Skin Game

  “So what’s the story?” he said in lieu of greeting.

  “I got a call from our guy.” Foster squared his shoulders. “Apparently he’s not working for us anymore.”

  He swore. “I thought he came highly recommended?”

  The security chief gave no hint of how he felt, immaculate and well-groomed, but something of a cipher. “He does. He’s the best the west coast has to offer, never failed to complete a contracted job.”

  “Until now,” Serrano barked. “What happened?”

  Foster shrugged. “If you want my best guess, the girl got to him. She convinced him she’s the injured party.”

  Grinding his teeth, it was all he could do not to get up and hit something. “So we’re out the retainer we paid him and the time he spent hunting her.”

  “And she now has a skilled professional on her side.” Foster apparently didn’t believe in pulling his punches.

  “Were there any indications before now that he’d gone independent on us?”

  “No. Do you want me to hire someone else?” Foster stood waiting for instructions with all the unconcern of a choir boy.

  “You’ve done enough.” He left that intentionally ambiguous. “I’ll take care of it personally.”

  Foster didn’t even blink. “As you wish, sir. Anything I should know going into the night shift?”

  “It’s been quiet today, just the AARP brigade scavenging the slots.”

  “I saw a new shill at table seven. Is he official?”

  “Only in the sense that he works for me. I want you on the floor for a while tonight, understand?” That finally roused a reaction from the impassive son of a bitch, but Serrano couldn’t read the flicker: puzzlement or confusion, possibly.

  “Are you expecting trouble?”

  Serrano smiled. “Let’s just say I have a few irons in the fire and I want you to be extra vigilant. What’s the status on Calloway?”

  “He boarded a bus to Florida thirty-six hours ago. He didn’t give notice. We can still get to him.”

  “No.” Serrano shook his head. “And Brody?”

  “He died in a two-car collision yesterday evening. There were no other fatalities. He lost control of his vehicle and crossed the median into oncoming traffic. Apparently he tried to steer out of the spin and got himself T-boned on the driver’s side. Brody died on scene before the EMTs arrived.”

  That was subtler than he’d planned. People might mistake a car wreck for an Act of God when it was, in fact, an Act of Serrano. He frowned. “Any word on how the accident happened?”

  To his surprise, Foster smiled. His bland face seemed to reflect a hint of smug self-satisfaction. “Bees, sir.”

  He blinked. “Bees?”

  “Yes, sir. Brody was allergic to them. They were attracted to the melted candy in his backseat. They slipped in through an open window, and when he took off, the wind agitated them. He was swatting at the bees because a sting could’ve killed him when he jumped the median, spun, and was taken out by Gladys Hossenfeffer of Poughkeepsie, New York, driving a 1962 Ford Fairlane.”

  “You’re saying you put bees in his car?” Serrano didn’t know if he was impressed or disgusted. Whatever happened to shooting a guy twice in the back of the head? That way, there could be no question of what happened or why.

  “I didn’t say that,” Foster murmured. “But if I was going to kill someone, I’d make it look like an accident—no way for anybody to trace it back to me.”

  “There’s merit in that,” Serrano admitted.

  Foster went on, “When a person known to be my enemy turns up dead in an unusual way, it—”

  “Only adds to your legend.” He thought about the hit a little more and decided he liked the weird creativity of it. “Talk about putting the fear in somebody. I mean, damn. You used an old lady as your trigger man.”

  The security chief lifted his shoulders. “She’s a Sunday-school teacher. She won’t take any heat. It was clearly Brody’s fault, just one of those things, you know?”

  Serrano smiled in appreciation. “Except to the people who know otherwise.”

  “Exactly. I mailed a copy of the story to Calloway, care of his mother. It’ll be there by the time he arrives.”

  “He’ll spend the next ten years looking over his shoulder and shitting his pants.”

