to tell. I’ll have to check my calendar.”
“What’s-”
“Bloody bullshit is what’s up. Why an American microchip manufacturer wants to do a joint venture with a Russian company instead of just thumping them out of existence is beyond me. But that’s what they want and that’s what I’ll give them.”
Burch was the point man for dozens of the Fortune Global 500 not only because he was a brilliant legal strategist, but because he had the personal authority that allowed him to land in the midst of negotiations with enough force to flatten out the kinks even in the most complicated international deals.
“You think you can FedEx me some Alka-Seltzer?”
“Sure. How much?”
“Ten pounds-but enough of my whining like a stuck donkey. You need something?”
“Have you ever heard of a company called Pegasus Limited in the Caymans?”
“Pegasus… Pegasus… I don’t think so. Let me call you back in a couple of minutes.”
Gage’s cell phone rang as he drove along the pier-bordered waterfront toward his office.
“I called a colleague who works the corporate governance end of things on Grand Cayman,” Burch said. “Pegasus Limited is a part of the Pegasus Group and handles insurance.”
“Captive?”
“Exactly. Offshore self-insurance, but only for U.S. corporations. Big ones who need coverage beyond the losses allowed by their domestic carriers.”
“Do they have an office there?”
Burch laughed. “According to him, only inside a mailbox. He has no idea who operates it or from where, or even if they’re still in business. He said the name hasn’t come up for a few years. He’ll send someone over to the Company Registry to find out if they’re still active.”
Gage disconnected and called Alex Z in the Oakland loft.
“Would you run the name Pegasus Limited in Charlie’s accounting records?”
“No problem, boss.”
Gage heard Alex Z’s keystrokes in the background.
“Are you sure it’s called Pegasus?” Alex Z asked.
“Socorro showed me a Pegasus Limited insurance policy.”
“Sorry. He didn’t pay anything to a company called Pegasus Limited. Ever.”
“How about search just on the name Pegasus?”
A few clicks later, Alex Z had the answer.
“Nada.”
Chapter 35
Boots Marnin was sick of sitting in his Mariner Hotel room in downtown San Francisco. The room service food was lousy. The view toward the cubicled offices in the building across the street was depressing. He’d seen every porn movie on the adult channel a half-dozen times. The highlight of his day was when the Filipina maid came to clean. She was a little chubby, but beggars can’t be choosers, and for forty bucks he didn’t figure he could expect much.
Walking along Market Street turned his stomach. Dykes, wimpy pale-faced computer nerds, paunchy lawyers, and loonies peeing in the doorways or passed out on bus benches.
The only good news was he got paid for doing nothing, now that he didn’t have to try to follow Gage around anymore. He could’ve told his keepers it was useless, but they had to figure it out on their own, like everything else.
He’d never wanted to get back to Houston so much in his life. He salivated at the thought of sitting in one of those woodsy surf-and-turf restaurants along Galveston Bay, drinking beer and eating oysters, then cruising the bars for a little overnight entertainment.
But that was going to have to wait.
Boots checked the bedside clock. In six hours, he’d posse up with his buddy and drive south through the Central Valley to LA. And about time, too. He didn’t believe for a minute the NSA guys down at Evergreen would be able to break into Charlie Palmer’s files. He knew all along it would have to be done another way.
Dinosaur, my ass.
B oots pulled down the ski mask just before the student opened the door to her West Hollywood apartment. Her eyes glazed with sleep. Black hair ruffled and twisted. Hands clasping her robe lapels together over her chest. He clamped his hands over her mouth and against the back of her head before she could scream. He kicked the door closed after his partner raced past him to search the apartment. One bedroom. No roommates.
Boots jammed her down into a kitchen chair as his partner put a gun to her temple. Boots leaned in toward her, her black hair framing a vaguely Hispanic face.
“Don’t scream if you want to be alive when we leave.”
She nodded against the pressure of his grip.
He started to remove his hands, then clamped them tight again.
“You understand?”
She nodded again.
He still didn’t remove his hands.
“I’m just gonna ask you some questions. Silly questions. They have to do with your dear departed dad. And you’re going answer them.”
She nodded again.
“You don’t need to know why. Don’t even think about why. Just answer them.”
Boots loosened his grip. She took in a breath, eyes locked on the man with the gun.
“You can put it away,” Boots told his partner. “We have an understanding.”
Boots sat down while the other man leaned against the refrigerator. Boots dialed his cell phone, put it on speaker, and set it on the table. A male voice answered on the second ring:
“Go ahead.”
“First,” Boots said, “What is your dog’s name?”
“My… my…”
The young woman choked on the words.
“Relax. I told you they were silly questions. Just answer them and we’ll get out of here.”
“You’re not going to hurt-”
“Nobody’s getting hurt, you or your dog, as long as you answer the questions.”
“Buddy. His name is Buddy.”
The sound of typing emerged from the cell phone speaker, then the male voice said, “Not it.”
“What was your previous dog’s name?”
“Pancho.”
More typing. The voice again. “Not it.”
“Where are your mother’s parents from?”
“Guadalajara.”
More typing.
“Nope.”
“Your father’s parents?”
“Pittsburgh.”
More typing.
“That’s not it.”
“And before that…”
A n hour later Boots was still asking questions, running out of ideas. He glanced into the living room. A photo on the bookshelf. The scene was familiar. Emerald Bay.
