As he raised the glass once more to lips he paused as everyone was ushered towards their seats. Downing the rest of the golden liquid, he placed the empty glass on the bar and hunted for the table plan. A large red velvet-backed board showed five round circles, each of which held twelve names, these representing the five most important tables on the dining floor. If your name appeared on one of those tables, you were one of the lucky few. The centre table was naturally the captain’s. As Steel looked, he was surprised to find he was on the captain’s table again, but this time there was a new name added: Martin Goddard.
As he approached the empty seat, Steel noticed that a big barrel-like man, with short black hair and a sweaty face, had replaced Jonathan Grant at the table. Steel looked down at the tag, which confirmed the man’s name, or at least what he wanted people to think his name was.
“Good evening,” he greeted the others as his hands rested on the back of his chair. Almost in unison, the others reciprocated his friendly words. Looking round he soon found the angelic face of Tia May who was wearing a electric-blue dress that clung to her stunning body like a silk glove. She looked up at Steel and smiled a secretive grin, and her eyes followed him as he took his seat in between Missy Studebaker and Ronald Dawson.
John Steel felt the presence of another person behind him, and as he turned, he recognized the waitress from the night before. As she approached he noticed the glass of whisky on her tray. The corner of his mouth twitched with the beginnings of a smile as he wondered if he’d made such an impression on her that she’d remembered his favourite tipple. As she lifted the glass to put it before him, he held up a hand to stop her. “Thanks so much for remembering,” he told her. “But I thought I would go for something new.”
Her eyes seemed stunned but her face remained impassive. “Very well, sir. What would you like?”
Pausing for a moment, he grinned. “Vodka martini, two shots of Gordon gin, one shot of cointreau and a hint of lime with lemon peel and also it has to be shaken not stirred.” He registered her momentary frown of disapproval as she made a mental note of his order and left, leaving everyone with the delightful memory of the tight-fitting skirt on her gyroscopic hips.
Everyone gave him an inquiring look. “I just saw a Bond film and I thought I would try it,” John Steel explained, with a laugh. The others joined in with his joke, chuckling good humouredly, all except Tia; she was giving him another kind of look altogether. He looked around at the familiar faces until his gaze rested on Martin Goddard. The large man was pale, and he had a broad clean-shaven face and large blue eyes that never seemed to blink.
As the volume of conversation got louder, the table suddenly fell silent as the waitress brought Steel his drink and placed it in front of him, ensuring that he got a good look at her ample breasts through her open top as she moved away. As he looked up at the others, he detected approving smiles from Alan Metcalf and Albert Studebaker, but Tia May definitely looked disapproving. However, Steel just casually took a sip from the clear concoction and stared ahead, oblivious to her evident criticism.
“Actually, it’s not bad,” he commented. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’d like to drink it all the time though.” He nodded to himself and put down the full glass on to the cotton tablecloth. He glanced towards the newcomer to their little group and smiled. “So you must be Mr Goodwin?” he asked.
The large man did not respond, but just sat there drinking his water. Everyone stopped talking amongst themselves and turned towards the man, wondering why he’d ignored the question. Martin Goddard shook himself suddenly, as if he’d just woken up from a dream. “What?” he replied. “Oh, do forgive me, I was miles away. No it’s Goddard, Martin Goddard. And you are?”
Everyone continued with their superficial chatter as John got up and walked round to shake the man’s hand.
“No problem, old man. I’m Black, Antony Black.” Steel’s grip was tight enough to feel a pulse but the clasp in return was limp and sweaty. As he went back to his seat Steel wiped his hand with his napkin and felt there was something slightly repugnant about this man. Firstly, he did not know his own name, or perhaps he had not had the false one long enough to respond to it instinctively. No, there was something else wrong about him, but he could not put his finger on it.
For the next few minutes, as the food arrived and dishes were taken away Steel just sat back and observed each of his fellow diners deliver the same potted summary of themselves as they’d given to him on the previous night. It struck him that the speeches were exactly the same. He was certain that he was hearing practiced lies.
Fine, he thought to himself. They may have told their life stories so many times they recited them almost like a script. But normally people would add things to make themselves appear in better light to certain people. He was intrigued by Martin too. The man just sat there and nodded and smiled, but gave nothing back in the way of conversation. Steel noted how uncomfortable the man looked, how streams of sweat cascaded down his forehead and ran down into his collar.
“So, Mr. Goddard. Or may I call you Martin?” gushed Susan Metcalf. Steel looked up, just as he was about to take another mouthful of the Beef Wellington. His eyes darted from Susan back to Martin who too had a mouthful poised on his fork. For a brief second the large sweaty man looked panicked and stopped chewing. Then relaxed and just bowed slightly to confirm that she may use his first name.
Susan smiled at the gesture and continued, her eyes transfixed on the large man who was eating ravenously, as if he had not eaten for days. Her words were muted, clearly finding the spectacle repulsive. “So, Martin, what type of work are you in?”