  Maybe he’d been wrong to doubt Foster. The guy knew what he was doing. Still, he couldn’t be sorry he’d checked him out. It reassured him to find the guy had an old lady to care for and a little girl in a coma. Those weaknesses made him human . . . in addition to giving Serrano leverage. He didn’t trust anybody with no soft spots to hit; there was something innately wrong with that. Even he had his weaknesses—he’d just buried them deep years ago.

  “Good work,” he said sincerely. “That method was more oblique than I’d have chosen, but at least we don’t have to worry about lead shoes and murder weapons.”

  “As I see it,” Foster returned, “we need to be creative. Your enemies already know to be on guard against gun-toting men in suits. Now we’ve shown them there are other, less obvious ways to take them out. How are they supposed to function if they’re constantly trying to figure out where you’ll hit next?”

  He got it. Loved it. “It’ll make them lose sleep. Exhaustion steals a man’s edge. He’ll make mistakes.”

  “And it’ll be even easier to move on him,” Foster finished.

  “You can go now. Remember, keep a sharp eye out tonight.” If everything went as planned, things were going to get ugly for Ricci and Pasternak. The mess might splatter, and he needed a cleanup crew ready.

  “Very well. Have a good evening.”

  He watched his chief of security stride from the office and then he switched to electronic surveillance. After hitting a button, a wall of cameras slid from his desk. He liked being able to monitor things from the privacy of his office; that way nobody knew for sure what he was watching. Just to satisfy his own paranoia, he observed Foster’s trek from his penthouse office down to the floor. He went right to work as directed.

  Excellent. Things were falling right into place. Serrano took out a prepaid cell phone and dug into his jacket for a number Rabinowitz had supplied. He took a deep breath and dialed.

  A harsh male voice barked a Russian word.

  “Is this Viktor Barayev?”

  The man switched to heavily accented English. “Who is this? How did you get this number?”

  “That’s not important. I have information for you.” Serrano paused, listening to the rapid-fire Russian. “Is this Viktor?”

  “I don’t pay for information,” the man snapped. “I have a network for that. Don’t call again or I’ll find you.”

  It had to be him, or someone high up the food chain. He decided to drop his bomb without further prevarication.

  He promised, “I won’t call back, but I thought you should know that Krigor Akopyan is now doing business in your town.”

  The response was immediate and gratifying. Though he didn’t speak a word of Russian he understood the virulence of cursing in any language. The sound of men arguing carried through the phone. “Give me names, so I can check it out. If your tip turns out to be true, I will make it worth your while.”

  Barayev and Akopyan had an old-school grudge, dating back to before the fall of the Soviet Union. He didn’t want to take sides in the coming bloodbath. That kind of thing ratch eted up the cost of doing business. Huh, maybe he’d learned something from Foster after all.

  “No need. This is just a genuine good deed. If you take a look at Ricci and Pasternak of Pair-A-Dice, you’ll find everything you need to know about Akopyan. I suspected they hadn’t cleared it with you first.”

  “This is my town,” Barayev said darkly. “I will take care of it.”

  When Serrano hung up the phone, he was smiling. The Odessa Russians had divided up Vegas with the Jew mafia, and there was no room in the city for the Armenians; they should have stayed in San Fran.
r />   Now he just had to wait.

  After work, Foster made four unnecessary turns to lose anybody who might be tailing him. Consequently, he was fifteen minutes late when he met Mia for breakfast. She looked mildly irritated, but as ever, she was impeccably dressed. Today she wore a raw azure shantung silk suit, cut in severe lines.

  Jewel tones suited her, he thought as he approached the table. He liked it when she wore her hair down; it softened her strong features. Inky tendrils spilled against her cheeks. She had a pot of coffee waiting, but she hadn’t ordered anything to eat. Mia passed him the menu, though he already knew what he wanted.

  “How do you work these hours?” she asked. “It isn’t human.”

  “We do what we have to. Have you had a chance to think about where Kyra might’ve gone? Time isn’t on our side.” He didn’t care, of course. His objective was to detain Mia Sauter so she didn’t realize she was being held, not help her in any fashion.

  “I don’t know,” she said in frustration. “She doesn’t have many friends.”

