by Wendy Rosnau
"So what you're saying is the woman on the tape has been officially dead fourteen years."
"Yes, that's if your information and mine check out. Which I believe it will. She was tutored privately, and has no social security number. That's why she's still believed to be dead. Fingerprints would be the only way to verify that it's her for sure. Or dental records."
"Okay. What else?"
"She's twenty-three. That fits, as well as the description of the little red-haired Creon girl who supposedly died that night."
"The woman on the tape has red hair?"
"And green eyes." Bjorn checked his notes. "She is now five foot eight, weights one hundred ten pounds, and lives on Langdon Drive
. Residence, Boxwood Estate. My records don't indicate she's married to Parish, though she uses his name."
"She have a routine? Any hobbies? Friends?"
"No friends. A boring routine. She swims early morning in the backyard pool. Likes to sit in the sun. Some days until noon. Parish takes her out to dinner on occasion. One day a week she goes into town escorted by Morris Gram, Simon's driver and overseer at the estate. From checking Dr. Fielding's appointment book it looks like the third Thursday of every month Eva plays her little game."
Sly rested his elbow on the arm of the couch and rubbed his clean shaven jaw. "Explain what you mean by that?"
"That's what I call her visits to her psychiatrist because she keeps them a secret from Simon Parish."
Sly stood, snagged his black V-neck T-shirt off the back of the couch and pulled it on over his head. He had arrived in Atlanta midmorning. After checking into the nondescript motel on the outskirts of the city, he'd called Bjorn, then headed for the shower. He'd barely gotten his pants back on when Bjorn knocked on his door.
"Game day goes like this," Bjorn continued. "Morris Gram and Eva leave Boxwood around one o'clock in Simon's black Bentley. At one-thirty she's dropped off in front of the Tastes of Paradise, a health food and pharmacy downtown. While Morris parks and waits, she enters the shop through the front door. She hands off the list to the clerk at the counter, exits out the back door, then runs two blocks to Dr. Nancy Fielding's office."
"Where they talk—" Sly interjected "—and she gets her prescription renewed, then runs back to Tastes of Paradise, entering through the back door."
"That's right. Eva hands the clerk her prescription, and gets a grocery-size bag in exchange, and a small white prescription bag. She removes the prescription bottle from the white bag and slips it into her cleavage, then exits out the front door. The minute Morris sees her, he pulls the Bentley to the curb and she climbs in. They're back at Boxwood within thirty minutes."
Sly hung a hand on his jean-clad hip. "Did you get a profile on Simon Parish, too?"
"Not as complete as I would have liked. I've been busy watching our Eva."
"I take it she's pretty?" Sly couldn't deny he was anxious to put a face with the smoky voice on the tape.
"I prefer blondes with boobs." Bjorn cupped his hand around an invisible grapefruit. "In Eva's case, one out of two ain't bad. If she dyed her hair, I'd be in love."
"So we've established she's got cleavage."
"A good two inches. There didn't seem to be a problem burying the bottle of pills."
"What did you find out about Parish?"
Bjorn flipped pages in his log book. "I couldn't find birth records on Simon Parish. But I did locate a medical report since he's been hospitalized on a number of occasions. He's an albino with a rare blood disorder. He's five-eleven, weighs 140. No wife or children."
"He's an albino?"
"That's right. White hair, white skin, red eyes, one hobby."
"One hobby?"
"Horticulture. He has a two-acre boxwood maze in his backyard. Guess that's why he renamed the estate after he purchased it from Langdon Hall. You'll have to see it to appreciate it."
Bjorn eased off the corner of the table and stood. Leaning heavily on his cane, he pulled a piece of paper out of the back pocket of his jeans and handed it to Sly. "That's what was in the grocery bag the clerk gave her yesterday."
Sly scanned the list. "I don't think I've ever known a vegetarian who takes barbiturates."
"Maybe Parish is the rabbit."
"What the hell are calimyrnas?"
"Figs."
"Mesclun?"
"Salad greens."
Sly read further, scowled, then gave Bjorn a puzzled look. "Edible flowers?"
