by T. E. Woods
“My mother’s dead.” He cleared his throat. “I never really knew my dad.”
Barry nodded slowly. “Must be tough. Family’s all we got in the world when it comes down to it.”
Reinhart was relieved when Latesha arrived to serve rib-eye steaks and mashed potatoes. He gave his guest a few minutes to enjoy his lunch.
“I want you to come with me to Florida when the season’s over, Barry.” He signaled for another bourbon. “My treat. I belong to a club with one of the top golf courses in the country. I’ll introduce you to some men who can make things happen for you. What do you say?”
“I don’t golf, Mr. Vogel. Basketball’s my game. I like to give it all my attention.”
Reinhart laughed. “Son, I’ve never seen anyone handle a big orange ball like you. I’m sure with a lesson or two you could master a little white one. Besides, golf’s more about who’s sitting with you while you’re telling lies in the clubhouse.”
“And it’s important to you to have the dark horse of the playoffs in your golf cart? Show off the boy you put in to humiliate LionEl?”
Reinhart tried to calculate the motivation behind Barry’s remark. “An invitation to my club is an honor, son.”
“I mean no disrespect, Mr. Vogel. It’s just that my dad raised me to make sure I always know the whys when folks offer me something. Fellow like you must have lots of golfing buddies.”
Reinhart looked to see if the staff had heard Barry’s challenge. The barman was polishing glasses, Latesha was preparing the dessert cart, and Simon stood silently in the corner. Either they hadn’t heard or were so well trained they weren’t reacting. He leaned forward and kept his voice low.
“Consider it less an invitation and more an assignment.” Reinhart held his guest’s gaze. “A week on the coast. You’ll tell your stories about the game, eat some of the best seafood you’ve ever tasted, and drink as much of my expensive liquor as you can handle. Not exactly rough duty.”
Barry responded with a brief smile and returned his attention to his steak.
Reinhart was impressed with the kid’s stones. It couldn’t have been easy for him to be alone with his owner in such a private setting. He decided to forgive Barry his slight and enjoy his lunch.
“LionEl giving you any trouble?” he asked.
Barry set his silverware down but kept his eyes on his plate. “We play the same position, Mr. Vogel. We’re never on the floor together.”
Was the kid deliberately forgetting he’d asked him to call him Reinhart?
“I’m not talking on the floor. I don’t know what’s bigger, LionEl’s ego or his temper. Hell, the whole world has seen what he’s capable of. It’s no secret he feels threatened by your talent.”
“We’re a team, Mr. Vogel.” Barry ran his hand along the edge of the table before bringing his eyes to Reinhart’s. “LionEl’s got the records in his pocket. He knows how to put points on the scoreboard. It’s an honor to be his backup.”
Reinhart couldn’t read this young man. Was his humility real? Or was this pose of gifted athlete grateful for a chance to play as much an act as LionEl’s diamonds and entourage?
“Let me tell you something about LionEl,” Reinhart said. “Hell, about any of my players, for that matter.” He waited for Barry’s full attention. “I take good care of my people, Barry. You do what I tell you, when I tell you, and we’re going to get along. You’ll find I’m generous to a fault with people who know how to toe the line. You know how many of your teammates have been in this room?” He waited for emphasis. “None. You’re the only one I’ve seen fit to invite here.”
Barry didn’t respond.
“LionEl was my man for a long time. I’ve had his back for years. Turned a blind eye to his off-season shenanigans and was more than happy to open my wallet when one of his groupies didn’t think she was getting the payoff she deserved. But he’s gotten a little big for his already sizable britches. The team’s abandoned him. They’ve had it with his one-man show.” Reinhart swirled the ice in his tumbler. “I’m ready to pull the plug. His contract’s up at the end of the season and I’m in no mood to offer him a dime to come back. Especially now that I’ve seen the talent you’re packing.” He took a long drink and waved to Latesha to bring the dessert cart. “So I want you to be my ears in the locker room. Keep an eye on him. Let me know if he’s throwing you more shit than you feel is reasonable.”