  “She wouldn’t,” Foster agreed.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He met her hot dark gaze steadily. “She moves around a lot.”

  “Very true.” Mia relaxed slightly.

  The waitress came to take their order, and Foster got the special—pancakes, fried eggs, hash browns, bacon, and sausage. He knew he didn’t look like he could pack it in like that, which was why he tried not to eat with other people. They commented too much on the disparity between his lean frame and his appetite. Mia got fruit and yogurt.

  Putting the hooker on notice had been a bad idea. He found himself watching the way her lush mouth framed the spoon. It took everything he had not to respond to that, but Foster forced his body into quiescence. At the time, he’d thought himself a whisper from being caught. He’d already started making plans to move Lexie and Beulah, new state, new names. Now he wasn’t sure what, if anything, Serrano knew. For a thug, the man owned a lot of sheer animal cunning. At this point he could only stay the course and will his nerve not to break.

  “So you have no idea who she’d turn to.”

  “Since her dad died, she doesn’t really have anyone.” Mia wrapped slim hands around her coffee mug, the cream crockery contrasting in an oddly sensual fashion against her dark skin. “She’s more alone than anyone I ever met.”

  Inexplicably he wanted to comfort her. “She has you.”

  She shook her head. “Not so it counts. I travel a lot, too. It’s hard for us to stay in touch. I don’t even have a home base these days.”

  “Why is that?”

  Having deployed a question that would keep her busy for a while, he dug into his food. By the time he got off work, he felt like his muscles might be digesting themselves. Hunger didn’t even begin to encompass it.

  “I’m a consultant,” she explained. “When I audit a company, I first see how the employees are spending their time in the network. Then I make recommendations that will positively impact productivity.”

  Foster smiled. “So you remove solitaire from all office computers and restrict net access?”

  She offered an appreciative grin in answer. “Something like that. It’s not always so simple.”

  “Nothing ever is.”

  They ate in silence—him with pure focus, her in distraction—until Mia said, “That’s not all I do.”

  He didn’t look up, didn’t ask. “I guessed as much. Look, I’m not interested in your secrets. I just want to help you find Kyra.”

  “There’s only one person she would turn to,” Mia said then. “Me. But I was out of the country.” She hesitated, as if something big had dawned on her. Her eyes looked too big for her face, skin going pale.

  Finally, Foster thought. He’d suspected before she had. If Mia cared enough to come to Vegas, then Kyra cared enough to go looking for her, too. Doubly so, if she was the one in trouble. He just needed to hang on to this pretty little bit of bait long enough to finish what he’d started.

  “Bad timing,” he said, determinedly noncommittal. She would do all the running in this race.

  “Are you trying to piss me off?”

  Foster glanced up then. “No. Did you want me to write a dissertation?”

  “Quit interrupting me.”

  Maybe he was trying to piss her off a little. He liked the way her eyes snapped sparks. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I had told her I would be taking a job in Fargo next,” she went on. “But that contract fell through. The company found the . . . problem on their own. They didn’t need my services after all.”

  “Embezzler?” he guessed.

  “Yes. Sometimes companies are reluctant to admit to executive error. It shakes up the stocks, scares the shareholders. They prefer to wrap things up quietly.”

  “Which is where you come in. You pose as a systems consultant and find out who’s swiping from the cookie jar.”

  Mia nodded. “Very good. The point is, I bet Kyra is headed for Fargo. If she’s in trouble, she’ll come to me.”

  “That’s logical.” Foster only marveled that it had taken her so long to work it out. He wanted to blame fatigue, not judge her a dizzy blond in brunette clothing. “Do you have a way to get in touch with her?”

  “If I did,” she snapped, “I would have done it already. I wouldn’t even be here, would I?”

  “She might’ve pitched her cell phone,” he said reasonably. “I know I would, if I didn’t want to be tracked.”

  She conceded the point with a tired nod. For a moment, she leaned her head into her hands, and then she looked up, a study in vulnerability. “I’m sorry. I know you’re just trying to help.”

