The Athena Factor

  “Bring her to the house. I want to meet her.”

  He frowned, meeting her probing blue eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She narrowed an eye. “And stop the ‘yes ma’am’ stuff. It makes me nervous.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She gave an exasperated sigh, pulling him farther off to the side. “Lymon, you’re acting nervous. Was it the motorcycle ride?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It’s really irritating when you say that.”

  “Yes, ma’am.’

  Are you afraid that I might try to change our relationship?”

  “Yes, ma’am.’

  “And you don’t trust yourself to stay professional?”

  “Ms. Marks, people in my profession—”

  “Lymon, this isn’t the time or place to have this discussion.” She looked back to where Rex was still arguing with Fiona. “I’ve got to go.” She reached for his left arm, turning his wrist so she could see the time.”Bring this person to the house. I should be there by three, which means I’ll really be there by five.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She gave him her million-dollar smile. “We’ll talk about you and me some other time. It’s not what you’re afraid of.”

  Isn’t it? The words echoed in his head as she turned and walked back to the knot around Fiona.

  6

  At precisely four that afternoon, Christal walked out of her unit. She appreciated the choice of a Marriott Residence Inn for her lodging. Not only did she have more room than in a hotel, but she had filled out the grocery list and looked forward to cooking her own breakfast. Having grown up in New Mexico, the average American breakfast of eggs, pig meat, potatoes, or cereal was just plain boring. She had grown up with huevos rancheros, blue corn cakes, salsa, and tortillas. Now that was breakfast.

  She had dressed professionally in a gray knee-length skirt, white blouse, and matching gray cotton jacket. Dark nylons disappeared into polished black pumps. As she walked out to the parking lot, she realized she missed the familiar weight of the Sig Sauer in her now too-light purse.

  The black Lincoln was waiting, engine running. She walked to the passenger door, opened it, and was surprised to find a sandy-haired man—moderately attractive in a rugged sort of way—sitting behind the steering wheel. He wore a light but well-tailored jacket and cotton slacks. She guessed his age at somewhere in his late thirties.

  “Christal Anaya, I presume?” He reached out a firm hand. “I’m Lymon Bridges. Hop in.”

  She shook his hand, settling herself into the seat. He studied her for a moment through clear hazel eyes. “Have a nice flight?”

  “Center seat,” she told him. “I was stuck between a fat woman and her screaming child.”

  He grinned as he put the car into gear. “Do you always jack people around?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?” He waited for a gap in traffic before accelerating.

  “On what I need to learn.”

  “So, what have you learned?”

  “Your office manager is happy and loyal. That says a lot.”

  “I pay her to be nice to me. Some people will do anything for money.”

  “How much did you pay Sid?”

  “If I could figure a way, I’d give him half of the federal budget.” He seemed nonplussed as they stopped and started, inching along in the LA traffic. Heat mirages were dancing off the chrome and glass surrounding them.

  She tried to see everything, watching the people on the sidewalks, reading the business signs. “How much did Sid tell you?”

  “About you? Enough.”

  She started to push it, then hesitated. “Where are we off to now?”

  “Meeting with the principal.” He gave her that evaluative glance.

  “Mel Gibson?”

  “Nope. He’s still in Australia pawing around among the didgeridoos looking for his lost razor.” He took a right, following a winding road past sprawling white stucco houses. As they proceeded, the houses became more impressive.

  “Where are we?”

  “This”—Bridges gestured with the flat of his hand—“is Beverly Hills.” He took a side road into a gated community. At the security booth, Bridges rolled down the window. The guard bent, got a good look, and nodded, saying, “Good day, Mr. Bridges.”

  Christal noted the cameras that watched them from both sides of the gate. Then she caught the guard staring into a computer monitor as he punched in numbers. “They record the plates?”

  “They do,” Lymon told her as the gate slipped silently open. “And the camera behind his window recorded my face. He typed in the license as we drove up; the computer flashed my image, Paul’s, June’s, and the rest of my team’s.”