"I questioned that one, too. The clerk told me pansies make a salad taste sweeter and look more colorful." Bjorn grinned, then closed his log book. "Isn't it about time you told me why I've been Eva Creon's shadow for two weeks? Why I broke into the shrink's office and stole that tape, and ten others like it?"
"Did you get photos?"
"Photos of our Eva and Simon Parish. I also made a copy of the doctor's appointment book for the past year."
"Did you get ahold of her black book?"
"No. The shrink must keep that on her. So what's this all about, Sly? Why are you interested in Eva Parish?"
"Because she's Paavo Creon's daughter. You just confirmed that."
"Ja. So?"
"Paavo Creon was an Onyxx agent. He was recruited for the first team twenty-one years ago."
It was obvious Bjorn hadn't expected to hear that. "An old Onyxx agent? Are you sure?"
"That's what my information tells me."
"The information you said arrived at your D.C. apartment with no return address?"
"That's right."
"Are you working undercover, Sly?"
"No."
"Then why did you get that information sent to you?"
"That's a good question." Sly rubbed his shoulder, paced back to the window and looked out. "What would you say if I told you I think Paavo Creon killed his wife, set that fire in his house, and walked away from it with his daughter?"
"I'd ask you for what purpose and how you came up with a crazy idea like that?"
"It sure would be a neat and tidy way to disappear and start a new life as someone else."
"True. But why would he do that?"
Sly turned from the window. "Because he needed to die in order to become the Chameleon."
There was a long minute of silence. Finally Bjorn said, "You should talk to Merrick about this."
Sly went back to looking out the window. "Not yet."
"Someone wants you involved in this. That someone obviously doesn't know you're no longer an Onyxx agent."
"Maybe. Or maybe someone inside Onyxx is trying to tell me something."
"That's scary. A mole inside the organization? You better talk to Merrick."
"Sully's dead. Jacy…" Sly stopped, rethought what he was going to say. "I've got time on my hands now. I think I'll play along and see what I can scratch up."
"Feeling guilty over Sully and Jacy isn't a good enough reason to get yourself killed, Sly. What if this is another set up? What if this is Onyxx's way of getting rid of you for turning your back on their reassignment offer? Why the hell did you have to quit anyway?"
"Would you have taken a job filing papers for Merrick?"
When Bjorn said nothing, Sly walked over to the desk and ejected the tape from the recorder and dropped it into the box with the others. "Is Boxwood Estate in Simon Parish's name?"
"It is, ja. This doesn't smell right, Sly. I don't like it."
"The copied documents look legit."
"Anything can look legit with the right equipment. I'll say it again. I don't like this."
"You never liked half the shit we did for Onyxx. That never stopped you." Sly located the documents that had been sent to him and dropped them on the table. "Take a look at these, then tell me you aren't just a little bit curious."
While Bjorn studied the documents, Sly confessed, "I'm not going into this with my eyes closed. I know the risks."
"You just admitted you don't have a clue who is behind this, that means you're going in blind. You'r
e too smart to be jumping into this, Sly."
"I owe them."
"The facts are, if Sully were alive he'd argue that point with you and win. He was as stubborn as you are. And Jacy would tell you things always look different after a week of hard drinking. Take a week, and if—"
"Sully shouldn't be dead."
"No, he shouldn't be, but that wasn't your fault."
Sly reached for a beer from the six-pack Bjorn had brought and tossed it to him, then took one for himself. "I was supposed to be watching Jacy's back, not using him for a goddamn shield to get my own ass out of there."
"That's not what you were doing and you know it. Jacy would have been dead for sure if you hadn't carried him out. The bottom line is because you did, he's going to make it. Hell, he didn't lose his leg. That's a damn miracle."
Sly couldn't get past the guilt that still shadowed that night at Castle Rock. The fact remained he was walking around on two strong legs and Jacy wasn't. And the doctors weren't sure yet if he would ever regain the use of his leg.
"So now what?" Bjorn asked. "What's next?"
