Athena Force: Books 1-6

by Justine Davis, Amy J. Fetzer, Katherine Garbera, Meredith Fletcher, Catherine Mann

  She hung up and sat on the bed, but that only lasted a few seconds. She turned on the TV, bit into a cold French fry from dinner, then flipped through channels.

  Something caught her attention and she flipped back to the local news. There was a big press party at the Beverly Center for Dead Game—a fan show, stars appearing, signing autographs, doing interviews before the premiere Friday night. That meant Maurice would be there. And not in his office.

  Chapter 6

  Staring up at Maurice’s offices, Darcy popped a piece of gum in her mouth to help the dryness. It was as if the moisture in her mouth shut off when she was nervous.

  And she was. Under her clothes she wore a synthetic catsuit, skintight and unrestricting. She felt like Jane Bond about to infiltrate a death-squad hideout.

  Armed with her knife, wire cutters and lock picks, she had black nylon rope wound around her waist, just in case she needed it. She didn’t know why, but having it made her feel better when she knew she hadn’t planned this well enough. She didn’t have time, nor any way to access information other than city plans. For a second, she wished she’d asked Jack for more equipment, then instantly dismissed that—he was being nosy enough already.

  Going through the front door was out of the question. The building had a guard at the desk and a security system. Maurice had boasted about it once, as if warning her that there was a part of his life she would never know.

  She knew enough. She checked the lower window, finding metal-strip sensors on the glass and locks. Okay that wasn’t an option. Think. She could feel the clock ticking away her chances.

  The pre-premiere party was for the staff, crew, actors and sponsors and would go on all night. Maurice would make a graceful escape soon enough, though she doubted he’d come back here anyway. But she didn’t want to risk it.

  She circled to the back, her gaze traveling up the artdeco line of the building that used to house the offices of Edgar Bergen. Surprisingly there wasn’t a fire-escape ladder that reached past the third floor. She had to scale the building. Stripping off her jeans and shirt and leaving them in a ball by the trash, she grasped the end of a brick indentation and pulled herself up, glancing down to check the area again. She looked to the top.

  Man, it was far. If she fell, she’d be a flying Wallenda trapeze artist without a net.

  She hooked her toes in the brick work, taking her time, breathing slowly. In her training at Athena, they’d scaled rock walls and, as she moved, everything Rainy and her instructors had taught her came rushing back. Secure the footing first, don’t overreach.

  I can do this. Energy surged, her confidence building as she passed the third floor. Her aim was the roof. The buildings weren’t close enough for her to risk jumping from one to the other from the top floors. Besides, the neighboring building was only three floors tall. She was in good shape, just not that good. She stretched her arms, her feet braced on the sill of an office window. If she remembered right, it was the bathroom. Even that had a sensor and she was careful not to touch it with her foot.

  Darcy held on, her hands sweating, her toes curling to grip. She stretched again to reach the next brick. They stuck out at different spots, creating a pattern of sweeping curls in the wall. One more, don’t rush it.

  Cars moved past on the street, voices, faint and distant, pierced the night’s silence.

  Carefully she pulled her leg up, using her toes to feel the wall. When she found purchase, she pushed.

  And slipped.

  Her chin hit the brick and her muscles seized. She clutched the brick hard. Her breathing rushed with quick panic, and she was suddenly mad that she’d been brought to this.

  Darcy struggled for five more minutes, choosing each move carefully, her fear replaced with tenacity. When she reached the top she grasped the edge, dangling like a noodle, then used her arms to pull herself up.

  She swung her leg over the edge and hiked herself onto the roof. For a second, she just stayed there on her knees, catching her breath. Then she stood, looking around.

  Air vents. Fire door. Glass skylight to Maurice’s sitting area. She moved to that, looking down.

  The room below looked opaque, the shapes undefinable. She reached for the lock, stopping short when she saw the metal tape. She unwound the rope, leaving it behind, and moved to the vents. She didn’t bother pulling one apart, they were too narrow. Her hips would never fit through, and she didn’t know where they led.