  “So much for big brother.” She was watching the tall walls pass as the road wound around past additional gates that led to imposing houses among the trees. “Are these people paranoid, or what?”

  Lymon chuckled humorlessly. “Let’s just say that the life of a superstar comes with a pretty hefty price tag.”

  “It’s like a prison in here.”

  “It is indeed. Palatial, but still a prison.” He pressed a button on what looked like a garage door opener, and a gate opened on a recessed drive to their left. Lymon rolled his window down again, waving at the security camera as he passed.

  Christal gaped as they drove down the tree-lined lane and rounded the circle drive. Lymon stopped a short distance from a bright red Ferrari.

  “Damn. Rex is here.”

  “Rex has a nice house.” Christal stepped out, looking around at the manicured grounds. The huge three-story house was partially covered with ivy. She’d never been this close to a mansion before.

  “Rex is Sheela’s business manager.”

  “So, Sheila is the client?”

  “Sheela Marks,” he told her, watching her reaction.

  “Sheela Marks? The Sheela Marks.” Then she frowned. “Some guy with a needle and a stun gun attacked her in New York. Got through her security. Your security. Is that what this is all about?”

  He smiled for the first time, as if she’d just passed some test. “Let’s go in and see what you’ve got.”

  “Mr. Bridges’ party is here.” Tomaso’s voice came through Sheela’s intercom. “I have placed them in the conference room.”

  Sheela pressed the button. “Thank you, Tomaso. Please see to their needs.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  God, she was getting tired of “yes, ma’ams.” She finished toweling off, closed the shower door behind her, and walked into her closet. She picked a leisure suit by Carolina Herrera consisting of white cotton trousers, an off-white blouse, and a matching short-cut jacket As she dressed she wondered if Lymon would be imagining her half naked in the fitting room.

  That look he had given her as she peeled out of that horrible red dress had burned right through her. Worse, she’d responded to it, surprised enough to grab the robe before walking over to speak with him.

  “He’s right,” she muttered to herself. “It wouldn’t work.” Hell, Hollywood was filled with stories of celebs who married the common folk. It always came to grief.

  I was common folk … once upon a time. That knowledge had begun to haunt her. Not that anything would change. She was at the top. All it took was a glance across her opulent bedroom at the golden statue that stood on the marble table beside the bed. Not bad for a farm girl from Quill Lake, Saskatchewan. Who would have believed?

  She finished buttoning the blouse, slipped her feet into comfortable sandals, and headed downstairs. Checking her watch, she had two hours before she had to dress for Bernard’s party. It would take nearly an hour for Paul to drive her up to Bernard’s place in Laurel Canyon. Take Rex? Or have him drive separately? If he went, they could discuss strategy and tactics on the way. But that meant waiting around to bring him back. Rex was a party animal who, despite his age, didn’t pay attention to normal biorhythms.

  She descend
ed the stairs and walked to the conference room. Rex sat at his usual place at the table, a glass of scotch in his hand. Lymon, according to script, was drinking coffee. She studied the raven-haired beauty beside him as everyone stood upon her entry. Midtwenties, with dark eyes that could melt a man. A very attractive woman. She had dressed professionally and carried herself well, nothing frail about her. Definitely not fluff.

  She glanced curiously at Lymon. God, bringing this Latina angel wasn’t some sort of macho defense mechanism, was it?

  “Sorry to be late. Fitting took a little longer than we expected.” She gave Rex a smile. “But Fiona’s mollified for the moment.”

  “I’d like you to meet Christal Anaya,” Lymon said. “Christal, this is Sheela Marks.”

  “My pleasure,” Christal said as she shook hands, the grip firm. Hard eyes met Sheela’s. Good, she wasn’t going to get the usual “I love your work” bullshit, or the fawning, tongue-tied admiration. But then, she wouldn’t have made it this far past Lymon’s penetrating radar if she wasn’t professional.

  “Let’s get to it, shall we?” Rex said, taking his seat. “Lymon, what have you got?”

