Mountain Blizzard Page 15

Had three minutes passed? She should have set a timer so she’d know when he’d been gone too long. Not that they’d discussed what she should do if Sean didn’t return when he said he would. Her fingers coiled around the flashlight/stun gun. If thugs were hiding out in Jerome’s apartment, she might actually have a chance to use it.

  The static in her ear abruptly ended. She heard Sean’s voice, “Jerome’s not here. I’m sure it’s his place. He’s got stacks of BP Reporter lying around.”

  “What a jerk,” she muttered. “He promised to distribute these all over town. They’re freebies, after all.”

  “Great apartment, though. Excellent view.”

  She saw Sean leave the building and jog to the car. He’d barely closed the door when she offered a suggestion. “We should try the tavern down the block. Jerome goes there a lot.”

  “No need for an earpiece.” He held out his hand, and she gave him the plastic listening device. “Let’s go to the Mule.”

  Sean took over the driving duties and chose his parking place so that if they ran out the back door from the Mule, the rental car would be close at hand for a speedy getaway. He wasn’t sure what to expect when they entered through the front door. A tavern named Moscow Mule in the Russian Hill district was a little too cutesy for his taste, and he was glad the Mule turned out to be a regular-looking bar, decorated with neon beer signs on the wall and an array of bottles. Stools lined up in a long row in front of the long, dark wood bar. The only Moscow Mule reference came from the rows of traditional copper mugs on shelves.

  Jerome Strauss sat at the bar, finishing off a beer and a plate of French fries. He didn’t seem to notice them, and Sean led Emily to a table near the back.

  She sat and leaned toward him. “I can’t believe he didn’t recognize me. This blond wig isn’t a great disguise.”

  “Maybe your friend Jerome isn’t that bright.”

  When she chuckled, he noticed Jerome’s reaction. His back stiffened, and he tilted his head as though that would sharpen his hearing. Sean wasn’t surprised. You can change the tone of your voice, but it’s nearly impossible to disguise a laugh.

  Whatever the reason, Jerome spun around on his bar stool and stared at Emily. His big red beard parted in a grin as he picked up his beer and came toward them.

  He squinted at her. “Is that you, Emily?”

  “Join us,” she said.

  He wheeled toward Sean. “And who’s this dude? Is he supposed to be your bodyguard?”

  “That’s right,” Sean said as he rose to his full height, towering over Jerome. In case the editor wasn’t completely intimidated, Sean brushed his hand against his hip to show his holstered gun. “Ms. Peterson asked you to join us.”

  “Sure.” Jerome toppled into a chair at the table.

  Emily gave Sean an amused smile. “Would you like to try a Moscow Mule?”

  “Not now,” he said for Jerome’s benefit. “I’m on duty.”

  “They’re really yummy, made with vodka, ginger beer and lime juice and served in one of those cute copper mugs.”

  Obviously she’d tasted the drink before. It was a somewhat unusual cocktail, probably not available in many places. Sean had to wonder if she’d spent much time with Jerome in this tavern. The newspaper editor had a definite crush on her.

  “I like the blond hair,” Jerome said.

  Sean suspected that he’d like her whether she was blonde, brunette or bald. But they hadn’t come here to encourage their friendship. “You don’t seem curious, Mr. Strauss, about why Emily is in disguise and why she needs a bodyguard.”

  “I can guess.” When he leaned forward, Sean noticed his eyes were unfocused. Jerome was half in the bag. He whispered, “To protect you from Wynter.”

  She fluttered her eyelashes. In the fluffy wig, she managed to pull off an attitude of hapless confusion. “Whatever do you mean? I’m a poet. Why would I have anything to do with a murderous thug like Wynter?”

  “You can drop the act,” Jerome said. “I’ve known for a long time that you’re Terry Greene, the journalist.”

  She didn’t bother to deny it. “How did you guess?”