Sly popped the tab on the can and took a swallow of warm beer. "You just confirmed Paavo Creon has a daughter still living here in Atlanta. That Eva Parish is really Eva Creon. That gives credence to my theory that Paavo may still be alive, living in Greece as the Chameleon."
"You really think they're the same person?"
"I think it's possible."
Bjorn tossed the documents on the desk and opened his beer. "You'll need someone helping you on the inside."
Sly smiled. "It would make things easier. Did you get pictures from the police station? Pictures of the Creon family?"
"There were no pictures. They were all destroyed in the fire. I did bring the surveillance pictures. If Paavo Creon worked for Onyxx there should be a file on record. Pictures."
"That's what I was thinking, too. You volunteering to break into Onyxx's archives and take a look?"
"If I can think of a reason to get inside."
"I no longer have authorization to get through Onyxx's front door," Sly reminded.
Bjorn downed half his can of beer. "I'll say it again. If you think the Chameleon and Paavo Creon are one and the same, I think you should talk to Merrick. After all he was a field agent in the early years. Maybe he knew Creon."
Sly finished his beer then pitched his empty can into the wastebasket across the room. "I'm going to see what I can uncover on my own first."
"You don't trust Merrick."
"Not at the moment."
"If Paavo's alive, why leave his daughter here in Atlanta?" Bjorn mused out loud. "Why not take her with him out of the country? Why chance someone discovering her?"
"I don't know. I'd like to talk to the people who raised her before she was given Parish's name and into his keeping. Can you do some checking on that, and see where they are?"
"I'll get on it as soon as I get back from Montana."
"All right. Jacy told me you volunteered to help him get settled in Montana. How long will that take?"
"A few days. He's got a cabin on a lake someplace high in the Rockies. I'm suppose to fly out with him day after tomorrow. I'll be back here inside of a week."
Sly asked, "How's Ash been since we got back?"
"No one's seen him since we filed our reports. He was feeling pretty low. My guess is he's blaming himself for Sully's death. Nursing a guilt sucker like you."
Sly scowled at his friend. "Give him some time. He'll come around."
"Is that what it'll take for you to get over kicking your own ass day and night over Jacy? Time?"
"There's only one thing that's going to make me feel better and that's finding out who the Chameleon is, and how to get close enough to him to send him to hell. And if in the process I find out Merrick's been jerking my chain … all our chains, and that he kept something from us that would have made a difference on that rock, I'm going to kill him, too. That's what I told Jacy, and now I'm telling you."
Sly took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It did no good to get worked up. Talk, as they say, was cheap. He knew what he had to do, and he would do it. He would get close to Eva Creon, and if Paavo was the Chameleon, he would eventually get close to him, too. He didn't believe she didn't know where her father was living.
"Merrick told me you saw Reznik at Castle Rock. Why didn't you mention it to me?"
Sly blinked out of his thoughts. "Because I know how you get when his name comes up."
Bjorn's upper lip curled. He raised his hand and rubbed his lower back. "Butcher Reznik. He's been on my kill list for four years. I still can't roll over in bed without feeling his bullet lodged in my spine. Why do you suppose he was there?"
"I don't know. You mentioned pictures of her." Sly stared down at the file Bjorn had compiled on Eva Creon. "Are they in here?"
Bjorn tossed the daily log down beside the file. "It's all there. Fifteen days of bloodhound surveillance."
Sly motioned to the cane his friend leaned on. "What's the prognosis?"
"The bullet missed the bone. I'll be filling my dance card before you will."
"No doubt. I don't dance. In fact, I didn't know you did."
"Not all of my years in Copenhagen were spent on the street."
Unable to contain his curiosity a minute longer, Sly flipped open the file. And there she was, Paavo Creon's daughter. Only she wasn't at all what he was expecting. Her smoky voice, and her mannerisms on the tape had led him to expect a face hardened by the games fate had forced her to play. But that's not what he saw when he looked at the woman in the picture. She had a pair of seductive, shy green eyes as sexy as her smoky voice, and a delicate pair of red lips. Her hair wasn't exactly red by his standards. It was the color of sun-lit cinnamon, and she wore it past her shoulders. Long sultry bangs hid her eyebrows and teased a pair of long eyelashes.
