes, the charity event at Lincoln Center,” the director of corporate security said. “But it’s a big leap from knowing that Dant would be there and predicting that he’d go out to the fountain, especially when security was supposed to be tight. It would have taken a lot of trouble to hide the bomb where the repairs were being made. Maybe someone pretending to be part of the repair crew did it. But nobody would risk it unless Dant was sure to go out there.”

  “Dant has a thing about that fountain. The first time he visited New York, that’s where he went.”

  “So whoever’s doing this has personal information about him, more than just the sort of details available by hacking Dant’s computer system and learning what his schedule is,” Jamie said. “Really personal details. The sort of thing only someone close to him would know.”

  “I’M SORRY, SIR,” the receptionist’s voice said. “Mr. Dant isn’t available.”

  “Then put me through to Mr. Novak,” Cavanaugh said into the phone.

  “He’s not available, either. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “Yes.” Cavanaugh gave his name and phone number. “Do you know when they’ll be free?”

  “Not for quite a while. They’re in Europe.”

  Neither Dant nor Novak returned his calls.

  A CLIENT HAD a television tuned to a business channel. Jamie glanced in that direction and suddenly pointed.

  “My God.”

  Above the stock market quotes streaming along the bottom of the screen, a photograph of Dant appeared next to a caption that said “Breaking News.”

  “… near this peaceful Greek island,” an announcer somberly reported.

  The television showed wreckage floating on water.

  “According to Martin Dant’s security officer,” the announcer continued, “he went out for a moonlight sail. Despite recent attempts to kill him, Dant was known for being determined not to let threats control his life. He was alone when the bomb went off, completely destroying his boat. Windows were shattered within three blocks of the harbor. Local authorities are still searching for the body.”

  “FIVE ATTEMPTS ON his life,” Jamie said. “Two with a rifle, three with explosives. Ever hear of an assassin who didn’t specialize in a single method?”

  “And that explosion at the Lincoln Center fountain,” Cavanaugh said. “All flash-bang but no shrapnel.”

  SAUDI ARABIA.

  Gunshots echoed across the desert. With Jamie beside him, Cavanaugh drove a Range Rover to a checkpoint. They showed their identification to a Saudi guard, who studied a list, nodded, and motioned for Cavanaugh and Jamie to get out of the vehicle. In the stark heat, other guards approached them.

  The gunshots persisted.

  Jamie wore the black cloak that all women in Saudi Arabia were required to wear. The head cover wasn’t as strictly enforced for Western women. Even so, Jamie made sure that she had a black scarf in her pocket in case she was ordered to wear it. Meanwhile, a floppy-brimmed Helios sun hat covered her head while dark sunglasses concealed her eyes.

  The vehicle was checked for weapons and explosives.

  So were Cavanaugh and Jamie.

  The guard motioned for them to get back in the Range Rover and proceed, but not before one of the guards slid into the rear of the vehicle, staying with them.

  Although unpaved, the desert road was remarkably smooth, not surprising given that the area was owned by a member of the Saudi royal family. The gunshots became louder.

  Buildings appeared ahead. Some were functional, containing what Cavanaugh assumed were offices, a lecture hall, a cafeteria, a dormitory, and bathrooms. Other buildings—mere shells—formed mock urban streets, along one of which a three-car motorcade was attacked by submachine guns and a rocket launcher. The motorcade slammed into reverse gear, pivoted 180 degrees, rammed into forward gear, and raced away, only to be confronted by more fire from submachine guns and a rocket launcher.

  However realistic, it was a practice exercise using nonlethal ammunition.

  The people engaged in the exercise were Saudis. The men supervising it were American, German, and Australian, all of them former members of special-operations units. Cavanaugh knew t
heir backgrounds because he recognized all the instructors, having worked with them from time to time.

  After a siren blared and the gunfire ended, a burly sunburned man in desert camouflage fatigues came over.

  “Training a protective detail for the royal family?” Cavanaugh asked.

  “A favored cousin.” The accent was Australian. “The man you asked me about on the radio—he’s over there.”

  Cavanaugh and Jamie approached the street on which the mock ambush had occurred. The man they wanted to talk to was explaining something to one of the drivers.

