Next Victim (12 page)

Nor could she use her legitimate credit cards or her ATM card. Same problem. Charging a purchase to a card registered to Amanda Pierce would be like firing a signal flare to guide the feds straight to her.

Her wallet contained less than one hundred dollars in hard currency. Anyway, she couldn’t pay cash for a rental car, and that was what she needed—transportation.

Amanda, God damn it, you are up a frigging creek….

Wait
.

A man had entered the lobby, tall, casually attired. His age was difficult to judge. Forty or a little older.

As he approached the bar, she studied him. He wore a sport jacket—useful for concealing a weapon—but no necktie, which could be used by an opponent to gain a stranglehold in a fight. His eyes were masked by dark glasses, another good sign.

Her contact might have made an appearance, after all.

There was no way to know, not yet. She had never seen him. He might be anyone, of any description.

The man reached the bar area and stopped, looking slowly around. She gave him a momentary glance before averting her eyes. If he was her contact, even this brief signal should be enough.

Movement. On the periphery of her vision he rounded the bar and slipped onto the stool beside her.

He must be the one.

The bartender appeared. The man ordered a gin and tonic. When the bartender turned away, Pierce tensed, knowing that now was the moment for him to initiate the conversation.

"Beautiful hotel, isn’t it?" he said.

She looked at him. Behind the shaded lenses, his eyes were as blank as a baby’s.

"Yes," she answered, hearing her own voice from a great distance. "Very beautiful."

"My name’s Donald Stevenson. From Aurora, Illinois. In town on business."

"Lucy Mallone."

"From?"

"Seattle."

"Great city, Seattle. Rains a lot, but I wouldn’t mind that. I like the rain."

"Me, too," she said absently, trying to decide what to do.

He was not her contact, obviously. He was just some asshole looking for a little action.

The bartender delivered the drink. "Put it on my room tab," Donald Stevenson said, opening his wallet to take out his electronic room key.

Pierce glanced inside the wallet and saw credit cards and a thick sheaf of bills.

Suddenly she was glad Donald Stevenson had chosen to sit beside her. She’d been wrong to think of him as useless. Quite the contrary.

She began to think he could be very useful indeed.

13

The two bureau cars turned east onto Pico Boulevard and rushed toward the skyline of Century City, an upscale complex of office buildings and shopping malls built on what was once the backlot of Twentieth Century Fox.

"Ever been to the Plaza?" Bickerstaff asked Tennant.

"In ’eighty-four, when Reagan was reelected. He held his victory party here."

"And you were on their invite list?"

"Fat chance. I was working out of the LA office at the time. Secret Service brought some of us in for extra manpower on election night."

He remembered that night—the tidal wave of votes crushing that wuss, Mondale. Afterward, he had shared a drink with some friends at the hotel bar….

"The bar," Tennant said with a snap of his fingers. "If she’s waiting to meet somebody, the bar is where she’ll be. It’s smack in the middle of the lobby. Gives her a way to watch the front doors without being noticed. And it offers more avenues of escape than any other part of the hotel."

"If she’s in the lobby," Dante said, "she may see us as soon as we enter."

"Right. So we go in fast, and we stay alert. Got it?"

They got it. There were no more smiles from Dante, no more smart comments from attorney Wilkins.

Jarvis hooked left onto the Avenue of the Stars—only in LA did they have street names like that—and steered the sedan into the curving driveway of the Century Plaza Hotel. A parking valet approached their car as the doors flew open. Tennant badged the guy. "Official business, stay back."

Tennant told the three agents from the second car to cover the hotel’s side and rear exits and monitor the tactical frequency on their Handy-Talkies. Then he led Wilkins, Dante, and J&B up the steps and into the lobby, his hand under his jacket, touching the Sig Sauer 9mm holstered to his hip.

She would have to kill him.

Amanda Pierce had never killed anyone, but she had no doubt she could do it. Survival was her imperative. Other lives were of no consequence in comparison to her own.

"You visit LA often?" she asked.

"Three or four times a year. I’ve got clients here. How about you?"

