In order to bluff her way in to see him without raising anyone's suspicions, she picked a cover that had worked well for her before and might draw on the man's big ego at the same time. Dressed in a pair of worn designer jeans, a loose tee shirt under a large cotton shirt, baggy socks, and well-used sneakers, Steve looked ten years younger than her age. A lot of mousse to spike her hair, black eyeliner to enlarge her eyes, but no other makeup, and big, black plastic ear hoops completed her ensemble. A professional Nikon camera hung from a strap around her neck, and a scarred leather photographer's case was slung over her left shoulder.
The directory in the lobby listed the floor for the executive offices. In the elevator Steve remembered to stick a big wad of bubble gum into her mouth. The receptionist on that floor listened to Steve's explanation, made a brief phone call, and told her how to find the office of Mr. Underwood's executive secretary.
Steve's heart beat a little faster, but her palms remained dry. No way could it be this easy.
A woman in her fifties, with flaming red hair, bifocal glasses, and a no-nonsense expression greeted Steve as she opened the door and shut it behind her. "May I help you?" The woman took in Steve's appearance over her glasses and clearly disapproved.
"Yeah. I'm lookin' for Mr. Underwood. I'm here to do the photo layout for the article in I ." Steve blew a medium-sized bubble and let it pop as she looked around the office with open curiosity.
"I'm sorry. We weren't expecting any photographer. At any rate, I have never heard of anything called I," she stated smugly.
Steve quickly dug a smudged card out of her shirt pocket which identified her as Zena, Freelance Photographer, with an address and phone number of an Oakland telephone booth. Handing it to the redhead, she identified herself in between bubble-gum cracks. "That's me, (crack) Zena. I is a new
magazine (crack) like People, ya know? They gave me this assignment yesterday. Said Mr. Underwood would be expectin' me. (crack) Look, maybe his secretary knows somethin' about it."
Before the woman could respond, the office door opened again. Steve automatically shifted to protect her back and get a glimpse of the person entering. The detective in her instantly sized up the man from a statistical viewpoint; the woman in her added a few extra details.
Male Caucasian, age twenty-five to thirty, six feet tall, approximately 175 pounds, looks pretty solid, shoulder-length, stylized hair, honey-blond with streaks of light brown and gold, brown-topaz eyes which seemed to flash when the light hit them.
He had to be the most intriguing man she had ever seen. Not exactly handsome. Beautiful might have been more accurate—like a caged lion, a beautiful, wild animal, strictly controlled. Or was it just that gorgeous head of sun-streaked hair that made her think of a lion? No, it was also the way he prowled into the office outwardly at ease, but the close fit of his black slacks and open-collared shirt revealed a tightly muscled body that contradicted a relaxed attitude. He wore comfortable-looking loafers, made for walking, and carried a leather bag. She frowned as her perusal stopped on the ring finger of his left hand. He was wearing a gaudy opal ring. Not only was it ugly, it didn't match the wearer. A definite incongruity.
In one smooth scan, his gaze recorded every inch of the room, not stopping until it met Steve's bold stare. That action, combined with the way he seemed poised for action, told Steve his profession might have some similarity to hers.
Steve turned back to the secretary, who had also stopped to give the man the once-over. "I'll be with you in just a moment," she said to him. "Now, Miss..."—she glanced at the card in her hand again—"Zena. I am Mr. Underwood's secretary, Miss Preston. I do not have you listed as having an appointment. I suggest you recheck with whomever gave you the assignment."
The lion had moved out of Steve's line of peripheral vision, and she could only guess that he stood directly behind her. Suddenly she was certain. She tensed, ready to defend herself, but hoped she would not have to show her hand so soon. At first she actually felt his body heat, then the hair on her neck lifted slightly then settled again as he exhaled. He was ... smelling her! Steve stepped quickly to her left and glared at him. Of all the perverted....
Jolting herself back into character, Steve pleaded, "Ah, Miss Preston, I really need this job. Won't you please ask your boss to see me? I'll just take a few candid shots. Five minutes, tops, I promise." She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes on the last word, just in case Miss Preston had a soft spot for desperate kids.