  If only you knew. Foster permitted a bland smile, completely in keeping with his cipher persona. Her anger couldn’t strike off him; he was milquetoast, immune to strong emotions. It was time to take things up a notch.

  “I’m afraid I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

  “I don’t care. Just tell me.”

  “The guy Serrano sent after Kyra called in. He said he’s off the job. He thinks my boss is a scumbag.”

  Mia’s eyes shone with such relief, he felt like a bastard. “I agree with him. And that’s fantastic!” Then her face fell. “Shit. What’s the bad news?”

  “When I told Serrano, he cut me out of the loop. I’m no longer privy to his plans, so I won’t be able to give you a heads-up when he hires someone new.”

  “When,” she repeated. “You’re sure he won’t cut his losses and let this go?”

  Foster propped his elbows on the table. “I told you how it went down. What do you think?”

  “Unlikely,” she agreed. “He has to save face.”

  “You sound like you have experience with this kind of guy,” he said.

  Her slim fingers traced a name on the tabletop. Without seeming to, Foster watched the letters shape up one after another. Mentally he flipped them, assembling on his end into a word: Sahir. That must be a name, but it rang no bells with him.

  “My grandfather was that kind of man,” she said quietly. “His determination to keep my parents apart gives me a good understanding of what Kyra is going through right now. But you know Serrano better than I do . . . what can we expect next?”

  He didn’t even need to think about it. “He’ll hire a pro, someone with all the skills of the guy he hired before, but with none of the scruples. Serrano will make sure this next guy is only in it for the money.”

  “And you’re sure the man he hired first has walked?”

  There was nothing so convenient as lying with the truth. “He said he was done—he knew Serrano had lied to him, and that he was keeping the money as payment for wasting his time.”

  “Pretty compelling,” she said. “So we have a little time to locate her between the last guy quitting and the new guy finding her.”

  “Best-case scenario. I’ll do everything I can to help you.”

  “Does that
include quitting your job and going with me to Fargo to try and head her off? That’s where she thinks I’ll be.”

  “No,” Foster said, still watching her graceful hands. This was a calculated gamble, revealing just enough of the truth to keep her docile and cooperative. “I took the call for Serrano, and when I found out what the guy wanted, I told him you were here. He’s supposed to tell Kyra you’re with me. So just sit tight. She’ll come to us.”

  A brilliant smile lit her tired, worried features, and she spun out of the booth over to his side. Her hands felt hot as pokers as they framed his face. She leaned in, her lips soft, luscious, and red. Her face went vacant from the brief contact. No telling where her mind had gone.

  Foster wrenched away, slamming his back against the wall. “Don’t do that again. I mean it. Don’t touch me.”

  Shock and confusion warred in her dark eyes, but she shook the disorientation faster than most. “I . . . I’m sorry. I was just—”

  “I don’t care what you were. Not again, you understand me? Or I walk, and you can sort this mess out on your own. I’ve probably stuck my neck out too much as it is.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. “Are you gay? I didn’t realize.”

  “That would be a hell of a lot easier for me, wouldn’t it?” he muttered. “No. I have to go.” He waited while she slid out of his way, her movements choppy with humiliation. “Don’t follow me. I’ll be in touch.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Kyra slept for a full day.

  In sporadic bursts, she recognized that Rey was tending her, but she couldn’t bring herself to object. She was too tired. When she woke for the last time into complete lucidity, she didn’t recognize the room and panic echoed through her. The decor was plain and serviceable, but different than most motels: plain white walls and prefab furniture, no prints, no lamps.

  A dirty window let daylight slip in through the faded blue curtains. From the angle, it had to be late afternoon. There were no clocks to confirm her guess, no ambient noise coming from beyond the bedroom. Had he left her? Alarm spiked through her. Shit, if he’d taken the car—with effort, Kyra put that fear down hard. If he’d wanted to take the Marquis and dump her in a ditch, he’d had ample opportunity while she faded in and out yesterday.