her into a real woman of steel and twisting fire.
His new security consultant was certainly eager to do his part in that regard. What a piece of luck that the girl was beautiful. At least her intemperate, profligate bitch of a mother had been useful for that much. Alix had been a stunning woman in her day, and the girl surpassed her. Or would, if someone taught her how to dress.
And to think that he had actually offered her to Mackey as one of the perks of the job after the meeting this morning. Obliquely, of course, but the hungry flash of comprehension in the younger man's eyes told him everything he needed to know. He chuckled, feeling impish. Victor knew he was being a diabolical, manipulative bastard, but a man did what he must to keep things interesting; and besides, he was doing the girl a favor. Mackey was sure to prove a more inspiring sexual partner for her than the worthless specimens she had chosen so far for herself. She seemed to have inherited her father's abysmal taste in lovers. Poor Peter.
Tomorrow he would leave them to their own devices, and trust to lust There was no way to predict or control what would happen. Thank God for the element of chance. Without it he would have slit his wrists from boredom long ago.
He would have liked to film the seduction, but it would be more logistically complicated than it was worth, in addition to being in somewhat poor taste. The girl was his niece, after all. He would concede her a measure of privacy. At least for now.
The situation was fortuitous, even aside from pure entertainment value. He needed leverage with the mysterious Mackey before moving forward with such a sensitive project, particularly after the unfortunate events ten months ago that had culminated in the death of the undercover FBI agent Jesse Cahill. He had barely managed to salvage the situation, though not in time to avoid considerable embarrassment in certain business circles. Victor loathed embarrassment.
Kurt Novak, in particular, was still nursing a grudge—but the “heart of darkness” that Crowe was bringing to him right now would change all that in the blink of an eye. It was the final detail of the plan that would put Novak right back where Victor wanted him. He smiled dreamily at the thought, looking up at the ragged clouds that scudded across the moonlit sky.
The French doors clicked open, and the attendant cleared her throat. “Mr. Crowe is here,” she murmured respectfully.
The wind was picking up. Gusts of wind sent dead leaves and pine needles leaping and swirling across the flagstones like a display of naughty poltergeists, the perfect note for the transaction that was about to take place. “Send him out,” Victor ordered.
Moments later, a shadow materialized behind his chair. Crowe was not his real name. Victor didn't even know his real name, nor was he acquainted with anyone who did. He was the kind of man one contacted when one wished to arrange something complicated, discreet, and extremely illegal, such as the theft of a notorious murder weapon. He was the most reliable agent Victor had ever used—and the most expensive.
He was clad in a long, olive drab raincoat, his face shadowed by a broad-brimmed hat and mirrored sunglasses, even at dusk. What little that could be seen of his face was cold and angular. He placed a steel carrying case by Victor's chair, straightened up, and waited. There was no need to check the authenticity of the item he was delivering. His reputation was enough.
The pieces on the game board in Victor's mind shifted, taking on an aggressive new formation. “The money will be transferred into the usual account tonight,” he said calmly, hiding his excitement.
Crowe's shadow silently withdrew. Victor reached for the case and put it on his lap. The Corazon. The heart of darkness. He could literally feel the thing pulsing between his hands, as if he were Aladdin holding an imprisoned genie. An enlightened Aladdin, who understood power, desire and violence. And Kurt Novak was his genie.
He snapped it open. The Walther PPK was still in the tagged plastic bag into which it had been placed for the crime lab, still soiled with fingerprinting dust. Its value could not be expressed in dollars, since its price involved calling in a lifetime's worth of threats and favors.
Past, present and future were as one for an object. The famous face of the luckless Belinda Corazon floated in his mind's eye. The cold lump of steel on his lap was locked forever in an endless moment of life-stopping violence. It took a person like him, tormented by lucid dreams, sensitive to the dynamics of power, to read the gun's signature.