“You want me to spy on LionEl, Mr. Vogel?”
“I want you to look out for my investment. Let me know if LionEl is doing anything to hurt our chances. I can’t be all places at all times.” Reinhart caught the hesitation on Barry’s face. “Look, we all want the same thing, right? A Wings victory against L.A. and to go as deep into the playoffs as you can take us. Let me know if we’ve got an obstacle that needs taking care of.”
Barry shook his head. “You got the wrong guy. I’ll give this team the best I got, but I signed on to play basketball, not to be your narc.”
Reinhart scanned the staff again. While the bartender and valet still wore faces that revealed nothing, Latesha had the subtle smirk of someone who’d just heard a brother stick it to power. His pulse quickened. He wasn’t the hungry kid hustling bar burgers anymore. This was his room. He took a deep breath and made sure everyone heard him.
“I apologize if my generous lunch and open spirit left you with the impression you had an option in this matter.” He held a hand up to stop Latesha from serving the chocolate lava cake. “You’ll do as I say as long as you’re in my employ.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “You have three assignments. One, get us past L.A. Two, monitor LionEl.” Reinhart did a slow inspection of the room to make sure the now-attentive staff understood every word he said. “And three, leave. We’re finished here.”
Reinhart Vogel tossed his soiled napkin to the floor and left without a backward glance.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Micki Petty grinned as she walked into the luxury suite overlooking the Wings’ basketball court. “It’s not fair, Mort. People like us should be the wealthy ones. We’d know how to have fun with the money.”
“Like putting this into the annual budget.” Jimmy DeVilla settled Bruiser beside the leather sofa. “For the love of Mike, get a load of the size of that television. We’re, what, twenty-five yards from the floor and they give us our own personal Jumbotron?”
Robbie clicked on the giant wall-mounted set. The faces of two sportscasters formed with such high-definition clarity you could count their nose hairs. He muted the audio. “Still ten minutes to tip-off.”
Mort took in the terraced room. Jimmy was staked out on the upper level, opposite a full kitchen with table seating for eight. Two lower decks stepped down, each furnished with upholstered club chairs. Glass doors separated the deluxe box from the main arena. Twelve stadium chairs were cordoned off outside their box in case anyone had an itch to join the hoi polloi.
“Once more we’ve got Robbie’s agent to thank.” Mort nodded to his son. “Send him my regards. Tell him this team’s been working twenty-hour days on the Trixie case. A break is just what we need.”
Robbie crossed to the refrigerator and tossed a beer to Jimmy and his dad. Micki asked for a Dr Pepper. “Let’s make a pact,” she said. “No talk about dead johns or murdering hookers for the next two hours. And if I hear the initials DNA, they better stand for Damned Nice Assist.”
“Sweet Jesus, I have died and been transported to my heavenly reward.” The four of them turned toward the basso profundo voice entering the suite. “I was greeted by this enchanting woman just outside the suite.” L. Jackson Clark bowed to the curvaceous brunette in the leather miniskirt, thigh-high boots, and low-cut Wings jersey. Larry’s grin threatened to eclipse the light show pulsing out on the basketball court. “May I present Nakita? She’s our hostess this evening.” He went to Robbie and pulled him into a crushing hug. “Bless you, my child.” Larry rocked him back and forth.
“Will you let the bo
y go, Larry?” Mort tossed a Guinness to his friend. “It’s a basketball game. Wrapped up fancy, but it’s still a basketball game.”
Robbie and Micki slid the huge glass doors open and the roar of twenty thousand rabid Wings fans thundered in.
Jimmy reached for the binoculars hanging from his neck. “Will you look at this spectacle? It’s Vegas meets the Fourth of July.”
The five of them stood watching as first the Lakers and then the Wings were introduced beneath pulsing lasers.
Jimmy pointed across the arena. “We’re straight across from the owner’s box.” He handed his binoculars to Micki. “Look. It’s the queen bee herself.”
