“... trust that will be convenient, Raine. Please let Harriet know,” Victor was saying.
Raine gulped and laid the cup and saucer carefully down at Victor's elbow. “Let her know, ah ... what?”
Impatience flashed across Victor's broad, handsome face. “Please pay attention. You will accompany Mr. Mackey and me on a tour of the Renton warehouses tomorrow. Be ready at three.”
His face was so like her father’s, at close range, but harder, more angular. His short hair was startlingly white against his olive skin.
Her father hadn't lived long enough for his hair to go white.
“Me?” she whispered.
“Is this going to be a problem?” Victor's voice was silky soft.
She shook her head quickly. “Ah, no. Of course not.”
Victor smiled, and a shudder of dread raced down her spine. “Excellent,” he murmured.
She murmured something acquiescent and fled, stumbling through the office cubicles until she reached the women's rest room. She hid in the farthest stall, pressed her hot face against her knees and hugged herself, trying to calm the violent trembling.
She saw her father's face as clearly as if it hadn't been seventeen years since his death. So gentle and soft- spoken. Reading her poetry, telling her stories. Showing her beautiful pictures in his monographs of Renaissance art. Teaching her to identify trees and wildflowers. He visited her in her dreams sometimes, and when he did, she woke up missing him so badly, it felt like her heart would shatter like glass under the pressure.
But more and more, she felt like the helpless creature in her dream; swimming naked in trapped, restless circles around the limits of her transparent world. Blind to the larger implications, but still haunted by a shadow of approaching doom.
Chapter 3
“Sir? Excuse me, but there's a Mr. Crowe on the line, requesting permission to come to the island” Victor did not turn his gaze away from me waves that lapped against the pebbled beach below the patio. He took a sip of his whiskey and savored the complex, smoky flavor. “What does he want?”
The young female attendant cleared her throat delicately. “He says it's regarding the, ah... heart of darkness.”
A smile of satisfaction curved Victor's mouth. The perfect ending for a stimulating day. Whoever would have thought that Crowe had a poetic side? Heart of darkness, indeed, “Tell him to proceed,” he said,
'Thank you, sir.” The young woman retreated silently through the French doors into the house.
Victor sipped his Scotch, letting his eyes rest upon the dim silhouette of the windswept pines that adorned Stone Island It was his favorite residence, despite the inconvenience of the eighty-minute boat ride through Puget Sound, and woe betide the person so stupid or unfortunate as to approach it uninvited. Here, in splendid privacy, he could gaze out at the Sound and contemplate the panorama of nature in all its beauty and savagery. Bald eagles and ospreys and great blue herons, dolphins and killer whales. Spectacular.
The wind was cold, daylight long gone, but he savored the pleasant burn of the fine liquor as it trickled down his throat, unwilling to go inside. He was absurdly pleased with himself. He liked the game he was playing and the element of chance that he had factored into it. His needs were changing as he aged, the need for power and control giving way to his hunger for diversion and stimulation. He must be aging backwards. Soon he would start having problems with impulse control. He raised his glass, toasting the ridiculous thought.
He looked forward to finally resolving his security problem. His patience was wearing extremely thin. Seth Mackey and his consulting firm had better be good. Rumor certainly suggested that they were. Ever since he had begun to make discreet inquiries, the name of Mackey Security Systems Design had continually cropped up. The firm was frequently used by foreign governments, government agencies, national P.I. firms, defense contractors, diplomats and famous corporate executives, and was quietly famous for its cutting edge surveillance equipment and custom designed software, as well as for demonstrated prowess at protective technical surveillance countermeasures. Best of all was Mackey 's reputation for discretion, vital for Victor's purposes; as he certainly could not report the recent rash of slick, professional burglaries that had been plaguing his warehouses to the police.
The thefts themselves represented no serious economic damage to him. His profitable company could absorb a hundred times the blow without blinking. What disturbed him was the thieves' timing, precision and choice of loot; they unerringly plundered the shipments destined for his most secret and demanding clients.
It had begun some years back as a quiet import sideline, developed for the sole purpose of entertaining himself,
smuggled art and antiquities and suchlike. His latest diversion was the traffic in famous murder weapons from high-profile trials, a hobby he'd fallen into almost by accident. People were willing to pay ridiculous sums for a stolen piece of violent, grisly social history. Perverse, yes, but he had always reaped big profits by taking advantage of perversity. Just another of those comforting constants in life.
One of his most recent deals had been for the hunting knife used by Anton Laarsen, the Cincinnati Slasher, on his ten-city, five-state rampage. Victor had auctioned off the Made for five times what the theft had cost him in planning and manpower. It had gone to the CEO of a local pharmaceuticals firm with whom Victor often golfed, a mild-mannered, genial fellow with a sizable paunch and a passel of grand-kids. Victor wondered if the man's wife was aware of the true depth of her husband's interest in deadly violence. It would be best for her if she never knew, no doubt.
Procuring such items gave him a delicious sense of having gotten away with something, a frisson of danger that kept the gray, empty feeling at bay for a little while. It was childish, perhaps, but he had reached a time in his life when he could afford to indulge himself. Or so he had thought. In each case, he and he alone had made the arrangements for these acquisitions. Which indicated that whoever had planned and executed the extremely professional raids had access to information that could only have been obtained by electronic eavesdropping devices.
Seth Mackey's damage control plan was going to cost him. His fees were outrageous, but Victor could easily afford them. The man himself was intriguing. He was sharp, cunning and surprisingly unreadable, but Victor was a grand master at ferreting out a person's weak points. Mackey had made his glaringly obvious that morning.
Victor laughed out loud and took another sip of whiskey. Enter Lorraine Cameron, stage left. Formerly little Katya Lazar of the white-blond braids. His long-lost niece. The timing was exquisite.
The girl had surprised him. Alix, her mother, had grabbed her and run like the contemptible coward that she was after Peter's death. She'd gone to ridiculous lengths to cover their tracks, but she need not have bothered; she was no match for Victor's informational network.
Victor had no further interest in Alix, but he had followed his niece's progress with great interest. She showed potential, but had suffered from crippling shyness for much of her girlhood; and he had long ago dismissed her as an attractive but insignificant piece of fluff, content to drift from place to place, committing to nothing, achieving nothing. The fact that she had the audacity to apply for a job at Lazar Import & Export with a falsified resume intrigued him. There might be something strong and vibrant simmering beneath that facade of clumsy naivete.
He wondered if Peter really was the girl's father. Given Alix's wide-ranging sexual appetites, the probability was not high, though the girl did resemble her paternal grandmother. Although now that he thought about it... he calculated for a moment... yes, it was quite possible. The girl could very well be his own daughter. Entertaining. Not that it mattered, at this point. He had sacrificed such sentimental considerations upon the altar of expediency long ago. Besides, if she were his, he would have expected more of her by now.
In any case, he would not make the same mistake with her as he had with Peter. No coddling, no spoiling. No mercy of any kind. He would temper her, bring out the proud Lazar core of her. The job had been his first test, to see if she had any stamina, and she was holding up well. She was strong in languages, a good writer, thought fast on her feet, was charming and well-spoken, and had adapted to a work schedule specifically designed to weed out the unworthy. Still, she was a nervous, cowering rabbit. Alix's doing. It would be interesting to see if he could turn