It was burdensome to be one of two people in the world who knew the true identity of Belinda Corazon's killer. He felt a warning flash of melancholy, and snapped the case closed, determined to forestall it. He had no reason to feel guilty, he reminded himself. La Corazon had been an acquaintance, not a friend. Like many other public figures, she had attended Victor's lavish and popular parties.
One year ago he and Novak had concluded an immensely profitable business deal, and in the subsequent flush of mutual goodwill, Novak had persuaded him to arrange a private introduction to Belinda. That was the extent of his guilt. The sum total of his responsibility.
Somehow, Novak had actually managed to seize the frivolous girl's interest. Maybe it was his gift of a triple strand of black South Sea pearls, maybe it was Novak's own poisonous magnetism. Women's preferences were unfathomable. In any case, his charm had eventually palled upon her, and La Corazon had thought she could dismiss her swain as easily as she had all the others. She had paid with her life for her error.
Victor took a cigarette out of his antique silver holder and made a languid gesture with his hand. The doors opened and the attendant hastened to his side. She lit his cigarette with some difficulty in the blustery wind, and stood quietly, awaiting dismissal or further orders.
His practiced eye roamed over the young woman's face and body with leisurely thoroughness. He varied them often, to stave off boredom, and this one was quite new. He studied the girl's high, full breasts, her slender, athletic figure. She
was a brunette with long, straight chestnut hair and tilted hazel eyes. Enticing. The cold had caused the girl's nipples to harden. They were dark and taut, clearly visible against her clinging shirt. The wind whipped her hair, tangling it across her lovely face. He gazed at the girl's full red lips, halfway tempted to—no.
Not tonight. It was rare for him to feel this wide-awake, humming awareness. He had not felt so vibrant and alive since Peter’s death. It was a moment to be savored in solitude.
He smiled pleasantly at the young woman, and struggled for a moment to remember her name. “Thank you, Mara. That will be all.”
She gave him a dazzling smile and withdrew. She was lovely, really. Perhaps tomorrow he would indulge. For now, he would simply float upon the grace of this euphoria, contemplating the new pieces on his game board and how best to move them.
The game was complex, and long in the making. He knew so many intimate details about city and state officials, businesspeople and politicians that he was virtually immune to the law. And his generous donations, gifts, endowments and campaign contributions did smooth things over nicely. Victor Lazar, pillar of the community, twinkling-eyed philanthropist and thrower of fabulous parties. The faint, unsavory taint to the Lazar name just made the invitations to his parties that much more sought after. People loved to feel naughty. Yet another of life's comforting constants. The fete that would take place at Stone Island on Saturday night could prove more entertaining than ever, with these unpredictable new game pieces in play.
Yes, he had badly needed a challenge, and so did the lovely, untried Raine. She was an unknown, even to herself. It was high time she leaned the mil scope of her new duties.
Seth Mackey. So that was his name. Raine mouthed it silently to herself for the hundredth time as she let herself into the house. The office had buzzed with gossip all day, and she had sucked it up like a sponge. Whenever Harriet's ramrod back was turned, the secretaries had carried on about Seth Mackey; his looks, his style, his smoldering eyes. Evidently he was a hotshot security consultant who was going to revolutionize the inventory system with radio frequency ID technology. She'd stayed an extra hour at work trying to figure out how to fit the promotional info on the new security feature into the recently updated website pages.
She unbuttoned her coat, and noticed an envelope in the mail slot. It was from the Severin Bay Coroner's Office. Her heart leaped into her throat. The first thing she had done when she arrived in Seattle was to write and request a copy of her father's autopsy. She opened it with hands that trembled.
It was just as she had been told; a ruling of accidental death by drowning. She scanned the pages, trying to stay calm and detached. Organs and tissue samples, chemical and toxicological analysis, aspirated fluids from the stomach, thorax, bladder, vitreous fluid, and more. She stared down at the sheaf of paper, feeling cold and flat and very alone. The report revealed nothing, suggested nothing. The MD who had signed it was Serena Fischer. She