"First time in LA."

"Business or pleasure?"

"Pleasure trip."

Stevenson chuckled. "Well, we can all use some pleasure from time to time."

The lobby was spacious and elegant and nearly deserted at 1:15 A.M. The clerk at the reception desk gave Tennant a look that said,
May I help you?

Tennant ignored him. The bar, identified as the Lobby Court, was straight ahead, its patrons in silhouette against the two-story windows that looked out on a spotlighted garden. Tennant led his team toward the bar, hardly daring to hope that Amanda Pierce would still be here, and then he saw her.

Dark hair, clipped in a bun. Brown blazer and slacks—the outfit she’d stolen from Agent Kidder.

She was seated at the far end of the bar, perched on a stool, a drink in her hand, chatting to a man who might be her contact or maybe some tourist trying to pick her up.

Her upper body was turned at an angle to give her full attention to the man beside her. She hadn’t seen them enter.

"Approach from all sides," Tennant said. "Remember your orders. You’ve got a green light."

A green light to take her out. Just like James Bond—a license to kill.

"Of course," Stevenson was saying, "if you’re gonna stay in LA, this is the place."

"It lives up to its reputation."

"Yeah—unlike a lot of things in this town. Hey, can I refresh your drink?"

"Sure."

"What’re you having?"

"Ginger ale."

"Nothing stronger?"

"I don’t drink." This was true, but even if she’d been a drinker, she needed a clear head tonight.

Wilkins and Dante veered to the right. Tennant, with J&B, headed left.

"I don’t see the suitcase," Bickerstaff said under his breath.

"Could be against the bar, out of sight."

"Or she could’ve passed it on already."

Tennant shook his head. "If she’d made the exchange, she wouldn’t hang around."

Pierce still hadn’t looked their way. The man next to her might have registered their approach, but he showed no reaction. Tennant didn’t think he was the contact. Most likely Pierce’s contact hadn’t shown yet, and she was making small talk with this guy to be less conspicuous as she waited at the bar.

Wilkins and Dante were closing in. Pierce would see them any second now.

Before she could react, Tennant reached her from behind and clamped a hand on her shoulder.

"Don’t move," he said in a firm voice that brooked no argument, "you’re under arrest."

A twitch of surprise from her, and she swung around on her stool. Tennant almost drew his weapon, and then he was looking at her face.

The right hair, right jacket, right figure—but not the right woman. Not Amanda Pierce. This woman was ten years older, with too much makeup.

"What the hell?" the woman said.

"Anyway," Stevenson was saying as the bartender placed a fresh glass before each of them, "you come to the Pacific coast, you want to see the Pacific, am I right? I like to sit on the balcony and breathe in the salt air. I always get a room with a Malibu view."

"Malibu view?"

"Facing north—or is it west? The coastline zigs and zags so much, I don’t even know. But I like to see the lights of Malibu off in the distance."

"I’ll remember that for next time."

"You’ve got to ask for it special. That’s the thing about the MiraMist. They take care of their longtime guests. Treat you like family."

"That’s good to know."

"I’ve stayed at other places. The Beverly Hills, the Century Plaza—you ever been there?"

"The Century Plaza? Yes."

About an hour and a half ago
, she added silently.
But I didn’t stay long
.

Tennant left the bewildered woman and her consort without explanation. Pierce might still be here. After meeting her contact, she could have gone to some other part of the hotel.

He led his team to the pool area. No one was there.

"Coffee shop," he snapped.

She must be here somewhere.

"Nice ambience, the Century Plaza, but I’ll still take the MiraMist. We’re, what, a half mile from the beach? You can’t beat it." Donald Stevenson leaned back on his stool. "Who knows? Maybe I’ll retire here."

"That’d be nice."

"If I could afford it." He laughed. "Property taxes alone would eat me alive. And then, wouldn’t you know, with my luck I’d be out here six months and they’d have the Big One and this whole town would slide into the fucking ocean."

"I guess you can never be completely safe anywhere," Pierce said with a smile.

No luck.

