by Gayle Lynds
She sighed and rolled onto her side on the hard bed. And paused. This was not her bed. It was overly firm in the way of cheap mattresses that gave little real support, only backaches and stiff joints in the morning. Her eyes snapped open, and she sat up. Her mouth turned dry with fear. She did not recognize the room.
Two lines of sunlight from either side of the drapes sliced the shadowy gloom. There was an odor of cheap floral chemicals coming from an open door to her right—the bathroom. Where was she?
She ached everywhere. That could happen when she did not take her medicine on time—a side effect and her personal warning she needed her antirejection and anti-inflammatory drugs. Alarmed, she looked around for a clock. What time was it? How late was she with taking her pills?
She flung back the bed covers and searched the gloomy, unfamiliar room for her shoulder bag. She always kept her meds in it as well as a second set at home as a precaution. But she was not home.
Then she saw her bag: On a low table next to the window. Also on the desk stood a digital clock—8:03 A.M. She counted out medication and hurried into the bathroom. Plastic drinking glasses wrapped in more plastic stood on a ledge above the sink. She ripped off the outer protective coating with her teeth, filled the glass with water, and swallowed pills, one after the other. As she did, she caught sight of herself in the mirror.
Smudged crescents of mascara beneath her eyes made her slender face look pasty and obsessed. Her blue eyes had a dark quality, almost as if they had been bruised. A dark-red lump marked her forehead. She stared. Gingerly she touched the inflamed tissue. It hurt like hell.
Then it all came back. The dead man. The office. Her desperate running away and her fall. It had been no nightmare. She really had been running away from Meteor Express and the dead man on the floor. Yuri. Trying to escape from the murderer who pursued her through the building. She looked back and memorized his profile then . . . stumbled. Slammed into the pavement—
Where was she now? How had she gotten here?
She returned to the bedroom and pushed back the drape. She was on the second floor of a motel—The Biden Rest, according to the tall pole sign. Cars flew past on the street below, the ongoing symptom of a metropolis never fully at rest. The traffic was high-octane now. At a little past 8:00 A.M., the Wednesday-morning rush hour was at full throttle inside the Beltway.
She watched uneasily. Her fall while fleeing the murderer last night must have knocked her unconscious. But why had he not killed her? She breathed deeply. She must stay calm. On the edge of her consciousness she could feel a violent rage building. She would not let that control her. She had to think and analyze.
She returned to the desk and opened her shoulder bag again. Everything was inside—lipstick, compact, tissues, comb, her billfold with the credit cards and cash. Nothing had been stolen.
She looked down at herself. She was dressed in the same clothes she had worn last night—beige linen trousers, a white cotton T-shirt, and a celery-green zippered jacket. She was rumpled and messy, but whoever had brought her here had removed her Nikes, lined them up neatly beside the bed, turned down the sheets, laid her down fully dressed, and covered her. She had been neither raped nor robbed. She inhaled deeply, grateful.
Under the clear April sky, Beth marched across the motel parking lot to her Mercedes. It was a fifty-thousand-dollar vehicle with a kickbutt V-6 engine, an easy cruising speed of 120 miles an hour, and an all-leather interior that smelled as rich and inviting as a summer shower. The Mercedes was a natural target for thieves, vandals, and addicts of fine imported cars. She examined it from fender to fender, then front seat and back. Nothing had been taken. No scratch or dent indicated mistreatment. Someone had carefully parked and locked it.
Relieved but even more puzzled, she closed the door. Her stomach rumbled with hunger, but she was on a quest. She scanned the motel and parking lot. A plate-glass window looked out onto the street, and the sign over the door next to it announced OFFICE. From the cracked concrete, faded paint, and cheap accoutrements, this motel was obviously on the lower end of Washington's tourist food chain, but her room had been clean, the door lock had worked, and the insulation had been sufficiently good that she had been able to spend the night quietly in deep slumber. She headed toward the office.