  Lymon turned his attention to Christal. “A little over a week ago, Sheela was assaulted in a hallway at the St. Regis in New York. The assailant was almost able to stick some kind of needle into Sheela. He was also armed with a stun gun. When it became apparent that the attack was compromised, he dropped a flash-bang on the floor and ran. End of story. He left no clues.”

  Christal nodded, reaching into her purse to pull out a small notebook. “Did anyone at the hotel recognize the man?”

  “No. He kept his face either averted from, or at an angle to, the security camera. A review of the previous two week’s security tapes came up blank. If the place was scouted, he didn’t do it in person.”

  “Did anyone try to do a computer enhancement on his face?”

  Lymon shook his head. “It wasn’t that high a priority. Sheela was unhurt. We were happy to be through with it. The police just considered it a typical prank against a celebrity. They dusted for prints, asked around the hotel, and did a preliminary investigation.”

  Christal jotted something in her notebook and looked up at Sheela. “You hadn’t seen him anywhere before?”

  “No. It was so quick. He had a dark face.” She paused, frowning, wondering where the memory had come from. “He had excited eyes.”

  “Yeah,” Lymon agreed. “Like he was victorious. Not obsessive eyes like so many fans have.”

  “Have you got a copy of the hotel’s security tape?” Christal leaned back, frowning.

  “We do. It’s at the office. My people have been reviewing it, looking for ways to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  “I’ll want to see it.” She twiddled the pen in her fingers. “I don’t suppose we could get the police report. Not just on Ms. Marks, but on the other break-ins?”

  “Uh, what are we leading towards here?” Rex asked uncomfortably.

  Sheela placed her palms on the table. “I want to know what happened, Rex. Lymon and I are thinking of turning Ms. Anaya loose to see what she can dig up.”

  All eyes went to Rex when he said, “Don’t you think that’s going to be a distraction?”

  “From what?” Sheela cried. “They’ve turned Jagged Cat into crap with the rewrites. Personally, after reading the latest script, I think it ought to be called Cat Litter! That way we might get a jump on the reviews, don’t you think? A distraction? The way it’s written now, I could do it half stoned.” She shook her head. “No, Rex, I need to know what happened in New York.”

  “It was some loony fan,” Rex muttered.

  “I don’t think so,” Christal said absently. She did with tone of voice what a shout couldn’t. She fixed Rex’s attention. “It’s part of a pattern.”

  “What pattern?” Lymon asked.

  Christal shrugged. “When I figure it out, I’ll tell you.”

  “This is bullshit,” Rex added, but he did it with less certainty.

  “Humor me.” Sheela used her hard look to put Rex in his place, then asked Anaya, “Tell me something about yourself.”

  Christal’s dark eyes didn’t waver. One thing about her: She didn’t seem the insecure type. “There’s not much to tell. I grew up in rural New Mexico, went from UNM to Princeton. After law school I placed an application with the FBI. I worked as a special agent handling drugs, racketeering, and money laundering.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  Christal’s eyes seemed to expand, but she didn’t hesitate before saying, “I got entangled in an unfortunate relationship with a fellow agent. Bad judgment on my part.”

  “Bad judgment?” Rex asked as he shot an I don’t believe this look at Lymon.

  Anaya was bristling, her fists knotted, eyes slitted as she studied Rex as if he were some sort of insect. That, more than anything, tipped Sheela’s balance. She turned on him. “As if you could talk, Rex.” She grinned sardonically, avoiding a glance at Lymon. “As if either of us could!”

  Lymon picked that moment to say, “I asked Christal to come out here for an interview because she has skills my people don’t.”

  Sheela focused on the woman. “Can you do this? Figure it out on your own?”

  Christal frowned down at her notepad. “Honestly, I don’t now. With the Bureau, I had certain resources, people with different expertise just a phone call away.”

  “People with the same skills are in the private sector,” Lynon replied.

  “But they’re expensive—” Christal started, then glanced round at the opulent room as if she had just realized what he’d said.

  Sheela appreciated her modesty. “Are we talking thousands, ens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, or millions?”

  “Tens of thousands,” Lymon stated. He glanced at Christal. “How long do you think it will take?”