Micki adjusted the lenses. “That’s her. Ingrid Stinson-Vogel. My God, look at that dress. I’ll bet my car cost less. And those diamonds!” She refocused the binoculars on the Wings’ bench. “Where’s her husband? I can’t find that bald head anywhere.”
“You can bet he’s here,” Larry said. “The Wings are up two games against the best in the league. He wouldn’t miss the first home game of the series if his life depended on it.”
The tip-off went to Los Angeles and the game was under way. The Lakers’ point guard brought the ball down with the slow deliberation of a master thief checking a jewelry store camera for blind spots. LionEl guarded his man loose. His opponent faked right, spun left, caught a bullet pass, and dribbled twice before sinking an unobstructed three-point shot. The crowd groaned.
“Turn on the television, will you, Robbie?” Larry settled into a club chair on the lower terrace. “I like a good play-by-play.”
The first minutes of the game unfolded with little drama. Neither team broke away, but Los Angeles was hot from the three-point line. The Lakers were up by five when Coach Wilkerson called a time out halfway through the first quarter.
“My stomach’s rumbling like a dual-exhaust hemi.” Jimmy headed to the buffet and filled a plate with sausages and beef tenderloin. He grabbed a handful of raw carrots, tossed them on top, and searched the cabinet. He filled a saucepan with water and carried it and the plate over to Bruiser. The German shepherd pulled himself upright and waited for his master’s signal to dig in.
“Anybody give you grief about taking Bruiser places?” Larry popped an olive in his mouth as Jimmy followed behind him, loading his own plate with a taste of everything.
Jimmy gave a playful scowl. “Never twice.”
The air horn sounded and the fans boomed their approval as Barry Gardener replaced LionEl. The rookie brought the ball down fast, gliding past two defenders. He planted his feet outside the three-point line, dribbled twice, and surprised the Laker guarding him with a quick bounce pass to a teammate, who wowed the crowd with a hanging slam-dunk. Wings were down by three and the crowd was on its feet.
The floor rumbled beneath Mort as the Lakers called their first time-out. He borrowed Jimmy’s binoculars and watched Wilkerson sketch plays for his huddled team. He swung the glasses up and zeroed in on the owner’s suite. “Someone else is there now, but it’s not Reinhart. This guy has hair.” Mort handed the binoculars to Micki.
“That’s her son, Pierce. No one would confuse him with ugly, would they?”
Play resumed and all attention returned to the floor. The collective moan in their suite was echoed by the crowd as Wilkerson sent LionEl into the game.
Mort watched the Wings’ reaction to losing their playmaker. “They’re leaning back.”
“And why not?” Larry asked. “LionEl doesn’t involve them.”
Mort shook his head. “Look at that.” He pointed toward a gang-up around LionEl. “He’s got two men wide open and LionEl’s not even looking.”
Twenty thousand fans watched LionEl refuse to adjust. He kept grabbing the ball, trying to force his way past a single-minded Laker defense.
“This is ugly.” Micki pulled another Dr Pepper from the fridge.
Mort used the binoculars to check out the owner’s suite. He wondered if Vogel was up to his old habit of calling orders down to his coach. But a scan of the suite showed no sign of Reinhart Vogel. Only his wife and her son. Both looked agitated. And with the Wings’ performance, Mort couldn’t blame them.
An eternity later the buzzer sounded the end of the first half and the Wings were down by eight. Nakita entered the suite carrying four large pizza boxes.
“A woman of sustenance as well as grace.” Larry hurried to help her with her burden. “Qualities so rarely found in tandem.”
Nakita smiled, checked the refrigerator and wine cabinet, and wished them all a pleasant half-time. Mort threw an arm over the shoulder of his old friend. “Relax, Larry. She’d only break your heart.”
“Perhaps.” Larry’s grin was Mississippi-wide. “But I’d mend.”
The second half played itself out as a carbon copy of the first. Barry Gardener was in for fewer than seven minutes, but when he was on the court, the Wings rallied. When they came close to catching the Lakers, Wilkerson switched and LionEl resumed his run-and-gun solo performance. By the third quarter the Lakers were up by twelve. Jimmy rummaged through some drawers and came up with a deck of cards. Halfway through the fourth quarter, Mort watched the game as his four suite mates played Texas Hold ’Em for toothpicks.
