Deadly Beloved

sideways BMW, with a flat screen and piles of papers and folders and printouts, not terribly neat, clearly the work area of someone with multiple irons in God-knew-how-many fires.

Impeccable in severe though stylish business attire—gray suit, black silk blouse, by some European designer whose work I could neither recognize nor afford—she was a beautiful woman, no question of it, slender and yet strong and so pretty that the mannish severity of her no-doubt-expensive short hairdo took nothing away. The thin lips were a bright red and the almond-shaped eyes were as richly, deeply mahogany as the desk, softened with a touch of lavender eye shadow.

“Michael Tree,” she said, and smiled as she rose.

I was moving toward her across the parquet floor, footsteps echoing a little, as she came around from behind the desk and met me halfway, extending a graceful hand.

As we shook, she said, “This is a long overdue meeting. We have so much in common.”

“Thanks for seeing me,” I said.

She gestured to the area of couches and chairs, and took me politely by the arm and walked me over. She did not offer to take, or have taken, my trenchcoat and I left it on, as well as my gloves, purse on its strap over my shoulder.

Indicating the glass coffee table, on which rested a bowl of bottled waters on ice, she said, “Sit, sit.... Cappuccino? Water?...I can have hot or iced tea or regular coffee or a soft drink—”

“No,” I said, sitting on the nearest couch. “Thank you. This won’t take long.”

Dominique sat on the white leather chair across the glass table. Her thin lips formed a razor-edge smile as she opened her hand to display the bullet in her palm.

“Interesting business card,” she said. An eyebrow arched. “Did you mean to scare me, or just get my attention?”

Dominique set the bullet on the coffee table, straight up, as if placing a miniature in a collector’s set. It made a little klik on the glass.

“When I want your attention,” I said with my own smile, “it’ll be traveling faster.”

Her face went blank—didn’t harden exactly. Just lost all expression.

Then she said, “There is no reason, Michael....May I call you Michael?”

“Why not?” I sat back, folded my arms, crossed my legs. “We have so much in common.”

“Michael,” she said, sitting forward, “we need not be adversaries. My late father...and your late husband...” She shrugged somberly. “...they’ve had their war.”

“And that war’s over?”

She nodded, once. “For some time.”

“Question is,” I said, “was my husband a casualty?”

She drew in a breath. Let it out slowly. “My understanding is that Mike Tree’s death was related to an arrest he’d made, once upon a time, of some...” She made a dismissive gesture. “...lowlife scum.”

I ignored that. “What relationship does Muerta Enterprises have—”

“Muerta Enterprises International,” she corrected gently.

“What relationship is there between Muerta Enterprises International and Addwatter Accounting Incorporated?”

She gave me a tiny shrug. “They’re the top firm in town. And we use them. Why, does that surprise you?”

“Did Richard Addwatter’s death ‘surprise’ you... Dominique?”

She shook her head sadly. “Terrible shock. I understand, from what I see in the media, that his wife is as much a victim in this tragedy as he is.”

I managed not to laugh. “Very insightful, Dominique. One never knows when some unexpected... event...out of left field? Can blindside you.”

“I’m afraid I don’t grasp your meaning, Michael.”

“My meaning...my point...is this.” I gestured rather grandly. “If behind all of this polished steel and glass is an entertainment conglomerate involved in corrupting our nation’s youth with hip hop and bad movies and stupid television shows, you and I are cool. No problem.”

“Really.”

I smiled on one side of my face. “If, on the other hand, the woman behind the curtain is peddling prostitution, illegal gambling, drug trafficking and other nasty criminal fun and games...you and I will tangle our pretty asses.”

My hostess’s expression and manner turned colder than the ice in the water-bottle bowl. She leaned forward and pushed a button on the underside of the coffee table.

“We’re done here,” she said. Not purring.

Dominique remained seated as I heard the door open behind me.

Two men—both over six feet, both well over two hundred pounds, and attired in identical sharp dark suits and ties, with short military haircuts—entered. The one in front had a round face with features too small for it, and his cohort had a square-ish head and ordinary features; together they made a peculiar geometry.

Dominique said, “My staff will show you out.”

“I know the way.”

“I must insist.”

The two well-dressed if steroidal security guards lumbered toward us, as I got to my feet and headed out. As I passed them, they fell in with me, one on either side.

When we reached the door, the round-head opened it for me, at my right, while the square-head gestured, on my left, for me to go on through.

“Real gentleman,” I said, and smiled first at the square-head, who nodded, and then back at the roundhead, who was nice enough to return my smile.

Then I shoved the square-head into the open doorway and shut the door on him, hard, catching him in the neck and the side of the head, approximately. As the round-head moved in, I yanked the door back, hard, slamming it into his moon face.

Square-head was staggering around like a drunk looking for a curb and I whapped him good, with my purse.

He went down in a pile and it sounded like a small building collapsing.

Round-head was fumbling for a gun under his shoulder, but the sharp suit’s buttons were slowing him down, and I hit him with the purse, too, a nice smack on the side of his sloping skull, and he went down slower, but he went down all right, kneeling to me for a moment, before flopping onto his face and kissing the parquet floor.

I got in the purse and removed the nine millimeter and, with an extended arm and a nicely steady hand, pointed it across the room...

...at Dominique Muerta.

“When I decide it’s time to show you out, Dominique? I’ll do it, personally....”

I returned the gun to my purse, snapping it shut, stepping delicately around the fallen security guards, saying, “Excuse me, fellas.”

The redheaded gatekeeper had disappeared and, just before I went out into the corridor, I heard one of the security boys behind me mumbling, “What...what the hell?”

I glanced back and saw Dominique in the doorway to her inner sanctum, looking down at her security team with an expression usually reserved for sucking sour lemon balls.

“She hit you with her purse,” Dominique was explaining. “You’re both fired, by the way.”

She’s strict, I thought, and went out.

ELEVEN

“What happened that night at the hospital,” I said, “was the real turning point—a tragic one, in some respects.”

“How so?”