Sly picked up the stack of pictures and shuffled through them. Bjorn had taken one of her running out the back door of the Tastes of Paradise. She was wearing a backless white sundress, and she had hiked up the skirt to aid her as she ran. She had beautiful legs, long runner's legs with hard athletic calves. And like her arms, her legs were tanned a deep golden brown.
In another picture she wore jeans that hugged her show-stopper ass. In another her white blouse was open at the throat, and Bjorn had zeroed in on her breasts, showcasing the recorded two inches of sun-kissed cleavage.
"What do you think, Sly? Is our Eva your kind of woman? You've never talked about what flips your switch. Me…" Bjorn wiggled his eyebrows, and took up the accent he'd left behind years ago in Denmark. "I like my blondes villin', and not too talkative. And I like pillows. Vuns nice and plump like pillows. As sweet as—" he pointed to the picture in Sly's hand "—Eva's dere. Ja, just like dem."
Sly grinned. "I seem to remember you mentioning one blonde in particular a few years back. You wouldn't be thinking about that long-legged double agent you ran into in Vienna, would you? What was her name?"
"Nadja," Bjorn supplied without hesitation. "Ja, she was sure a fine-looking woman. She knew how to use her mouth for more than just talking, too. I'll never forget how sweet she smelled. Like Alpine heather, she did." Bjorn cleared his throat, losing his accent as he pointed to the pictures. "It's amazing she looks as good as she does considering who she lives with."
"Meaning?"
"Just that someone ought to give Simon Parish a ride on his own beast."
"His what?"
"It's an old Danish saying from my days in Copenhagen. It means get a taste of your own evil. Listen to the tapes. You'll understand what I'm talking about. Parish is a psycho." Bjorn flipped through the small box of tapes on the desk. "Here it is. Spend some time listening to this one. I've named it, 'S is for Snake.' Then this one, 'A is for Albino Asshole.' Once you listen to a few of these, you'll understand why I won't be mourning Parish's death once you get around to killing him."
Sly took the tape "S is for Snake" and drop
ped it back in the box with the others. "So Parish is a sadistic lunatic. And from what I've heard today his playmate could fall into the fruitcake category."
"I think Eva's playing her own game," Bjorn argued. "Listen to the tapes. A fruitcake wouldn't have survived what she's survived. If it was me, I would have been long gone, and she's had several opportunities. So why does she stay in hell?"
"If she's got a reason it must be damn good," Sly mused out load.
"I imagine you'll find out what it is once you talk to her."
"Who said I was going to talk to her?"
"That look on your face when you opened the file. I'll be back inside of a week. Call and give me an update."
* * *
Chapter 3
« ^ »
Eva had timed her entrance perfectly. She wore a rusty red-brown sweater dress dotted with shimmering sequins, the neckline so ridiculously low that her breasts resembled water-filled balloons a pinprick away from disaster.
The fox trim at her wrists and outlining her breasts added another level of warmth to an already too warm dress for October in Atlanta. But Eva didn't question Simon's choice. There was always a reason for everything he did. Before the evening was over, she would know why she was wearing fur and sequins.
Eva continued to eat her salad slowly while Simon watched from the end of a table that could easily seat thirty guests. They always took their evening meal in the formal dining room surrounded by silence.
Simon hadn't told her they would be playing a game tonight. She hoped … no, prayed, that she would be spared the event, but the dress she'd found on her bed when she'd stepped from the shower, and the tension that she'd felt the moment she'd walked into the room, suggested otherwise.
Simon loved to play games, and because of his fondness for the night, the games were often played after dark in the backyard.
A genius with peculiar tendencies, is how her father had described Simon the night he had escorted her to his party four years ago. She had arrived on her father's arm a starry-eyed nineteen-year-old, unaware that her boring restrictive life was about to take a drastic turn. Unaware that she would never again return to the house where she had lived for ten years with the minions. Unaware she was her father's birthday gift to the genius with peculiar tendencies.
