Chapter 16

"The fifth profession, huh?" I said to Peter Cornwall. Frank had just dropped off the executive protector at the compound. We sat in my office.

He laughed and said, "I'm not sure protectors were the fifth, but they came after prostitution, that's for sure."

"Here's the deal, Peter," I said and told him what I knew about Leah's stalker, tossed in my suppositions and conclusion, and told him about my conversation with the FBI agents when I'd shown them to the door the previous evening.

"Which means," Peter said, "if the stalker is the serial killer, my principal will be safe for a week, probably two weeks."

"Yep, but in case he hung around to make another run at her, or in case the stalker was another man who plans to do Leah harm, I'd like you on the job on Monday, maybe Tuesday, as well. Leah asked another professor to cover her classes today, and she's promised not to leave the compound over the weekend, so you won't be truly needed again until Monday. I'll pay you for today, of course. How do you want to work this?"

"How about I hang around here off the clock except for room and board until Monday. I noticed a swimming pool. I understand you've got a hell of a library, a first-class entertainment room, and a firing range. I think I can keep myself entertained. Frank also told me that you've got some horses arriving tomorrow from Egypt. I enjoy horses; own one myself. I'd like to see yours."

"Sounds good so far," I said.

"I'll fly back to Denver on your nickel on Tuesday or Wednesday, and then return the following Sunday evening to go on the clock the next day."

"All right. Wanna meet your principal?"

"I do."

"She's out by the pool with Loni."

He left the office ahead of me. I guided him though the great room to the patio around the pool where Leah and Loni were sunbathing in bikinis.

"Gulp," Peter said.

I chuckled and said, "I know what you mean." I introduced him to Leah and left them so they could talk. Loni came inside the house with me.

"I like her," Loni said.

"Leah?"

"Yes. She's sharp as a tack about some things and dumber than a post about other things."

"Oh?"

"Yes." She bumped my shoulder affectionately with her forehead. "She's dumb about men."

"Because she said no to me?"

"Yes. How busy are you?"

"Why?" I said.

"Are you connected?"

I am now, I said. I was before, but...

I'm horny, she said.

If we put our heads together...

And other things, she said, grinning when she interrupted me.

We can solve your problem, I said finishing my thought while ignoring her aside.

I don't consider being horny a problem. I consider it an opportunity.

I stand corrected, I said.

Well, how about it? Wanna put our things together?

I'd be a fool not to, I said. Got a request.

What?

Don't wash off the suntan oil.

I'll be dipped. You have a fetish after all, she said with mischievous glints in her eyes.

I don't consider the scent and feel of suntan oil on a woman's body a fetish. I consider it an opportunity.

Touché, she said as we walked into the bedroom and closed the door.

She brushed my crotch with her hand. More like an aphrodisiac than an opportunity.

That, too, I said.

A couple of hours later, I walked into Sable's office with a spring in my step. Did I look well and truly laid? If she noticed, she said nothing. Didn't think about it either.

"You wanted to see me?" I said.

"I did. Good news. I got a call from Camp. He thanked me for recommending John Savage as his architect. The two of them really hit it off. Then Camp met with your man regarding the short cut you suggested for going public. Camp says you're batting a thousand. He called the investment banker in New York about the short cut. The banker knew your man, and liked him. To make a long story short, the lawyers are in the process of doing a reverse merger with a shell corporation for the condo development company that your man recommended. At the same time, the lawyers are revising the prospectus to take the company from OTCBB to the Nasdaq, instead of straight to the Nasdaq. They're estimating the IPO for Nasdaq will happen early in the first quarter next year instead of late in the second."

I grinned. "Good, maybe I can handle all the raises I've been handing out after all." Sable laughed at my joke, bless her heart. "Got a line on a CPA yet?" I said.

She pursed her lips. "I have not. I'll work on that next week."

"The CPA will be working for you, but I'd like to interview your final candidate."

The position was critical to the ongoing success of my business. I wanted to experience the candidate's thoughts before Sable hired the person. Thought processes are usually crystal clear during employment interviews. If a candidate is hiding anything, they think about it, and a few well-chosen questions will give me honest silent answers regarding the candidate's honesty, capability, and potential compatibility for working with Sable and me.

"I wouldn't have it any other way, boss," she said. "Waddaya think of Fantasy Fun, Inc.?"

