“Wow! You promise?” I said.
“Mmmm,” she said.
I could have gone on talking like this a bit longer, but not without putting on a dress.
I flipped on the TV, found the headline news channel. They were hitting the hotel bombing four times an hour, so I couldn’t help but see it again. For the millionth time, they dragged out the footage showing rows of body bags lined up on the sand, waiting to be loaded into ambulances that were in no hurry to leave. There were mangled men and women, family members sobbing for loved ones, expressionless children with bloody faces—all the typical crap you’d expect from the nightly news crews that made shock and horror a dinnertime staple.
When they’d sucked every ounce of pathos from that story, they turned to Monica’s husband, Dr. Baxter Childers, surrounded by shouting reporters as he made his way to a car.
Until recently, Baxter had gotten a free pass from the press, but I knew that wouldn’t last long. Murder-for- hire speculation gives fresh legs to stories that have run their course. For this reason, some talk show hosts had begun digging into possible connections between Baxter and the kidnappers. One moron was even trying to make a connection between the names Monica and Santa Monica. Maybe the next victim would be Monica Seles, he speculated. Yeah, I thought, or maybe Santa Claus.
Even more delicious to newsrooms across the nation, rumors were circulating about a possible love triangle involving Monica Childers and a yoga instructor.
I already knew what was coming for Dr. Childers, it had all been prearranged. Abdullah Fathi and his son had gotten their money’s worth from Monica until there was nothing left to enjoy. Then either she died or they killed her, and now Victor’s people would plant enough phony evidence to get Baxter convicted. In the end, Baxter would get a life sentence and Victor would have his revenge.
News crews were standing by in Washington, waiting for Special Agent Courtney Armbrister’s press conference, during which she planned to name persons of interest to both investigations. I suspected Courtney was delaying her press conference in order to build interest for a future career in broadcast journalism.
Mercifully, Quinn sent me the access code, which meant he was in position. I took the stairs to the lobby and crossed the street to the Beck Building’s parking entrance. I walked to the end of the ground-floor parking lot, looked around to make sure I hadn’t been observed, and entered the code. The big garage door opened slowly. Quinn was inside, waiting for me by one of the elevators. I joined him, and up we rode.
CHAPTER 39
The elevator doors had barely opened before Chris Unger’s secretary let out a blood- curdling scream and jumped below her desk.
“Poor dear,” said Quinn. “I should comfort her.”
“That work for you in the past?” I asked.
The musclehead who was obviously Chris Unger’s bodyguard suddenly appeared. He looked at Quinn, did a double take, and said, “
Quinn sat his duffel on the floor.
“What’s in your purse?” asked Musclehead. “A tampon?” He pursed his lips and smacked a kiss in Quinn’s direction.
Augustus noticed my left leg had buckled. He shot me a look.
“I’m okay,” I said.
He nodded. Nobody moved. The musclehead kept his voice calm. He said, “Miss, come on out and get behind me.”
She scrambled out from the desk well and shielded her eyes as she ran behind Mr. Muscles. From what I could tell, she had a nice enough figure, but I wasn’t a fan of the tight, angry bun she wore in her hair. She was hyperventilating, and her voice made a funny huffing sound as she struggled to get herself under control.
“Your severe reaction toward my associate suggests poor training,” I said, trying to be helpful.
To Augustus, she shrieked, “You keep away from me!”
The musclehead whispered something, and she backed up a few steps and slowly circled around us and disappeared through the elevator doors. I could have stopped her, but I knew Sal’s driver would handle it.
Now that he was alone in the room with us, the body builder let us hear his street voice.
“Who the fuck’re you turds and what do you want?”
“We’d like to see Garrett Unger and his brother Chris,” I said, trying to be polite about it.
“I work for Chris Unger,” he said, “and you don’t talk to Chris Unger without my okay. You got something to say to Chris Unger, you say it to me.”
“Very well,” I said. “Tell Mr. Unger his body guard is a pussy.”
The musclehead kept a watchful eye on my giant and the space between them. Then he said, “Okay, so you know who I am, right?”
I looked at Quinn. He shrugged.
“We don’t know,” I said, “but you look familiar to us.”
“You always speak for the dummy?” he asked.
I noticed that he noticed my limp as I took a step toward him.
“I’m Double X,” he said, as if that explained everything.