The table fell silent and all eyes fell upon Martin. He gulped down the mass of food he had been chewing and took a quick mouthful of the water. “Well,” he began, inserting a fat finger between his neck and his collar in an attempt to widen the gap. “I am a computer programmer for a large international firm. I mostly write software for the military and so forth.”
Everyone nodded blankly as if they understood every word he said. Steel noted the disingenuous expressions around the table.
“Oh,” Susan went on. “That sounds so .... er .... interesting.”
Steel smiled to himself as her words tailed off, and she abandoned any enthusiasm for further conversation.
“So, Martin,” John Steel asked as he cut off another piece from the Beef Wellington. “Are you working on anything at the moment?”
Before he replied to Steel’s question Martin looked up from his plate and a curious, almost evil grin crept across his pale sweaty face. “Yes. I’m engaged on a complex binary clock.”
John felt uneasy as Martin began to explain about his project. Each word seemed to hold a sinister tone. “It counts down rather than showing present time.”
Missy beamed excitedly. “You mean like the clock in Times Square?” she asked innocently.
Everyone sniggered behind their napkins at her naive remark, apart from Steel, who was too transfixed by their new guest to listen to her.
Martin, however, smiled sincerely. “Yes. In point of fact they are very similar.” His smile was more one of gratitude that she’d taken an interest in him. Martin appeared to be some kind of computer genius, and perhaps because of this he found Missy’s innocence refreshing. To him she was not like the rest at the table: they neither understood his work, nor had any interest in his geeky profession. All that seemed to concern them was their money and how good they looked in public. Steel saw something gentle in his eyes as he spoke to Missy, but the coldness returned when one of the others spoke.
The gentleness turned to contempt and loathing, even though he tried to conceal it in a false smile.
“Well, I wish you all the best on your project.” Steel raised his glass to the man as if he was proposing a toast; Martin smiled at Steel, giving a small bow in genuine appreciation.
“Thank you, Mr. Black, I know it will be a real blast when it is complete.”
; Then Steel saw the flash of cruelty in Martin’s smile as he observed everyone else at the table.
Steel realised that he had to get Martin Goddard alone and question him as to why he was here, he was damned sure he was not on board for a holiday.
Martin patted his lips with the napkin and slowly pulled out his chair and stood up.
“Well, if you will all excuse me, nature calls.” Everyone smiled in pretend good humour as he walked towards the men’s room. Steel knew that this might be his only chance for a private chat with the enigmatic stranger, so he took it.
“You know.....” he began to say, as he stood up and placed his napkin to the side of his plate.
“Oh, why, Mr. Black, I would love to dance,” Tia said, leaping up from her seat.
John Steel looked surprised but managed an instant smile as Tia offered her hand. He pulled her towards him in a violent motion, almost ripping her from her feet. Fortunately the dance music was for a tango, so the dramatically sudden steps would serve to conceal any rough handling he might administer.
What is she up to? he thought. Is there some reason why she doesn’t want me anywhere near Martin Goddard?
It was obvious he had missed his chance to talk to the man, but now he wanted to know why she’d sabotaged his plan. As they danced together, Tia leant in close and bit Steel on the earlobe. His eyes rolled at the feel of her hot breath on his neck, thinking, God, she smells so good!’
His thoughts began to lose focus once more.
“Last night was soooo good,” she purred, her words soft and inviting, and the sensation of the proximity of her body almost made him forget his mission.
“Oh, it wasn’t too bad, I guess.” His words shocked her, and it amused him, regarding this petty victory as revenge for making him miss his quarry.
As the music’s tempo increased, he flung her away from him, simultaneously gripping her hand tightly and then drawing her back just as roughly.
“Why, Mr Black,” she teased, “what a pity you weren’t this rough last night!” She held his stare, almost cat-like stare with those sexy eyes, the blue of which was even more beautiful than he remembered as they captured the candlelight, drawing him in, almost making him forget what she’d done.
“Well maybe we could make it just as good, or even better?” she teased. “Say, my place after dinner?” She smiled again, and her ruby lipstick glistened seductively.
“Maybe we can ask your friends who are next door to me?” John Steel countered.
“They seem very fit, judging by the way they dart in and out of rooms, don’t you think?”
She suddenly tried to back away but he pulled her close.
“Listen, we need to talk, don’t you think?” His words were bitter, and as she looked up into his eyes she saw something. She did not see the travelling millionaire playboy. No, she someone much darker.
“Not here. After dinner.” Now she was nervous and less confident, but she managed to mask her discomfort pretty well.
The music stopped and everyone clapped, applauding the orchestra, who half rose from their seats in appreciation. Steel led Tia back to her seat just as Goddard returned from the restroom. Steel noticed fresh droplets of water on his forehead from where he had obviously just splashed water on his face. Martin Goddard took out his handkerchief and patted away the moisture, laughing nervously as he did so. For the next two courses of the meal the conversation became dull and stilted, the other guests twittering on about themselves and how marvellous their lives were.
The Englishman was now torn with indecision. He had to find out what the hell Tia and Martin Goddard were involved in. These two held answers: with luck they were answers to the same question. It was more than obvious that Goddard was up to something—hell, it did not take a detective to figure that one out. However, Tia was something else altogether: his gut told him perhaps she was from the CIA, the FBI or some other agency with a fancy acronym, but what was not clear was, why she was here?