"I'm positive, but I want to see a revised business plan for a five million capital requirement instead of one million before saying yea or nay."

"Thought you might. They're working on it as we speak, planning to finish it late next week. Have you read any of the other business plans I gave you?"

"I have not. Maybe I'll read another one over the weekend. Then again, maybe I won't. Tomorrow the horses arrive, and I'm going to kick back and do nothing on Sunday except introduce myself to the horses."

Greg and I were at the bar in the great room sipping twenty-one-year-old Duncan Taylor Linlithgow single malt scotch waiting for the grand entrance of the Masterson sisters. We wore dark suits purchased in Manhattan, off the rack, not bespoke, but we looked good.

"Lookin' sharp, Greg," I said.

"You clean up mighty fine, too, boss," he said, grinning.

Greg's suit coat did a fair job of hiding the XD-9 semiautomatic pistol he was carrying in a shoulder holster. The weapon I carried was completely hidden, a Cobra 9mm Derringer with a chrome finish and rosewood grips that I'd strapped to my ankle. We weren't loaded for bear, but we were cocked and locked. Besides, we were going to an art opening, not a firefight.

"Hoo boy!" I breathed when the ladies walked into the room. Greg said nothing. It is difficult to speak with your jaw gaping. "Have you got a kung fu cudgel in the armory, Greg?" I said.

"Huh?" he said.

"Gonna need a stick to beat off the men sniffing around our women tonight."

He chuckled. The ladies preened. I sat down and removed one shoe and started to take off a sock – the sock not covered with my ankle gun.

"Stop it, you fool," Loni said, laughing.

I put my shoe back on and stood up. "You are a living, breathing dream, Dr. Loni Masterson. You were right about that dress. It is slinky indeed. I've never seen you look more beautiful."

She did a graceful pirouette. "I've put on a few pounds. Does the dress make me look fat?"

I guffawed. "Quit begging for compliments. No need. You're gorgeous and you know it. Let's go. We're going to be late."

"Fashionably late," Loni said and slipped her arm through mine.

I'd engaged a limo for the social event. With the threat Garfield represented, Frank rode shotgun up front with the limo driver, and Greg, Sable, Loni and I sat in the comfortable cocoon in the back. As we drove through the gates of the compound, I was pouring champagne for everyone. By the time we moved through the entrance gates for the ranch, Greg and I were toasting the astonishing beauty of the Masterson sisters.

We arrived at the gallery fashionably late. Philip Sams, my partner and gallery owner, greeted us at the door. He was a tall, slim man, very distinguished, but unlike many gallery owners, he was not gay. He validated Greg's and my effusive praise for the beauty of our dates, laying it on even thicker than I had. I think he was halfway in love with Sable. She'd worked closely with him to make the gallery a reality.

I saw a flashbulb go off in the distance. "Oh, oh, unlike you, I don't like my picture taken," I said to Loni. She had her arm in mine as we strolled into one of the rooms in the cavernous gallery. The opening showcased the work of five artists. The gallery was so large no one artist could have filled the space. In essence, the gallery displayed five one-man shows simultaneously, not one.

"Why not?" she said as I snagged a glass of white wine for her and looked around for hors d'oeuvres.

"I am an anonymous rich man. My prime goal in life is to remain anonymous," I said and grabbed a bacon-wrapped grilled shrimp from a tray that a sexy, little gal was carrying to distribute to the art lovers in the room. Like Loni, the pretty young woman wore a slinky dress, but what she had to put in it didn't come close to Loni's amazing stuffing. I popped the hors d'oeuvre into my mouth and hummed with pleasure. "The restaurants I've invested in are catering the opening. Try the shrimp. They're scrumptious."

"Later," she said. "Let's look at the art and meet the artists."

The popping flashbulbs came from a camera in the other room. I suspected a newshound was covering the event for the social pages for the Sunday paper.

Loni, my dear, we've got to avoid the man with the camera, I said silently.

All right. I didn't know you were so camera shy, she said.

I like my privacy. I don't want notoriety or fame, not even a little bit. Besides, if my ugly mug hits the society pages with you on my arm, people will feel sorry for you and start questioning your sanity.

With a sudden flash of insight, Loni believed she'd figured out why I was avoiding the limelight.

You think if Harlan Garfield sees a picture of us in the society pages, it'll inflame his need for revenge that much more, right? she said.