The stern secretary relented a little. "Look, Zena. I'd like to help you, but it's impossible. Mr. Underwood is in the Los Angeles office all this week, but even if he were here, he would refuse to see you without an appointment. If you'd like though, I'll be glad to call L.A. for you and see if he has any openings." She reached for the phone.
"L.A.! Damn! They didn't pay me in advance for this gig, and they sure as hell didn't offer to pick up travel expenses. I've got too many other things going to waste time on this one. Thanks anyway. Can I have my card back?" Steve snatched it from the secretary's hand before she could object. "Thanks again. See ya." Steve swiveled clockwise fast enough to cause her heavy case to swing out to the side and catch the pervert squarely in his lower abdomen. "Oh! scuse me," she said with a smirk as she noted his pained expression.
As she drove to the airport, Steve tried to put the strange man out of her mind. She wished she had an excuse to hang around long enough to find out what he was doing in Underwood's office. He made her think of a half-finished jigsaw puzzle. Having seen just enough of him to get interested, she wanted to see the whole picture. Her first assumption was that he was a professional, maybe with another agency or police department, but a pro would not have crowded her that way without good reason, and what in the world was that smelling business about? By the time she parked her car, she gave it up as an unsolved mystery.
She could not be certain that Miss Preston would not alert the L.A. office about a flaky photographer looking for Underwood, but she planned to switch covers regardless. The photographer's case and camera went in the trunk and a huge black shoulder bag came out.
At the ticket counter she purchased a seat on the commuter flight to L.A. that left in an hour, and headed for the nearest ladies' room.
The guys called her big purse her "bag of tricks," and with good reason. First Steve wet her hair and blew it dry into a fluffy pixie-style, brushed toward her face. A full makeup job came next. In five minutes flat she put on foundation to tone down her freckles, three-color eye shadow, mascara, and complementary raspberry blush and lipstick. She knew how to make herself more attractive; she just didn't see much point to the fuss most of the time. But this was different. This was business.
Steve pulled a purple knit ball out of the magic bag. A few shakes turned it into a snug-fitting, mini-length, low-necked sweater dress. The black earrings were exchanged for silver ones, and a silver necklace and bracelet were added. Last of all, Steve donned sheer taupe pantyhose and black high heels. The discarded disguise went into the oversized bag and the new Steve hurried to catch her plane.
The first thing Steve noticed when the taxi dropped her off was that Underwood's Los Angeles office building looked exactly like the one she had just left. She quickly realized the interior design and layout were identical as well. Apparently Underwood's passion for power extended to controlling his environments. She had read that he was rather inflexible in his business decisions, but she got the impression he was downright weird.
Steve put on a pair of big, dark sunglasses and pulled a small notebook and pen out of her bag. As she stepped out of the elevator, she halted, made a quick note in the book, tapped the pen on her chin while she inspected the lobby of the executive floor, and wrote a few more scribbles. Without pausing at the receptionist's desk, she strode directly down the marble hallway toward her destination.
"Excuse me!" The young girl called after Steve. "You can't go down there without being announced!"
Steve never broke her stride
as she waved the notebook in the air and called back over her shoulder. "It's okay. She's expecting me!" Heels clicking purposefully along, Steve tried to reach the executive secretary's office before the receptionist could warn her on the intercom. Timing and extreme self-confidence made up her new character's style.
As she placed her hand on the doorknob, it was pulled away from her grasp, causing her to stumble into the room. She was brought up short as her nose touched a small snap on a black shirt. Stepping back, she saw the shoes, the leather bag, the custom-fit black slacks over his thighs and hips. Steve barely suppressed a surprised gasp.
It couldn't be! Be cool, Steve. There's no way he could recognize you the way you look now. Leave the shades on, head down. How the hell did he get here ahead of me?
Steve heard his sharp intake of breath at the same time as his chest expanded in front of her. God help me, he's smelling me again! Steve made a mental note to change perfumes along with her disguises in the future. Normally, like today, she wore no scent at all.