  She went to the fire door and checked it for sensors. There weren’t any. She frowned at that, double-checking, then slipping on latex gloves, she knelt, put her penlight in her mouth and used her picks to open the lock. Her hands grew slippery with sweat inside the gloves. She expected the alarm to sound.

  The lock sprang. She slipped inside, padding down the short staircase that ran to the first floor right outside the guard’s desk. She moved quietly, knowing sound would echo down the narrow stairwell and alert the guard. Who was armed.

  She pushed open the door to Maurice’s floor.

  The hall was dark, the carpet lush and new smelling. What little moonlight there was coming through the open doors reflected off the pictures that lined the walls, shots of Maurice with actors and directors, and promo posters of movies.

  Surrounded by all your glory, eh, Maurice?

  She moved down the hall, silent, slow, then went into her husband’s office. There was no reason for him to lock the door. No one came on this floor unless he said so.

  She shined her light over the room, which stretched the length of the building, decorated for masculine power and money. Darcy spotted several new pieces of art, a leather-sofa grouping to the left, a sparkling wet bar behind that near the window. In the center, the skylight reflected the black surface of a small conference table before his desk.

  Like a king holding court.

  In a small room to her far left were copiers, fax machines and a bathroom complete with a shower and a closet.

  Darcy went right to the files in the Brazilian mahogany cabinets behind the desk. She flipped through them, looking for anything on taxes, financial reports that would connect Maurice and Porche. And mostly anything that was dated and signed after Fairchild had vanished. When she didn’t come across anything, she grew antsy, a little dispirited.

  He had to have it here. He’d need it for his accountants.

  A sliver of hopelessness pierced her and she sighed, sitting in his chair. The leather was so cold she felt it through the cat suit. Her gaze fell on his computer and she turned on the screen. With the mouse, she opened files, reading quickly. Nothing. Leaving the desk, she moved her penlight over the room’s interior.

  She studied the bookcases, four wide and lining the wall opposite the desk. She barely noted the titles till she realized the same sets of books were on two shelves. She tipped a few out, then back, going down the line. It wasn’t until she reached the third row that she found it. A little switch. She flicked it. The wall sprang with a soft sigh.

  Very clever, Maurice, very clever.

  Behind it was a safe.

  Hell.

  That didn’t do her much good. She couldn’t open it.

  A lock, sure, but a safe?

  She tried anyway, using his birthday, then their wedding day. The day his first film was released. Maurice had trouble remembering sequences of numbers, so he kept them familiar. It was how she’d gotten into his personal finances through the online search.

  She dropped her arms, staring at the unopened safe.

  Nothing worked.

  She checked her watch, aware she was running out of time. She gave it one last try, and for reasons she couldn’t say, she tried Charlie’s birth date.

  It clicked open.

  Darcy blinked, stunned to her soles.

  Maurice using Charlie’s birthday when he’d pushed her down the stairs to make her lose him? When he’d ignored her son when Charlie was born?

  It didn’t please her.

  It made her more afrai
d.

  Because it meant that, no matter what Maurice had said or done, Charlie was important to him. She didn’t want that. She wanted her son for herself. God, she didn’t want Maurice even thinking about him!

  Shaking off this new concern till later, she rose on her toes and peered in, then lifted out the stacks of paper. She found cash bound in ten-grand increments, bonds and his passport. And hers. She considered taking it, but then he’d know she was here. Yet she stared at the picture, seeing a stylish woman, sapphires dangling from her ears to match her suit. She snapped it closed.

  That Darcy was dead.

  She brought the stack to the floor, spreading it out. She expected to find computer discs of information, but it was all paper. She flipped and read, careful to keep the papers aligned as they were. Then she found what she needed and felt almost giddy. The final documents of the loan for the production.