Inside, behind a Formica-topped counter, sat a gray-haired woman, working at a computer. She looked up as Beth pushed through the door. She had the kind of good-natured face that was perfect for service-oriented businesses. She gave a lazy smile, showing a lot of gray-metal dental work, and dismissed Beth's crumpled, slept-in clothes with a flicker of her short eyelashes.
She said, "Can I help you, miss?"
"I hope so." How did she begin to explain? "I stayed here last night. I wonder whether you recognize me."
The woman blinked. "That depends, honey. When did you check in?"
"You don't remember me?"
"Should I?"
To the receptionist, she was just one more in an ocean of faces. Apparently nothing had distinguished her arrival, or surely this woman would recall or have been told about it.
"I got here between ten-thirty and eleven-thirty last night," Beth said. "Room two-thirty-four. Someone brought me."
"Someone?" She cocked her head to study her. "You really don't know?"
"I don't. But I'd like to. And no, I'm not on drugs, and I don't drink enough alcohol to make a crow stagger. I thought you might like it if I paid my bill."
At that, the woman smiled again in her naturally easy way. "Guess I'm curious, too. I didn't come on until eight this morning. Our night man would've registered you. You know your name at least, don't you?" She turned back to the computer and touched keys.
"Thank God, yes."
"Um-hum." As the monitor settled into a pattern, the woman leaned forward and made a little grunt of surprise. "You sure about the room number, honey?"
"Yes. Two-three-four. Whose name is it registered under?"
The woman looked up, and for the first time doubt touched her face. "No one. According to our records, no one stayed in that room last night."
Beth cruised through the streets of Arlington in her Mercedes, watching all around, wondering who knew what had really happened to her last night.
Before Beth had left the motel, the receptionist phoned the night man, who confirmed no one had checked into 234 last night. After she hung up, the woman confided the man had a drinking problem and could easily have been passed out by 10:30. Unless someone had persisted at the office doorbell, he would not have awakened.
Which made Beth realize she had seen no key in her room. But the door's lock had not been broken. Whoever deposited her there had gotten a key somehow, probably from the office, then locked the door going out and carried the key away.
There was only one place she could think to go for answers: Meteor Express. The police would surely have been there an hour or more, following the frantic call of whatever employee had discovered the dead man this morning. She needed to tell them what she had witnessed, and in return she would get information. Tense and worried, she checked her watch. She had just enough time before her meeting with Michele Philmalee at 10:00 A.M.
As she drove on, it almost seemed as if she were a stranger in her own life. It outraged her. "Heart, are you listening? If you once belonged to some creep, remember he's gone now. You're mine. If you're behind all this, stop it!"
She could not believe she was talking to her heart. Her mind searched back through time, looking for clues. Trying to make sense of the impossible. For a year she had believed her doctor. But now she had the coincidence of a Russian who had answered the phone number. Then the murdered man, who if he were not 'Yuri,' at least responded to the name.
She shook her head. It was absurd. Ridiculous. But then there was Stephanie Smith, who had visited her in the hospital a month after her surgery and who had not thought it impossible that transplant recipients might inherit some things from their donors. Maybe she had been wrong to dismiss
Dr. Smith so easily.
As she turned her car onto Meteor Express's street, she sighed, remembering how sure she had been that the nightmares and intrusive thoughts would go away. She wanted badly to interview the Russian who had answered the telephone yesterday. There had to be some logical explanation for everything.
As she sped along the street, she realized she had somehow missed Meteor Express. Annoyed, she backtracked, and . . . discovered the low-lying, aluminum-sided building where Meteor Express had been last night now held a new sign: RENAE TRUCKING SERVICES. She slammed into a parking place, jumped out of her car, and hurried to it.
At the big front windows, the horizontal blinds had disappeared, and in their place hung vertical wood slats. Even the junipers had been pulled from the planters. In their places, a man in jeans and a stained American University sweatshirt was planting red geraniums. A moving van stood in the entry drive, and men were carrying desks, chairs, and lamps into the front of the building.
She pushed her way inside. "Who's in charge here?" The counter was still where she remembered, but on the other side stood new desks.