He would wait until after dinner, and then take her back to his room. It was question-time and she might loosen up, knowing that her colleagues were next door, should they be needed. He looked at his watch, the luminous hands of his Tag Heuer telling him it was nearly ten-thirty not really late, but too late to be sitting around listening to the same dreary conversation around the table.
As the evening sun began to set upon the New York City skyline, the fiery orange glow reflected in the labyrinth of glass, stone and steel. The populace rushed about at their usual frenetic pace as most headed home after a long productive day, while others made their way to meet friends at restaurants or one of the many watering holes.
The city was alive as it always was regardless of the time of day. New York truly was ‘the city that never sleeps’.
McCall sat at her desk and stared at the murder board, its shiny white surface covered by photographs and documents bearing the colours of various different marker pens. She stared hard as if the harder she stared, the more facts might be revealed. But the more she looked the more confusing the case became. The murder of Donald Major made no sense. McCall stood up and walked about, her hands cupping the back of her neck as her head tilted back in frustration. Sam knew that something was there that she was missing, but she was afraid that the absent information had not yet been found.
Sam turned to see Tony and Tooms return from the docks. They were not smiling, but then they didn’t look angry either, which meant that they had found something and their discovery was not good. Tony headed for the coffee room while Tooms made straight for his desk. The African-American man slammed down in his chair and leant backwards, stretching out. McCall walked over slowly and caught his eye as she approached; she smiled sympathetically but did not really know why. It was more of a gut reaction to his expression.
“Bad day?” she enquired.
He raised an eyebrow at her question. “Bad? Worse! Our jumper didn’t jump, he fell.”
McCall stood there for a moment with a puzzled look on her tired face.
“He fell?” She sat down on the edge of Tony’s desk just as he came through, holding two cups of coffee.
“Yeah,” Tony said. “CSU did a reconstruction using computers and found that if he had jumped his body would have ended up further away, but the computers say he fell, so he fell.” He handed Tooms one of the cups.
McCall thought for a few moments, her face blank as if she were in another place entirely.
“What’re you thinking, McCall?” Tooms knew that look well; it was the look that meant long hours and ‘apology’ dinners for his long-suffering wife.
Sam McCall stood up and walked purposefully back to her desk, her heels tapping on the floor. It was true that Tooms had lucked out on the case of the weasel-faced loan shark—he was busy collecting money from someone on the other side of town, and pushing a guy off a crane to make it look like an accident does not really send out a message to encourage others to do business with you. No, she thought. Whoever killed him was someone who wanted him out of the way.
She looked through the notes on the ACCIDENTAL DEATH of Donald Major, as the recording officer had quickly put in the report. She looked through the file on her desk and reached for her coffee cup and placed it to her lips. She stopped as she saw the stained white bottom of the empty cup; slightly annoyed, she stood up and headed for the coffee room, her tastebuds still yearning for that last drop of coffee she had thought was in the bottom of the cup.
As she filled her cup she looked over at the clock above the elevator. The black hands against the white face told her it was nearly seven, and tomorrow was another day, and they couldn’t really do anything until morning anyway. It was time to go, and tomorrow she would go and see the owner of the store and Thompson would have to get her feet wet. Everyone else had a case to investigate, and Jenny Thompson would have to pick up the Karen Greene mugging. However, tonight Sam realised that she needed to be somewhere else.
McCall walked into the cro
wded Italian restaurant, she wore a black dress that hugged her curves but was loose enough to allow her to give chase to someone, if necessary. She wore make-up and her hair was styled neatly. As she entered, she looked round, searching for someone. She met the gaze of a short, grey-haired man standing at a dark wooden lectern.
He smiled at her, greeted her with open arms, saying: “Samantha, so good to see you again!” His face lost some of its warmth. “Why don’t you come over anymore, huh?” He laughed as they embraced once more.
“Sorry, Sal,” she apologized. “Things have been kind of.”
“You don’t need to apologize for nothing!” He raised his hand in a conciliatory gesture.
“So how’s your mom?”
Sal led her to a nice table away from the bustle and pulled the chair out for her. “You still drinking that cheap red stuff?”
Sam shot him an innocent look and he just laughed and walked off, making joke Italian curses.
She looked nervously at her watch. It seemed like an age since the last time she was on a date—any date. She patted her sweaty hands with her cotton napkin, sure she was slightly panicked at going on this blind date that Tina had set up with one of her doctor buddies. Why should she be nervous? she wondered to herself.
A young waiter brought over a bottle of wine and presented it to McCall as if to ask if it was correct. She just smiled politely and nodded. All she knew about wine was that it was made from grapes and it either tasted good or not, the end. The waiter filled her glass and retired to the back after leaving her with a menu. She checked her watch again. It was eight o’clock, and she was early.
After around ten minutes the waiter returned, smiling obsequiously.
Operation:UNITY (John Steel series Book 2) Page 8