  Sensing something, he looked toward Cavanaugh and Jamie, narrowed his eyes, finished his explanation to the driver, and reluctantly walked over.

  “Novak,” Jamie said in greeting.

  Hardly pleased, Novak asked, “What brings you two here?”

  “Old times,” Cavanaugh said.

  “Our feelings are hurt,” Jamie told him. “After everything we’ve been through, you don’t return our phone calls or answer our e-mails. It’s enough to make us feel rejected.”

  “Look, you know what Dant was like. He did what he wanted. Half the time, it was impossible to get ahead of him and clear the way. What happened to him wasn’t my fault. He insisted on taking that sailboat out, and short of restraining him, I couldn’t have stopped him.”

  “We want to talk to you about your girlfriend,” Jamie said.

  The smell of burned gunpowder hung in the air.

  “Girlfriend?” Novak asked.

  “You’ve been in Saudi Arabia only two weeks, and already you forgot the woman you’ve been living with for the past year?”

  “Sure. Right. My girlfriend.”

  “Dant was smart enough to have a woman on his security team until three years ago,” Jamie pressed on. “Laura Evans. Used to be in the army. In a special-ops unit for women who accompany members of Delta Force on some of their missions—the kind of missions that involve infiltrating a foreign country by posing as tourists. A young married couple on a holiday blends easier than a man traveling alone.”

  Novak nodded. “I know about that female unit.”

  “Haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Laura yet. She seems to have wanted to drop out of sight, and she’s doing a good job of it.” Cavanaugh stepped closer. “But Dant’s computer records indicate that she was the last woman hired to protect him. Why do you suppose that was?”

  “I have no idea, but I bet you’re going to tell me.”

  “We contacted agents who worked with your girlfriend on that assignment,” Jamie said. “Seems that Dant treated her as a bodyguard instead of a protector, or maybe it’s more accurate to say he treated her as a body. Kept trying to strike up a relationship with her. Wanted to take her to dinner. To have a drink with her. To be alone with her. Wouldn’t let her do her job. Pissed her off so much that she quit before the way he distracted her might get both of them killed.”

  “Okay,” Novak said, “I see where this is going.”

  “You and Laura crossed paths on an assignment a year and a half ago. You started dating and eventually moved in together.”

  “I don’t deny it. Not that we see each other a lot. When I’m working, she isn’t—and the other way around.”

  “We know Laura wasn’t working when a sniper fired at Dant at Teterboro Airport,” Cavanaugh said.

  “Hey, that’s an awfully big accusation you’re—”

  “You complained to her about the way Dant wouldn’t follow directions to keep him safe,” Cavanaugh continued. “In turn, Laura complained about how he treated her when she worked for him. She said, ‘If anybody ever tries to kill the son of a bitch, if he gets the hell scared out of him, he’ll appreciate what his security people do for him.’”

  “You’re dreaming,” Novak said. “There’s no way to prove a conversation like that ever happened. If you went to the police, they’d laugh at you.”

  “We’re not the police.”

  Novak pointed toward drivers getting into the motorcade vehicles. “Look, we’re about to start another exercise. I don’t have time for this.”

  “You told her when Dant would be at Teterboro,” Jamie said. “It’s a small airport, mostly for business jets. Not hard for a professional to infiltrate. Laura shot at him, deliberately missing. Later, the two of you enjoyed the practical joke. Hell, there was even the possibility that he might pay you extra to increase his security.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You enjoyed it so much that you couldn’t stop,” Jamie insisted. “The bomb in the Cape Cod boathouse. The sniper attack in the Caymans. The two of you were determined to see Dant sweat. But I’ll give him credit. He didn’t.”

  “I’ve heard all I’m going to—”

  “We have hotel receipts and witnesses that prove Laura was in Grand Cayman when the sniper took another shot at him. We figured she wouldn’t risk bringing a rifle into the country, so we asked around and found the drug dealer she bought it from.”

  “The police won’t believe a goddamn drug dealer.”

  “But I told you we’re not the police,” Cavanaugh emphasized.

  The fierce sun had terrible force.

  Novak studied them. “Dant’s death wasn’t our fault. We had nothing to do with it.”

  “Sure sounds like a practical joke that went bad.”