"I am." A woman walked toward her from the corridor that ran into the back where Yuri's body had lain last night. In her forties, she carried a clipboard and was dressed in jeans, a mock turtleneck, and a long canvas duster. "My name's Cass Joneson. Owner of Renae Trucking. What can I do for you?" She rotated on her heel to instruct a man placing a desk, "No, Sam. Move it more to your right. Yes. That's where I want it. We need space. That's where the copier's got to go."
Her movements were brisk and self-assured. She wore her brown hair smoothed back into an efficient bun. No makeup graced her face, which was angular and oddly thin, as if the food she ate was never in her system long enough to nourish her.
She studied Beth and her crumpled clothes. "You don't look too good. Do you need help? Or is it business? We're not quite set up, but I can answer questions and take a small order. The computers will be back online this afternoon."
It boggled the mind. For an instant Beth questioned herself. But just as quickly she erased any doubts. "I was here last night. This place was Meteor Express then. In fact, I talked to a man named Yuri. Where is he now?" Where was his corpse?
Cass Joneson frowned. "Don't recognize the name. We rented the building a month ago, and I've been planning the transition ever since. Today's the day. Started moving in at five A.M. No one can afford to be out of business long. Like I said, our computers will be operating soon. If you need trucking services, this is the place."
Beth stared. Then she pushed past the woman and trotted down the corridor.
"Hey." Cass Joneson followed. "You can't go back there. That's private!"
Beth stopped on the empty spot where she had knelt over the dying Yuri. Sorrow for his savage end tightened her throat. But as she stared down and realized what she was seeing, anger and frustration replaced the sorrow. She was standing on new Armstrong flooring that looked like Spanish tiles but was really rolled-out, high-gloss linoleum. Underneath would be tar adhesive. And that tar would hide whatever traces of blood had been left by Yuri's mortal chest wound.
She looked quickly around, but of course there was no sign of a corpse. The building's transformation was too convenient. She did not believe any of it.
"Where is he?" she demanded. "Where's Yuri's body?" Rage churned her chest.
Cass Joneson glared. "What in hell are you talking about? Are you crazy? You look like you're crazy to me. Get out of here!" She moved closer to Beth. "Sam! Come back here. We've got trouble!"
White-hot fury enveloped Beth, and she made no effort to fight it. She saw the top third of a cell phone peeking out of the woman's duster pocket. It did not take an Einstein to figure out this one.
With a swift backhand haishu to the woman's chest, Beth pushed her to the side and snagged the telephone.
"Sam!" the woman bellowed. But fear clouded her gaze. She made no move to retrieve the phone. Beth realized the woman was afraid of her. "Hurry up!"
Feet pounded in the corridor, bearing down on them.
Beth swung to face two men. "Stop!" she ordered and spread her feet in a flexed-knee karate stance, on the alert, ready to attack or defend. "Don't anyone think of touching me. We'll let the police sort this out!"
As she punched 911, she saw the men's faces change. They had looked at her and seen something in her that worried them. Frightened them. She had never before physically frightened anyone in her life, but she had now. With a sinking feeling, she felt her heart pound excitedly against her ribs.
7
If you were a Washington attorney and wanted to report a murder, you could expect fast service. As a regular Joe or Joanna Citizen, you were likely to get decent attention, too, but there was something about the mantle of The Law—and the name of a marquee firm like Edwards & Bonnett—that conferred a guarantee of sorts. Which was why within five minutes of Beth's talking to a 911 operator, a white-and-blue squad car from the Arlington County Police Department screeched to a stop in front of what less than twelve hours before had been Meteor Express.
Before the flashing blinkers could be extinguished, two more squad cars arrived. Beth told the officers everything that had happened. They listened and questioned patiently, but after that it was all downhill.
Cass Joneson claimed she had been the one who had unlocked the door before dawn. She had found nothing but an empty building. Her employees were shocked anyone would suggest a bloody corpse had been left for them to discover. Of course, there had been no dead person on the premises, inside or out.