  “I’m an editor, a wordsmith. I noticed similarities in style. Even your poetic voice reminded me of Greene’s prose. You have a way of writing that keeps the passion bubbling just under the surface.”

  “Uh-huh.” Disbelief was written all over her face. The fluffy blonde had been replaced by cynical Emily. “Tell me how you really figured it out.”

  “I wasn’t spying on you. It was an accident.” He drained the last of his beer. “I noticed some of the Wynter research on your computer, but don’t worry.”

  Jerome waved to the bartender, pointed to his empty bottle and held up three fingers.

  “Don’t worry about what?” Emily asked.

  “I never told those guys, never, ever.” The alcohol was catching up with him. Jerome had trouble balancing on his chair and rested his palms on the table as an anchor.

  “What guys?” Emily asked. Her disbelief had turned into concern. “Did someone threaten you? Did they blow up your office?”

  “Shhhhh.” He waited until three beers were delivered and the bartender returned to his other customers. It was too early for the after-work crowd, but there were a half dozen other people at the bar and at tables.

  Emily grasped Jerome’s hand. “Tell me.”

  He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “A guy came to talk to me. Middle-aged, expensive suit, slicked-back hair, he showed me a business card from Wynter Corp, like it was a regular legit business.”

  “Morelli,” she said. “What did he want?”

  “He asked for Terry Greene, and I told him that the Wynter article was just a reprint. He’d have to go to her original publisher.” Jerome winced. “I knew it was you that he was after, and that’s why I blew up my office.”

  “What!” She spoke so loudly that everybody in the bar paused to stare. Emily waved to them. “It’s okay—nothing to worry about.”

  “You’ve got to believe me,” Jerome begged. “I’d never tell.”

  When the murmur of conversation resumed, she glared at him. “You blew up your own office. What the hell were you thinking?”

  “I was afraid I might accidentally spill something incriminating, and I didn’t want to risk exposing you. Don’t you see, Emily? I did it for you.”

  She surged to her feet and took a long glug of beer. “Please don’t do me any more favors.”

  Sean believed that Jerome was telling the truth, but it wasn’t the whole story. Something had scared him enough to make him blow up his office. He was in this bar because he was afraid to go home. And Morelli wasn’t all that frightening.

  “Who else?” Sean asked. “After Morelli left, who else paid you a visit?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He lifted the beer bottle to his lips but didn’t drink. “I’d never, ever tell. What makes you think there was somebody else?”

  His fingers trembled so much he couldn’t manage another swig of beer. Though he was half-drunk, Jerome’s eyes flickered. He was lying. Sean figured that someone else had been following Morelli, wanting to know what he knew. And the second someone was menacing. “Who was it?”

  “Frankie,” Emily said. “Was it Frankie Wynter? I feel terrible for putting you in this position. Did he threaten you?”

  “I’m the one who should feel bad.”

  Sean agreed. He figured that Jerome had let vital information slip to the other visitor. It was probably an accident, but Jerome had been terror stricken, numb, and in that state, he’d revealed Emily’s true identity. “Was it Frankie? Or someone else?”

  “A Chinese guy.” Jerome stared down at the tabletop. “A snakehead.”

  Chapter Sevent
een

  Sean had been hoping to avoid confrontation with the snakeheads. They descended from gangs in Asia that had roots going back hundreds of years. He’d heard that the word thug had been invented to describe the snakeheads that, in ancient days, preyed on caravans. Now they specialized in grabbing people from Asian countries and transporting them around the world to North America, Australia and Europe.

  After warning Jerome that he was damn right to be scared if he’d crossed the snakehead, Sean told the half-drunk editor that hiding out in the corner bar wasn’t going to save him. He needed to go to the police...even if he’d been stupid enough to blow up his own office.

  Then Sean swept Emily away from the bar and into their rental car. The answers to their investigation would be found in Chinatown. Sean was certain of it. But he wasn’t sure how to proceed.