  “The first three attempts…” Novak sighed. “Okay, that was Laura and me. Wanting to get him to come to his senses and realize how important his security was.”

  “The bomb at the Lincoln Center fountain?” Jamie asked.

  “As big a surprise to us as it was to you,” Novak replied. “After that, I was scared. Believe me, I tried everything I could to keep Dant off that fucking boat. I have nightmares about it. In a way, I did kill him. Because somebody got the idea from Laura and me. The difference is they wanted to do it for real. God knows he had a lot of enemies. Look at how his empire collapsed after he was killed. The bastard couldn’t stop doing whatever he wanted, taking chances regardless of the risk. He borrowed against one corporation to prop up another, then borrowed against that one to save yet another. He even raided pension funds to meet his payroll, but nobody realized it because he had a genius for cooking the books. He ruined a lot of people. Maybe one of them realized what was going on and decided to get even. Or maybe…”

  “Maybe what?”

  “Maybe Dant couldn’t bear the idea of going to prison. Laura and I wondered if maybe he killed himself, going out as dramatically as he did everything else.”

  A siren blared.

  “I need to get back to work,” Novak said.

  “Don’t bother,” Jamie told him. “You and your girlfriend aren’t protective agents anymore.”

  “What? But this is the only thing I know how to—”

  “You swore to risk your life for Dant. You accepted money from him. Then you attacked him. You make me sick,” Cavanaugh said. “We don’t have enough proof to go to the police. But we’ve got plenty enough proof to convince the agents who depend on you to watch their backs. If we ever hear that you’re on another protective detail, we’ll spread the word about what you did. You won’t like what happens to you.”

  The siren blared.

  “I BELIEVE HIM,” Cavanaugh said, driving away.

  “So do I,” Jamie told him. “But we’re not any closer to finding who killed Dant. He had so many enemies, it could take years to investigate them all.”

  “Maybe it isn’t a question of who hated him most. How about, who benefited most?”

  THE PACIFIC ISLAND was so out of the way that it didn’t have regular aircraft or boat service. In Hawaii, Cavanaugh—who had a pilot’s license with multiple ratings—chartered a two-engine seaplane with extra fuel tanks that gave it an extreme range. He and Jamie, accompanied by two protective agents and a special passenger, took four hours to reach the island with palm trees, white beach, and gentle surf that seemed like a vacation poster when seen from above.

  Af
ter touching down in a sheltered cove, Cavanaugh guided the seaplane toward a dock. Beyond it, a village nestled among the palm trees.

  Puzzled natives waited for them.

  “Does anybody speak English?” Cavanaugh asked as he and Jamie and the agents tied the aircraft to the dock. “Français? Español?”

  No one responded.

  One agent guarded the plane while the other agent and the special passenger followed Cavanaugh and Jamie past the villagers toward the end of the dock. Beyond the soft beach, they reached the grass huts of the village.

  The sound of engines guided them to electrical generators and numerous barrels of fuel. The primitive facades of some huts contrasted with their sophisticated interiors, which included air-conditioning, a stove, a refrigerator, a freezer, satellite television, computers, even a wine cooler.

  “Where is he?” Cavanaugh demanded of the natives.

  They looked dumbfounded.

  “Fine. We’ll get him. It’ll just take a little longer.”

  The island was eight miles long and four miles wide with a ridge along the middle. Plenty of spots in which to hide.

  Not that it mattered. The special passenger was a bloodhound.

  Cavanaugh let the bloodhound sniff the interior of the master hut. When the dog found a scent, it barked repeatedly, ran outside, and led them toward the interior of the island.

  The trees became thicker, the undergrowth dense. They made their way to a stream and took fifteen minutes to find where the scent emerged a hundred yards to the left on the other side of the water. They squirmed over fallen trees and reached a steep, rocky slope, the start of the ridge that formed the island’s spine. Sniffing along the bottom of the slope, the dog stopped in confusion, circled, came back to the same spot, and again was confused.

  “Dant couldn’t just vanish,” Jamie said. “How did he hide his scent?”

  She and Cavanaugh looked up, noticing a tree branch above them.

  “He jumped up, grabbed the branch, squirmed toward the slope, and touched down several feet above where the dog could smell him,” Cavanaugh said.