Not even close, but I said, Smart lady. Loni, it's even more important that the camera doesn't capture your sister's pretty face. Or yours. Garfield isn't the only bad guy we're dodging.

Oh, shit! You're right. What should we do?

We can't ask Sams to run the newshound off. He needs the publicity, which means we must leave until the photographer has done his job and leaves. They usually don't stay long at affairs like this. The reporter might stay, and the art critics, but the photographer will probably leave. Greg can stay and call us when the coast is clear.

Uh-uh, ask Frank to stay. The four of us can have an early dinner instead of a late dinner.

So, that's what we did. Frank called us just as we finished eating. The coast was clear.

He was wrong.

The assassin struck as we were leaving the restaurant to get into the limo to return to the gallery.

Pop, pop! I heard. At the same time, I felt all the air leave my lungs when the bullets hit my chest. The force of the small missiles knocked me over backwards, but I didn't lose consciousness. As I hit the ground, I reached for my ankle gun, but before I could pull it loose, I heard a louder pop. My vision was blurry. I concentrated, tried to focus and managed to see smoke coming from Greg's pistol before I passed out.

I don't know how long I was unconscious. Not long, I figured because when my eyes opened, Loni was holding me in her lap. She was crying.

"Talk to me, Clint," she said, her voice stuttering as she tried valiantly to control her emotions.

"You talk to me," I said. "Tell me what happened." Talking hurt, I mean really hurt! Hell, just breathing hurt!

"A man shot you. Greg shot the man. Greg checked you, said you'd be all right. Why aren't you bleeding?"

"I'm wearing a vest," I said. My words weren't coming out very well. I could hardly breathe, so I switched modes of conversation.

Greg insisted that I wear body armor, I said silently. Better, much better. I could speak to her telepathically and breathe at the same time. God, I was hurting. I wished I didn't have to breathe at all, but considering the alternative, I was glad I was hurting.

It's what's called covert body armor, a concealed undervest, Loni, I said. If I'm still breathing and I'm not bleeding, I guess it did the job it was supposed to do. I'm hurting, though. I think the force of the bullets hitting the vest broke some ribs.

Suddenly, Greg's face loomed over us. "You're awake now, huh?"

"I am. Hard to talk," I said.

"Then don't talk. I will. One shooter. He's dead. I've called the police and the lawyer you told me to call if something like this ever happened. The lawyer's on the way here. The 911 operator also dispatched an ambulance. Sable's in the limo. I called Sarge at the compound. They're on alert. And I called Frank at the gallery. He's taking a cab here."

"Ankle gun. Not registered," I said, gasping between words.

Greg looked for and found the gun. He removed it from my ankle and gave it to Loni. "Please hide this in the limo and comfort Sable. She's feeling like a mushroom right now. Bring her up to date. Clint will be all right. He's got some broken ribs, and the bruises on his chest will be massive and ugly and painful for days if not weeks, but the good guys won this one."

I heard sirens in the distance.

"Now, Loni. That gun isn't registered."

I groaned with pain when she moved me out of her lap and gently laid my head on the ground.

She grabbed Greg's face and kissed him hard. "That's for insisting that Clint wear a vest."

When she was gone, gasping between words, I said, "It looks like I'm going to have to take it to Garfield."

"Probably," Greg said. "But I'll do the taking." He grinned. "That's why you pay me the big bucks."

"Uh-uh, he's mine. I warned him. I told him if he didn't back off, I'd kill him."

"You warned him?"

"Yeah. I called his private line and warned him. I wanted to play fair. It isn't fair to kill a man without warning."

Greg chuckled. "You're somethin' else, boss. How about we take it to him together?"

"That'd probably work best. Don't mention Garfield to the cops."

"I won't. The assassin is anonymous. No identification on him. No labels in his clothes. I suspect his gun will be listed as stolen or reported destroyed. He was a professional, Clint. He made a big mistake, though. He didn't know about me. He popped you twice and turned to walk away. He did not run; he walked. He was a stone-cold killer. Calm as a cucumber. I shot the sucker in the back as he walked away. He staggered, turned toward me, and tried to shoot me, so I shot him again, a headshot. He's been following us, but I didn't make him, didn't see the tail. Frank didn't either. Peter might've made him, but Frank and I didn't."