  Taking extra care to avoid being followed, he made a couple of detours to grab something to eat. San Francisco truly was a town for food lovers. The array of fast food included sushi, fresh chowder, meat from a Brazilian steak house and the best hamburgers on earth. He stocked up and then drove back to the hotel.

  As soon as she entered their room, Emily yanked the blond wig off her head and took the carryout bags from him. “I’ll set up the food while you do your searching-for-bugs thing.”

  He placed the jammer on the small round table, pulled up the antennae and turned it on. Sean wasn’t taking the smallest chance that they might be overheard. “After we eat, we’re going to plan the rest of our time in San Francisco. Then we’re out of here.”

  The corner of her mouth twisted into a scowl. “Do you mind if I ask where?”

  “I’m not sure. We’re going far, far away from the thugs and Wynter and all the many people who want to kill you.”

  “I don’t understand. I’m such a nice person.”

  “Speaking of not-so-nice people,” he said, “I’d advise you to keep your distance from Jerome. Not only is he crazy enough to set a bomb in his own office but he’s a coward.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think we have Jerome to thank for making the link between Emily Peterson and your pseudonym.”

  “But he said...” She paused. “Wasn’t he telling the truth?”

  “He protested too much about how he’d never tell. I call that a sure sign of a liar.”

  He swept the room, still finding nothing. Thus far, the hotel had been safe. But how much longer was this luck going to hold? After turning off the jammer, he sat at the table and gazed across at the fine-looking lady who had once been his wife. She liked to set a table, even if they were only eating fast food on paper plates.

  Using the chopsticks that came with their order, he picked up a tidbit of sushi. In addition to the California rolls and sashimi, he’d ordered fried eel, unagi, because it was supposed to increase potency and virility. Not that he believed in that kind of magic...but it couldn’t hurt.

  “This meal almost makes sense,” she said. “We start with the colorful orange-and-green sushi appetizer, then the hamburger and fries main course and finally the doughnuts for dessert.”

  “Perfect.” He wasn’t exaggerating. It was an unproven fact that eight out of ten American men would choose burgers and doughnuts for any given meal.

  “And what do we do with the lovely hula Hawaiian pizza? And the meat and salad from the steak house?”

  “We might not have another chance to eat for the rest of the day. I say we fill up.”

  She gave an angry huff. “I’ve told you a million times about how you can’t eat once and expect it to last for hours. It’s like fuel—you have to keep burning at a steady level.”

  “Spicy,” he said as he assembled a piece of ginger, wasabi and unagi. “Eat what you want, and we’ll take the rest with us.”

  “Fine.” She raised the burger to her mouth. “Tell me about our next plan.”

  “First we make a phone call to Dylan and find out how much he’s learned from hacking. After that, we go to Chinatown.”

  “After dark?”

  He nodded. “At night, we don’t stand out as much. Well, I do because I’m tall, but you can blend right in if you keep your head down. While we’re there, we need to visit Doris Liu and Liane Zhou, the girlfriend.”

  “Whose brother is a snakehead,” she reminded him. “Do you think Mikey Zhou was the guy who frightened Jerome?”

  “It’d be neat and tidy if he was the one,” he said.

  “Otherwise, we need to start working another angle.”

  “I don’t think so. If this scenario doesn’t pan out, we’ve got to move on. I’d like to resolve the motive for the murder, but it’s too dangerous and too complex for us to solve.”

  “Is it really? Look at how much I got figured out all by myself.”

  “That’s because you’re a skilled and talented investigative journalist.”

  For a moment, they ate in silence. He enjoyed the stillness of late afternoon when work assignments were winding down and evening plans had not yet gotten under way. The sunlight faded and softened. The streets were calm before rush hour. It was a time for relaxing and reflecting. Though he’d seldom worked at a desk job with nine-to-five hours, his natural rhythm made a shift from work time to evening.

  His gaze met hers across the table. She was alert but not too eager. In spite of her mini-lecture about his poor eating habits, she wasn’t pushing that agenda. Not like when they were married, and she felt like she had to change him, to whip him into shape.