  She didn’t see a thing wrong with them, though by the graininess at the top of the page, she could tell they were copies. Porche would have the original to file with the banking commission. She hurried to the copier near the bathroom, shut the door and started the machine. It sighed softly as each scan-and-copy printed and she peeked out the door, wondering if the guard made nightly rounds. She checked her watch. Damn. It was fast approaching midnight.

  Darcy willed the copier to move faster, then glanced at the immaculate bathroom, the small open closet outside hung with two suits and fresh shirts. She searched the pockets, finding nothing but cleaner stubs and the monogramming order.

  The copying done, she rolled hers into a tube and went back to the safe to replace the others, stacking everything exactly as it had been and putting them back in the safe.

  Returning the wall to its closed position, she grabbed a rubber band from the desk to secure the tube of papers and headed to the door. She was nearly there when she stilled, hearing something. It took her about two seconds for the sound of a knob turning to register.

  Oh, no.

  She turned back, ducking behind the four-foot-wide wall that sectioned the office from the conference area. She went motionless, her breathing light and slow. She didn’t hear footsteps or keys. Then the door opened sharply, a wide beam of light glazing over the room. She could almost feel a figure approaching, hear his breathing. Oh, man, oh, man.

  Darcy held her breath. The light speared over the interior, then clicked off.

  She still didn’t move, waiting for her heart to slow down, then she checked her watch. Midnight on the dot. She stayed where she was till she heard the close of a door somewhere down the hall, then moved to the door, wondering how she’d get down from here and what to do next.

  She needed to lure Maurice, scare him a little to see if she was on the right track. She stopped and turned back.

  She knew just how to do it.

  Leaning over his chair, she opened the Web browser on his computer. The high-speed line was open and she went to Yahoo.com and sent a blind message.

  I’m back. 11 PM, lot 8.

  P.F.

  That should do it.

  She deleted the cookies and history, then dumped the trash bin, erasing her trail. It was a long shot, but he lived by e-mail, voice mail and cell phones. And she didn’t have any time left. She repositioned everything on the desk, including the chair. Maurice’s world was a precise and orderly one. It almost made him predictable.

  Darcy headed out, careful to close the doors without a sound. On the roof, she looked down at the ground, and decided against using the rope. She’d no way to release it and it would leave a trail. She went over the edge, working her way down. She ran toward her car, parked several blocks down behind a store, careful to stay in the shadows.

  If Maurice showed tomorrow night, he was guilty.

  Because if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t bother, nor would he understand the message.

  One thing she knew about her husband was that he wouldn’t waste time on someone who didn’t have the power to take him down.

  The following evening, Darcy strolled through the Pegasus Studio gates, smiling at the guard and showing her ID. She’d reconstructed the ID today using a five-minute photo taken in a machine in a drugstore. To the guard she was a young man in jeans and a jacket, so she didn’t offer more than a couple of grunts. Her mask was broader and whiskered, her hair hidden beneath a tight wig. While her waist was straighter with padding and her breasts were smashed under Ace bandages, it was the socks in her crotch that itched. But it wouldn’t do to have nothing there. She sort of understood guys’ need to adjust themselves all the time.

  It was nearly ten-thirty and the guard was more interested in checking the time than looking closely at her ID. His relief must be coming, she thought, finally passing through and walking toward the lights set up on the lot for night filming. The area was quiet, almost ghostly, and when she was out of sight of the guards, she veered right, quickly moving down the alleys between buildings. Most of the buildings near the roads were for shows where the public could watch the taping, but farther to the west was storage. The warehouse where the chauffeur said Maurice had gone that night. She picked the padlock, leaving it discreetly open.

  A little piece of bait.

  Darcy had been there that morning, searching for the best point to see activity and the least likely place to be spotted. The roof was her best option, but she hadn’t had time in the daylight to set anything up without looking suspicious.

  Her gaze landed on the fire-escape ladder on the building across the street and she stepped under it, hopping to give it a tug. It didn’t move down. Probably rusted into position. Yet if it slid to the ground as it was supposed to, the noise would alert anyone within half a mile.