"You're babbling, Greg," I said.

He huffed a derogatory laugh. "I am. Okay, I'll shut up."

"Don't mention Garfield. Just say we got some death threats, anonymous death threats. Telephone calls we didn't tape. That's why the vests."

"Gotcha," Greg said.

"Two of them, Greg. Two calls. One this morning. The other Wednesday afternoon. I took both calls. You didn't. Got it?"

"Got it."

"And Greg, you told the killer to stop when he was walking away. He didn't stop, so you did your job. You stopped him. Aimed at his shoulder and shot him. Got it?"

The wailing siren died a slow death when the ambulance stopped on the street.

"Got it," Greg said. "I'll have the limo driver follow you to the hospital with Loni and Sable." He looked up. "Frank's here. He'll go with the women in the limo and stay at the hospital with them and guard you until the police release me."

"God, I hurt. Listen to the lawyer, too, Greg. He's good."

"I will," Greg said.

A paramedic bent over me.

"He was shot twice," Greg said to the paramedic. "But he was wearing a vest. The bullets didn't penetrate the vest. He's hurting, probably has some broken ribs, maybe some jagged bones, maybe some internal bleeding, so be careful with him."

Another paramedic joined the first. "The other guy is dead," he said to his partner.

"Let's get this one to the hospital." Then the two of them started to do their thing.

Loni rode in the ambulance with me. I liked that. We did some mind-talking en route. I liked that, too.

I was pissed. My magnificent Arabian steeds had arrived at the airport, and I couldn't meet them. I was propped up in bed on painkillers that made me woozy and slurred my voice. And I was a grouch. I'm not an agreeable convalescent. Never have been. Never will be. I slept off and on throughout the day. Occasionally someone would wake me. I'd forget I'd spoken with them, and ask for them again the next time I was awake. Owen stepped into my bedroom to answer identical questions twice.

"Yes, the horses arrived safely. Yes, they're safely housed in our stables," he said – twice.

"How's Big Black?"

"He's fine. He's magnificent! Not happy, though. Contrary. Didn't like the trip. Hell, boss, what's to like about a trip like that?"

"Treat him with kindness," I said. "Take the contrary out of him."

"I will, boss. You look sleepy. Try to sleep."

So, Saturday was a blur. Sunday wasn't because I refused to take any of the industrial-strength pain pills and resorted to ibuprofen. My incredible immune system to the contrary, I was in more pain than Saturday, a lot more, but at least I had my wits about me. And I was sick of lying in bed.

"Tell Sarge to come see me," I told Loni.

When he wheeled into my room, I said, "Got an extra wheelchair?"

"I do," he said and grinned. "Not as snazzy as this one, but it'll get you around."

It didn't. Pushing the wheels with my hands made me want to scream with pain. I called Sarge back to my room.

"Need one that rolls by itself," I said to Sarge. "A motorized wheelchair. Know where I can get one on Sundays?"

"Nope. You'll have to wait until tomorrow," he said, but he looked guilty when he said it.

"You've joined the conspiracy, haven't you? The conspiracy to keep me in bed for another day or two. I thought you, of all people, Sarge, would understand. You're guilty. I can see it in your face. Who's the ringleader? Greg? Loni?"

While smiling, he said, "I don't know what you're talking about, boss."

"I'm disappointed in you, Sarge. Go. Leave me to whither away in bed. I'll just lie here and watch my muscles atrophy before my eyes."

He laughed heartily. "There's a way, but you can't tell anyone, especially Loni, that I told you."

Ah-hah, Loni was the ringleader.

"What?" I said.

"Sit in the chair and have someone push you around."

I guess my jaw gaped, because he laughed at me again.

"If you look up stupid in the dictionary, you'd see my face," I said.

"It's the goddamned pain pills, boss. They muddle your brain. I know about pain pills."

"Thanks for the tip. Any idea who I should ask to push me around?"

"Don't ask Loni. Or Sable. Greg would, but he's afraid of those women. Hell, I'm afraid of those women. Just about anybody else would do it. 'Cept me, but only because I can't. Gotta be able to walk to push someone around in a wheelchair, and my walkin' days are over."

"I'll set up shifts. Frank first. David second."

"Don't overdo it, boss."

"Sarge, by Tuesday I'll be ready to race you. A wheelchair race. We'll sell tickets for the event."

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