  He didn’t miss the nagging, but he wondered why she stopped. It must be that she’d given up on him and decided he wasn’t worth all that fuss. He was just a guy she was hanging out with. Technically, he was her employee, not that he planned to charge her or Aunt Hazel for his services. He wouldn’t know how to itemize a bill like that. For intimate services, should he charge by the hour or by the client’s satisfaction?

  “You’re smiling,” she said. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m imagining you in a waterfall. You’re covered in body paint, wild orchids and orange blossoms, and the spray from the waterfall gradually washes you clean.”

  Her voice was a whisper. “Hey, mister, I’m supposed to be the poetic one.”

  “We’ve changed, both of us.”

  When they’d been married, she never sat still. Nor was she ever silent. He liked this new version of Emily who could be comfortable and relaxed and didn’t need to fill the air with chatter.

  He wiped his mouth with one of the paper napkins, came around the table and took her hands. “There’s one more part to my plan that I didn’t mention.”

  “Let me guess,” she said as she stood. “It’s the part that takes place in the bedroom.”

  Hand in hand, they walked into the adjoining room where both beds were messy. He’d hung the “Do Not Disturb” on the door and also requested no maid service at the front desk. He paused at the foot of one of the beds and turned her toward him.

  He lifted her chin, gazed into her face. “Nobody ever said it had to be in the bedroom.”

  “That’s a spa shower in the bathroom.” A sly smile curled the ends of her mouth. “I haven’t figured out how to use all the spray jets.”

  “We can learn together.”

  The bathroom also used an Asian-influenced decorating theme with white tile and black accents. On the double-sink counter, there were three delicate orchids in black vases. The tub was simple and small. The shower was Godzilla. A huge space, enclosed in glass with stripes of frosted glass, the shower had an overhead nozzle the size of a dinner plate. Eight jets protruded from the wall at various heights, and there was a handheld sprayer.

  He peeled off his Mr. Gadget outfit and dropped the clothes in a pile with his Glock on top for easy access. Earlier, he’d noticed a special feature in
the bathroom: dimmer dials for the lights. Playing around with the overhead and four sconces around the mirrors, he set a cool, sexy mood.

  “Do you like this?” he asked.

  “It’s almost as good as candlelight.”

  She didn’t have nearly as many clothes as he did, but it was taking her longer to get out of them. He was happy to help, reaching behind her back to unhook her bra as she wiggled out of her skinny jeans.

  He entered the shower. “I’ll get the water started.”

  As she neatly folded her jeans, she said, “Quite a coincidence, Sean. You have a fantasy about waterfalls, and here we are, stepping into a shower.”

  “Swear to God, I didn’t plan this. But it’s not altogether a coincidence. The thought of you, wet and naked, is real good motivation to find a shower.”

  With the overhead rainfall shower drizzling, he opened the door and took her hand, leading her into the glass enclosure. Her step was delicate, graceful. The dim light shone on her dusky olive skin and created wonderful, secretive shadows on her inner thighs and beneath her breasts.

  When she moved under the spray and tilted her head up, he was captivated. She was everything a woman should be. How had he ever let her slip away from him?

  With her back pressed into his chest, he encircled her with his arms and held her while her slick, supple body rubbed against him. The intake and exhale of their breathing mingled with the spatter of droplets in a powerful song without words or tune. Swirling clouds of steam filled the shower.

  She turned on the jets and edged closer, letting the water pummel her. “That feels great, like a wet massage.”

  She moved him around, positioning him so he’d be hit at exactly the right place near the base of his spine. He groaned with pleasure.

  They took turns soaping each other, paying particular attention to the sensitive areas and rinsing the fragrant sandalwood lather away. She massaged shampoo into her hair.

  “Let me,” he said, taking over the job. “I remember when we’d wash your long hair. It hung all the way down to your butt.”

  “A lot of work,” she said.