Tennant and his squad had searched every public space in the Century Plaza Hotel. Amanda Pierce was nowhere—unless she had checked in.

Tennant returned to the lobby and asked the desk clerk if he had seen a woman matching Pierce’s description enter the hotel within the past ninety minutes. Answer: No.

Outside, the two valets stood pondering the unmarked bureau cars. Tennant asked them the same question.

One of them had seen her. A cab had dropped her off. She’d started to walk toward the hotel—then when the cab was gone, she’d retraced her steps. He’d thought it was kind of weird.

"Where’d she go?" Tennant barked.

"Nowhere. That’s the thing. She got into another taxi."

Tennant closed his eyes. She had known the first cab might be traced, so she’d led her pursuit to the wrong hotel.

"Did you see what kind it was?" he asked hopelessly.

"What kind?"

"Checker Cab, Yellow Cab?"

"Sorry, sir. I didn’t notice."

"Do any security cameras cover this area?"

"This is a hotel, not a jail."

Not a jail. Of course it was not a jail. The way things were going, Amanda Pierce would never get anywhere near a jail.

Tennant turned to face J&B, Wilkins, and Dante, all gathered behind him. They’d heard everything. He tried to marshal his thoughts, to think of a plan of action, some order to give, but nothing came to him.

"She could be anywhere in the city," Bickerstaff said, his voice hollow.

"We lost her," Jarvis added.

Possibly for the first time in his life, Jack Tennant felt like an old man. "We lost her," he echoed, turning away.

14

It was after one-thirty A.M. when Donald Stevenson finally asked if she would like to see the Malibu view from his room. She said yes, of course she would. He smiled, thinking he’d scored a conquest, when all he’d actually done was ensure that the Malibu view was the last sight he would ever see.

The kill would be quick and quiet, and she would leave him there to be discovered, eventually, by the housekeeping service, while she took his wallet—cash, credit cards, bank card—and the keys to his rental car. There might be other valuables in his luggage. She would take whatever she could get, then relocate to another part of the city, someplace in the broad, flat interior, far from the sea. From the safe haven of a motel, she would try to arrange a new meeting.

Her plan could be salvaged. Despite setbacks, the chance of success remained high. All that was necessary was for Donald Stevenson of Aurora, Illinois, to die tonight, and for Amanda Pierce this was no hardship at all.

They rode the elevator to the sixteenth floor. He led her to room 1625 and unlocked it with his card key. The drapes trembled in a breeze from the balcony. The room was cool, almost chilly, lit by a single bedside lamp.

Pierce stepped inside, then hesitated, reluctant to let go of her suitcase. But it would look odd if she continued to hold it. Carefully she placed it on a desk chair and joined Stevenson at the sliding door.

"You can see all the way up the coast," he said with a theatrical gesture at the panorama framed in the glass.

"You’re right. It’s a great view."

"You on the other side of the hotel?"

"Uh, yes."

"They stuck you with a view of the street. Next time you’re in town, ask for this view specifically."

Looking away, she studied the room. She noticed a suitcase on a folding table, a coat in the closet, a ten-dollar tip already left out for the maid. She reminded herself to take the ten dollars when she departed with his wallet and keys. No point in wasting it on the help.

"Want something from the minibar?" he asked.

"No, thank you."

She touched her belt buckle, thinking she could do it now, end this goddamn game. But the open balcony door worried her. If he cried out, his scream might carry on the night air.

"It’s a little cool in here," she said, hugging herself.

"Oh. Sorry."

She nearly went for him while he locked the door and fastened the drapes. But her fingers fumbled with the belt buckle—perhaps she was more nervous than she had been willing to admit—and before she could work the mechanism, he had turned to face her again.

"You’re a beautiful woman," he said.

She smiled. "Every woman is beautiful at two in the morning."

"Don’t say that. I’m being serious here. I mean…look at you…You’re just…wow."

She wasn’t sure what to say in response, and it didn’t matter, because suddenly he was drawing her near and pressing his mouth on hers, gently at first, then with mounting heat, and she felt a rush of pleasure in her body that was almost dizzying.