“Loser takes Bruiser for his nightly constitutional,” Jimmy announced. “And scoops the poop.”
The stands began to empty. Mort glanced up at the scoreboard. Less than two minutes left and the Wings were down by eighteen.
With less than ten seconds in regulation play, Mort’s cell rang. Then Jimmy’s. Then Micki’s.
“When?” Jimmy barked.
“Who’s there now?” Micki asked.
“We’re on our way.” Mort clicked his phone closed and turned to Robbie. “You take the car home. I’ll ride with Jimmy.”
Robbie had been a cop’s son long enough to know when business called. “What’s going on?”
Mort looked at his two colleagues before answering.
“Reinhart Vogel,” Mort said. “Maid found him five minutes ago. Dead.”
“And all trussed up like a Christmas goose,” Jimmy added.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lydia stood in the empty foyer of her house and shook the rain off her parka. Her footsteps echoed on hardwood through barren rooms. She’d wondered, on her two-hour drive from Langley, whether she would regret her decision to purge her home of all its furnishings. Standing in her vacant living room, looking across the expanse of lawn to Dana Passage, she knew she’d been right. She had enough money in offshore accounts, courtesy of her work as The Fixer, to last several lifetimes. She could remake her home into the sanctuary it once was.
But nest-building activities would have to wait. She’d come down from Whidbey for a specific purpose and wanted to be back on the island in time for an afternoon snack with Maizie.
Lydia double-checked the locks on the front door before keying the code allowing access to her lower level. She padded down carpeted stairs and crossed through her exercise room. Private Number hadn’t corrupted this part of the house. No one but Lydia had stepped foot on this floor since she purchased the home seven years ago. Every bit of construction, wiring, and installation she’d done on her own. What happened on this floor had nothing to do with her life as a clinical psychologist. This was the domain of The Fixer.
A solid metal door guarded her computer center. Lydia clicked on the overhead light of the cinder-block room and took a seat behind the console. Most electronics would suffer from a year of nonuse, but she’d consulted with designers and programmers from Berlin to Zurich and was confident the power her equipment had exhibited the last time she’d logged on would still be at her service. She thought of Oswald, the overweight, acne-scarred communications expert who had built her satellite routing system. He was nineteen and completing his Ph.D. at MIT when he devised a program to bounce her signal from one cell tower to another at random time intervals ranging from a half to three seconds using a jump system to choose towers a
round the globe. It would take more than two thousand years for the pattern to repeat. He had assured her that calculation was based on current infrastructure. With the monthly addition of new towers and his program’s ability to capture them the moment they came online, Lydia could be certain any message she sent from this center was untraceable. Oswald hadn’t cared why Lydia needed the system. The teenager’s only demand had been that the ten thousand dollars he wanted for his services be paid in cash. Now Lydia pressed a button and a request for her log-on information appeared before she could blink.
Maizie had run like a frightened puppy when Lydia suggested they take pictures. She needed to learn more about the “camera games” the tiny girl had described between gulps for breath and wailing sobs.
Dunfield proved to be more sophisticated than Lydia would have guessed of the typical junkyard dealer. He’d nested his encrypted wares deep within cyberspace. She fed in everything she knew about Dunfield and allowed the program to scan millions of likely sites. In less than five minutes she had him. Special access codes, available by paid subscription, were necessary to gain links to his photos. Lydia whispered thanks to her European designers for a system that could blast through any firewall.
Dunfield’s first level of service offered little more than the average pedophile could find in Sunday morning advertising flyers. Users could select boys or girls and find photos of kids running around in bathing suits and underwear. Lydia’s stomach churned at the notion that pictures of smiling children, some just weeks old, were being used to fuel some abuser’s erotic fantasy. She scanned the faces. Though she couldn’t be certain of the infants, none of the subjects on this level appeared to be Maizie.