Beth could not say for certain even that Yuri was the victim's name. To humor her, one of the Arlington officers checked with headquarters. The answer was not what she wanted to hear: No Yuri Somebody with a gunshot wound to the chest had been found in the last twenty-four hours in the county, dead or alive. He asked for any other male with the same wound. Negative again.
Undeterred, Beth convinced them to check both Meteor Express's and Renae Trucking's bona fides. It turned out both companies were licensed and appeared legitimate. One of the policemen phoned Meteor, and its spokesman denied ever having been located at that address in Arlington. The lady must be mistaken.
After that, she had no more ammunition. The police filed out. Two were shaking their heads in disgust.
The last, an older officer, took Beth aside. "I'm sorry, ma'am." He was trying to remain neutral. "You know all about the elements of proof. Without any witness but yourself, we've got to have a corpse to take this investigation further." He peered closely at her, his gaze narrowing as he pointedly looked her up and down, silently reminding her of how disheveled she looked. "Are you sure you're feeling all right?"
"I'm fine. Really."
"Please don't take this wrong, ma'am, but making a false report is a crime. Also, you scared Ms. Joneson and her crew quite a bit. They felt very threatened. They've agreed not to press charges, for now. I'm sure you believe you made a legitimate report and were justified in your behavior with them, so we'll just chalk this whole episode up as a mistake. But—no disrespect—maybe you should see a doctor. Or a psychologist."
Her blood was ice. Her tongue was thick with incomprehensibility. She summoned all her strength to put on a strained smile and dismiss him without losing her temper. "I appreciate your concern, officer. In turn, you remember there's a man around here who's been shot to death. He was wearing a white shirt and dark trousers. He was pretty much bald, with a lot of gray hair on one side he combed up over the top of his head. His name may have been Yuri. Watch for him. I know what I saw."
Outraged and disgusted, she brushed past and stalked outdoors and up the street to her car. She yanked open the door, slid furiously behind the wheel—and remembered Michelle Philmalee. She looked at her watch—10:15.
Fear knocked the breath from her. She was late for her meeting with Michelle.
Beth raced her powerful Mercedes through Arlington and onto the bridge that woul
d take her into the District. Her pulse thundered. Her lungs were a claustrophobic knot. She checked her watch again. Now she was a half-hour late, and by the time she reached the firm's headquarters near the White House, she would be even later. If she peeled off to her house in Georgetown to pick up her briefcase with the papers that named the Russian owners of HanTech Industries, her chance to win back Michelle would certainly be gone, because there was no way Michelle would wait around the firm's offices much longer. In fact, considering Phil's influence, Michelle had likely left by now.
She gripped the steering wheel, wishing for a cell phone so she could call ahead. Her foot heavy on the accelerator, she pushed her Mercedes on over the bridge and into downtown. What she did not need was a speeding ticket. Still, she continued to speed. She had to get to the meeting as quickly as possible.
She passed car after car, watching her rearview mirror for police. She careened along Washington's streets, always on the lookout for squad cars, pedestrians in crosswalks, and openings in the traffic. She checked her watch again, and her stomach sank: 10:51.
How could she have allowed herself to be so distracted that she had forgotten the time? She shook the steering wheel and swore. She was driving recklessly, something she never did, but it seemed the only thing to do. And she was good at it. She drove with a skill that amazed her—darting the Mercedes between cars, slipping from lane to lane with precision, hitting the accelerator the instant a light turned green, and rocketing ahead of pack after pack.
When she reached the kiosk to the garage under the firm's building, she snatched the ticket and roared inside to a spot near the elevator. It was not a real parking place, but she did not care. She clicked off the ignition, jumped out, and impatiently rode the elevator up to the sixteenth floor. Her hands were tight knots at her sides.
She tried to take deep breaths. She made a vigorous effort to collect her thoughts. But how in hell was she going to apologize enough . . . convince Michelle to give her another chance . . . put up with that smarmy I-told-you-so grin she knew would be plastered on Phil Stageman's face . . . give up her dream of becoming a partner in Edwards & Bonnett—