  She straightened. “Wait a minute, Mr. Bridges. I haven’t aid I’d do it yet.”

  “I haven’t given you the job yet, either. I just asked how long it would take.”

  As Christal considered, she drew little circular doodles on her pad. “Do I get a date with Mel Gibson? Assuming I can find his razor?”

  “Probably not,” Rex muttered.

  Lymon shook his head.

  “I can guarantee coffee with Sheela Marks,” Sheela said dryly. “I have an in with her business manager.”

  Christal raised her hands, looking uncomfortable for the first time. “Mr. Bridges, I can’t give you a firm commitment on the time. If it’s just a single event, a fan looking for a moment’s fame, maybe a week. If it’s what I think, part of a pattern, then who knows? A month? Maybe more. It would depend on the complexity of the case, the resources I have vailable. Sometimes, hell, it can boil down to dumb luck.” she met Lymon’s glance. “Sorry, that’s the best I can do given the facts at hand.”

  Lymon nodded. “Thank you.” He glanced at Sheela, then added, “Ms. Anaya, would you mind stepping out into the hall for a moment?”

  Christal glanced back and forth, reading expressions; miled professionally, and walked out, closing the door behind her.

  Lymon frowned down at the table, his face a mask of indecision.

  Rex blurted, “I think this is nuts!”

  “You weren’t there,” Sheela said calmly. “You don’t know what it felt like.” She glanced at Lymon. “What do you think of her?”

  He shrugged. “Right off the bat, I think she’s smart, capable, and curious. She might be just what we’re looking for.”

  “And this thing with the FBI?” Rex prodded. “What really happened, Lymon?”

  “She was romantically involved with the AIC, uh, the agent in charge, during an active investigation. The bad guy found out and managed to get photos of them in a compromising situation. My source says that she fell on her sword to minimize the damage.” Lymon smiled. “Sometimes people are just people, Rex.”

  Rex wasn’t mollified. “Seriousl
y, Lymon, wouldn’t it be better if you just put her on a plane back to DC? We’re blowing this thing out of proportion.” He smiled. “Or, do you have other interests in the young lady? She’s a nice piece.”

  Sheela saw Lymon’s jaw harden, and quickly said, “My decision, gentlemen, is that we hire Ms. Anaya to look into the attack at the St. Regis.” She tilted her head toward the door. “Lymon, would you ask her to step in, please?”

  Sheela studied the woman as she returned. Anaya read the room’s occupants, their expressions and body postures, with a single telling glance. She nodded at Sheela and took her seat, back straight, hands clasped, looking every inch a professional. Yes, she would do.

  “Christal,” Lymon began, “we would like to ask you to look into this, if you’re willing.”

  “There are things I’ll need,” Christal replied with a cautious smile. “I assume that I’ll have an expense account for travel?”

  Sheela nodded. “See to Ms. Anaya’s concerns, Lymon. I’ll expect daily reports.”

  “Weekly,” Christal said as she drew a line across her pad. “I don’t want to have to stop everything I’m doing to run off and find a telephone.” She looked up. “And another thing. I want you to understand there may not be anything to find. What happened to you in New York may be the work of a well-prepared fan. Maybe a maid was pulling a prank in Sydney. Julia Roberts’ sheets might have been a practical joke.” She paused, looking from person to person. “The final thing you must understand is that if there really is some kind of purpose and pattern to these events, I have to find evidence to discover the truth. In other words, some crimes, no matter how vigorously and professionally they are investigated, remain unsolved.”

  “So, we could be paying you for nothing?” Rex asked as he rattled the ice in his scotch.

  Christal fixed him with a piercing intensity. “No, Mr. Gerber. You will be paying me for my dedication, ability, and expertise.”

  Sheela decided she liked Christal Anaya. It wasn’t just anybody who could feed Rex his lunch like that.

  “All right, people,” Sheela said, getting to her feet. “I’ve got an hour to prepare for Bernard’s party tonight. Rex, I’ll see you there. Lymon, Ms. Anaya, thank you for coming. I’ll be looking forward to your progress.”