"Excuse me, please," she said in a brusque tone as she pressed her palm against his chest. He didn't budge. Behind him, she could hear the secretary telling someone, probably the outside receptionist, that she would handle it, obviously meaning her. Who was this guy? Was he going to blow her cover or not? Until he did, she had every intention of going ahead with her charade. Using her own body as a wedge, Steve pushed her way past him into the office.
Nodding briefly to the secretary who had risen to deal with the intruder, Steve turned to one side then the other, made a few notes, then addressed the young woman. "Hi. Ronnie Howser. '60 Minutes.' This will only take a few minutes." Steve noted that this secretary was also a redhead, more strawberry than the first. Her nameplate on the desk read MISS PRESTON. Another example of company regimentation, Underwood-style, Steve supposed. Identical buildings, identical office layouts, why not identical secretaries?
"What will take a few minutes? I was not expecting anyone today, ma'am." The wary voice let Steve know this Miss Preston was not quite as sure of herself or her position as the one in San Francisco.
"Not today, hon. The shooting's tomorrow. I'm just getting the layout and lighting requirements.'' As Steve pretended to inspect the ceiling fixtures, she realized the man had left without saying a word. Her shoulders relaxed a little and she got on with her charade. "Is this his office here?" Before the woman could move, Steve pulled open one of the two doors in the back wall. A storage room. Swiftly, she moved to the other door.
"You can't go in there!" the redhead cried, beginning to show her distress. She had obviously been impressed by Steve's introduction, but not to the point of being bull-dozed.
Steve yanked the door open and marched into the next room. It was large, expensively appointed with dark woods and leathers. Built-in bookshelves lined two walls and another consisted of floor-to-ceiling tinted glass windows displaying the city of Los Angeles below.
"Perfect!" Steve announced as she paced off the room. "The camera can set up here. Great natural lighting. Probably won't need to bring in more than two spots. Say, where is he? It would help if I could line up a few of the Q's and A's ahead of time." Steve continued looking around as if she was not holding her breath waiting for the answer to her question.
Finally the secretary seemed to remember to whom she owed allegiance. "I'm afraid you've made a mistake, Miss Howser. There is no shooting tomorrow, at least not in this office."
"Certainly there is. I made the arrangements with Gordon, er, Mr. Underwood, myself at the Silicon Valley Association luncheon a couple of weeks ago. It was all decided. Go get him. He'll confirm it." Steve waved her little book at her to send her on her way. That was the final act to push this Miss Preston over the edge.
"Listen, I don't know who you think you made an appointment with, but it was certainly not our Mr. Underwood. He never makes plans without informing his secretaries, and his schedules are worked out at least four weeks in advance at all times. Never anything less and rarely does he make any last-minute changes. There were never any plans for him to be in this office at all this week. This entire week was set aside months ago for foundation business. I can assure you if he had agreed to any media coverage, I would have been duly informed, and I was not"
Steve calculated it was time to revert to being friendly. "I guess I should have known it was too good to be true. How am I going to live this one down back at the station? God, I've been bragging about my coup for weeks. What am I going to do now?" Steve took off her sunglasses and looked mournfully at the younger woman, whose ruffled feathers were slowly settling down. "I'm sorry, this isn't your problem. I feel like such a fool. I don't suppose there's any chance Mr. Underwood would be doing any of this foundation business here?"
Miss Preston took pity. "No. Everything has its proper place. Foundation business is conducted only at the Underwood Foundation ... in Nevada. Now, I really have a lot of work to do, so..."
"Yes, of course. Again, I'm sorry for the interruption." Steve stopped at the door and turned. "By the way, the man I bumped into on the way in here ... The camera would love his face. Any chance he works around here?"
"Oh, he certainly was nice to look at. No, I don't know him. Wish I did. You know, he probably would like to get an offer from you, though. He came in here because someone had told him Mr. Underwood would help him get a job. I sent him down to Personnel. If he filled out an application, they might be willing to contact him for you."