  No guts, no glory, she thought, adjusting her backpack before she jumped, grabbing the rung. It squeaked and she dangled for a second, then reached for the next rung, swinging her leg upward till her foot caught a bar and took some of her weight so she could ease up to reach the next rung. The thing creaked with every move and she looked around, then pulled her body weight up two more before her feet connected solidly with the medal step. She climbed, looking back to see if any cars were coming, then threw herself over the ledge of the flat roof.

  It didn’t feel very stable under her feet, almost soft, and she crouched near the edge, shifting carefully to get the best view of the doors, the road and anything nearby. From the backpack she removed the night-vision goggles she’d bought at a pawnshop several months back and Jack’s video camera, flipping the night-vision lens into place, then setting the camera on motion sensor. She propped it on her backpack a few feet to her right, sighted in, then with the NVGs she settled in to wait.

  He’d show. He was in this up to his Armani lapels and gold collar stays. The next ten minutes stretched her nerves, every creak making her think she’d be discovered or the roof would give out under her.

  She could see the headline. Studio Collapses, Leaves Kidnapping Mother Under Ten Tons Of Rubble. Child Unaccounted For. She’d rather it said Movie Mogul Maurice Steele Indicted For Murder. She spent the next five minutes creating headlines that lightened her mood until she heard the crunch of gravel. Then the sound of a car engine.

  Sighting in with the NVGs, she peered over the edge of the roofline. A dark sedan moved up the alley, and she focused on the license plate.

  FLM MKR. Short for filmmaker.

  Well, Maury, honey, you didn’t trust your driver with this, did you?

  The car moved slowly and from her position she couldn’t see the driver. Besides, the windows were tinted. She glanced to the right to check the video camera. It was filming. Her palms went clammy, and adrenaline rushed in her veins, speeding up her heartbeat as she waited for the driver to stop and get out. Seconds passed. The car rolled, the crush of gravel beneath the tires loud and intrusive.

  The car door opened and Darcy almost squeaked when Maurice stepped out. He left the lights on, the car running and the door open. Thinking you’ll need a quick getaway?
Maurice waited, rubbing his mouth, pacing, cursing, the same behavior he’d had that night. He was rarely nervous, so it always stood out more.

  He moved in front of the headlights and Darcy reared back at the clothing he wore. Jeans, which he wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing otherwise, a T-shirt and a shabby tweed jacket. So un-Maury. Did he think that was a disguise? Where’d he get that, Goodwill?

  He moved to the warehouse door, trying the lock and when he realized it was open he let it go, stepping back, shocked. Something moved, a rat probably, but enough to make a scraping sound.

  Maurice whipped around. Oh, God, she mouthed when he pulled a small gun from behind his back. Maurice moved to the next door a few yards to the left, peering through the wire-reinforced glass window. What’s in there, Maury? The body? The weapon? Darcy hadn’t seen any evidence to say so when she was in there the other day, but it would have been easy to hide—drop the body into one of the barrel tanks or drums, seal it up and the body would decompose with the strength of the chemicals. Half of them were blends with sulfuric acid.

  Clever.

  He looked around, then he disappeared down the narrow corridor between the buildings, big enough for a person to walk down but not enough for a vehicle.

  Darcy waited, not daring to move. One tiny scrape would echo and alert him. He had a gun, she just had her knife.

  When he reappeared, he went to the door, removing the lock and pocketing it before he pried the door open. It was a nearly airtight seal and the pop was loud. The reason Darcy hadn’t tried it tonight.

  Maurice didn’t seem to care. He walked inside, and Darcy shifted farther to her right for a better angle, getting a bird’s-eye view of the entrance and a few yards inside. Maurice went to the left. To the back. She saw his shadow pass by the only window in the place.

  If he was used to skulking he’d have known he’d cast a shadow.

  And he didn’t wear gloves. She made a note of everything he touched that she could see and didn’t wonder what he was doing. He was implicating himself by being there. He didn’t turn on a light or use a flashlight. That meant he knew his way around. Or exactly where he’d been.