"Thanks. I might just go down and see them. Maybe the day won't be a total loss!" A quick side trip to Personnel confirmed what Steve already suspected. The man never showed up there.
* * * *
Steve had a lot to consider during her trip back to San Francisco. Although she had not had high expectations for success when she started out this morning, she had remained optimistic. Miss Preston One had clearly lied. She was too efficient to have made a mistake about her boss's whereabouts. Miss Preston Two, on the other hand, did not seem shrewd enough to mouth a lie while flustered over something else. Of course, it was possible Underwood actually was in Nevada. He could even be hiding Karl Nesterman there.
There really were no alternatives yet. She would have to follow the trail wherever it led until she came up with something better. Tomorrow would be soon enough for a trip into the desert.
Tonight she intended to satisfy her curiosity on another matter. Walking into the lion in the L.A. office had practically done her in. The bag he carried indicated that he had been prepared for a trip, but he had to have used private transportation to get there ahead of her. She had taken the first flight out and he had not been on it. Steve was certain the man had seen through her disguise, yet he had not given her away. Why not?
The only logical answer was that, like her, he was after Underwood. It was unlikely he was working undercover for the FBI. Both Bob Crandall and Evelyn Nesterman assured her no one else knew about the contents of the journal that connected Nesterman with Underwood. She could not take it for granted that the lion-man was even on the right side of the law. Underwood was known to deal with some shady characters from time to time.
When Steve checked in with Lou later that night, he promised to make a few calls and get back to her before she left in the morning. All Steve could give him was the man's description, but at least he could try to find out if anyone official was dogging Underwood. The old-boy network was alive and well, and Lou always gave as good as he got.
Because of the information on Underwood's underground facility, Steve knew gaining access would require more than a simple disguise and a little acting. Although she turned down Lou's offer to send someone with her, she requested his assistance with some props and subterfuge. Sometimes the simplest plans worked the best, even when they had been used hundreds of times. And this one never failed.
* * * *
In the town of Glendora, on the outskirts of Los Angeles, Falcon stretched out on a motel-room bed. The television monotonously m
urmured the day's news, but he barely heard the details. Things had not gone smoothly so far.
From Innerworld he had had no problem migrating directly to Underwood's San Francisco office, but when he had attempted to go to Los Angeles, he had discovered it was not as simple as he had anticipated. Street addresses in crowded metropolitan areas did not neatly translate into correlating coordinates that the transmigrator could adapt to.
He could get close to his destination using his ring, but the only way he could hit it precisely was to go back to Innerworld for recalculation each time he wanted to relocate. The temporary ban on using the main transmigrator prevented his doing that, and the strain of repeated migration through the dense layers of the planet in a brief time span would weaken his body considerably. He had no choice but to use his ring to get as close as possible then rely on Outerworld transportation for the remainder of the trip.
A vehicle called a taxi had taken him on a nightmarish ride through the city of Los Angeles which included a very slow progression on an expressway that seemed to be misnamed. He still had the calculation for the exact location of Underwood's desert facility, so he would not have to waste a lot of time traveling tomorrow.
For tonight he needed to rest and clear his head. His second journey to Outerworld with Aster had taken him to New York City, and he had been very glad to leave there. Los Angeles reminded him of New York. Millions of people congregated in such a small area, combined with the proximity and abundance of buildings and vehicles, created a noise level Falcon could barely tolerate. His hearing was too keen. He picked up sounds others did not hear— as he had heard the woman's gasp when she saw him the second time today. He forced himself not to think about how he had felt at that moment... how his body responded even now.
San Francisco had not been nearly as unbearable as Los Angeles. The outdoor temperature in San Francisco had been somewhat similar to Innerworld, and the city itself had been very pleasant to look at, unlike Los Angeles where the view was tedious and the weather was sweltering. The air itself was disgusting. How could people live in a place that poisoned their lungs and burned their eyes? Perhaps he was too sensitive in this regard as well. He could smell things others did not—as he had smelled the tangy fragrance that identified the woman for him despite the disguises she had worn.
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