Dead Double Page 9

  The seats inside the cabin were all huge executive things in leather, individually swivelling to face any direction. Again following Logan’s cue, Sahara picked the seat closest to his as he strapped himself in.

  Jacqui sat opposite her and the engines of the plane immediately revved up. The door was slapped shut and sealed with a clunk, muffling the noise.

  Jacqui was staring at Logan, who stared calmly back.

  “We can hardly do fittings while you’re in the cabin,” she said, her voice dry.

  “Yes, we can,” Sahara shot back. “He can turn his back. Besides, isn’t he supposed to be my former husband?”

  Logan looked back at Jacqui and grinned.

  Jacqui sniffed and didn’t say another word until the plane took off. Once the seatbelt light went out, she picked up a laptop from beside her and fired it up, then pulled out a dressmaker’s tape measure from the same bag. “Let’s start, shall we?”

  Logan’s cheer lasted until Jacqui had taken a few of the more accessible measurements, then dryly asked Sahara to remove her top.

  He swivelled his seat around so the wide expanse of leather back was all they could see. “Knock yourselves out,” he said. “There’s a Sports Illustrated here.”

  Sahara took off her top and Jacqui coughed a little. “You’re not wearing…you have no…undergarments,” she said in an undertone that nevertheless crossed the cabin.

  “I was pulled out of my apartment at eleven-thirty at night. You normally wear a bra to bed, Jacqui?”

  Jacqui turned pink and glanced at Logan’s chair. Sahara could feel her own cheeks heating because of Jacqui’s discomfort. She relented and said in a more civilized tone, “Nobody will die if you take the measurements without the bra, will they?”

  Jacqui cleared her throat. “It will change the fit of all your clothes,” she said simply. “We’ll just have to make the lingerie department your first stop.” She quickly took several measurements of Sahara’s upper body and punched them into the computer. “Now…your…bottom half.”

  Sahara untied the sarong she had hastily thrown on back in the bathroom of her apartment. She was naked beneath. Jacqui pushed at her French pleat nervously and gave a jittery smile. “Right,” she said and began measuring again. There seemed to be dozens of essential measurements and Jacqui had Sahara sitting, standing and bending certain limbs as she applied the tape measure.

  They were totally engrossed in the process when Logan’s chair spun, he lunged from it and slammed his shoulder into the cockpit door as it opened, pushing one of the pilots back inside the cockpit.

  Sahara froze, realizing that he’d stopped the pilot from stepping into the cabin while she stood there naked.

  “Sorry,” Logan said gruffly to the door. He glanced over his shoulder at them. “Sorry,” he said again. “Couldn’t think of a faster way to….”

  Sahara could feel his glance land on her. Heat stole through her limbs, making them heavy and slow. Her breasts felt heavy and tipped with fire.

  His one glance raked over her, searing her from head to foot. It took a heartbeat…and a lifetime.

  Then he quickly shut his eyes and turned his head. “Sorry,” he said again, softly. His voice had roughened. The fingers of the hand he had pushed against the cockpit door curled into a fist.

  Jacqui wound up the tape measure with expert flicks of her fingers and pushed it back into her briefcase. “We are finished here,” she said primly. “You may dress again.”

  Moving stiffly, feeling like the Tinman, Sahara put her clothes back on. She sat back down in her seat, glad to be supported.

  It was only once she was seated that Logan moved, opening the door to the cockpit. The pilot emerged puzzled but Logan left him standing there and returned to his own seat.

  “We’ll be descending in five minutes,” the pilot told them. “Time to belt-in again.” He glanced at Logan and held out a folded note. “For you, sir.” He returned to the cockpit.

  * * * * *

  Logan kept his seat locked in the forward position and listened to the thundering of his heart. He tried to dismiss the mental images of Sahara’s long, naked length. The grungy clothes had hidden how willowy and graceful she was and the fullness of her figure in all the right places.

  But the more he tried to push them away, the more the images crowded back into his mind. She was lovely. She wore a small tattoo on her hip, small enough that he wanted to lean forward and examine it.

  Perhaps even kiss it.

  All sorts of aches and demands were thrumming through him and he became abruptly aware of just how long it had been since he’d taken a woman to bed. There’d been two disastrous efforts since Micky and he had separated and none since she’d died.

  Until now, he’d barely noticed the absence. Now it was a throbbing ache that almost disguised his systemic fatigue.

  With fingers that felt thick and wooden, he unfolded the note.

  S. tried permanent out. E.

  Logan took a breath. Another one. He tried to sort out the reasons why Seoc might attempt to suicide. It was confirmation that Seoc worked for a master—one who he would rather die than betray. Fear, then, was keeping Seoc in line. Who inspired that sort of fear?

  Instantly, he thought of Zaram. Zaram was the sort of leader who used fear as currency, but Seoc and Zaram were too separated. Seoc moved between figures of the legitimate world. He had never heard of the gaunt man running messages for terror freaks like Zaram.

  Troubled, Logan tried to relax back into his seat. Elias would call him paranoid and perhaps with justification and yet…and yet…

  What if Zaram, or someone like him, was running Seoc? That put this whole operation into a realm of jeopardy he hadn’t anticipated when he’d told Sahara it would be a simple in-and-out procedure.

  He glanced out the windows at the black night and twinkling lights far below. As their descent steepened, he saw the L.A. sprawl ahead.

  He covertly checked Sahara. She was staring out of the window on her side of the cabin, looking down at the lights. He could see her face in the reflection off the glass. As he looked, her gaze lifted and he realized with a start that she was staring at his reflection too.

  Through a glass, darkly. What had he got her into? Now he wasn’t sure.

  * * * * *

  When Sahara climbed down the steps, she was instantly bracketed by four men in dark suits. They didn’t crowd her—there was a good five feet between them and her but they stood at the four corners of an invisible square that had her at the centre. They were all tall and broad across the chest and she knew without question they were a security detail.

  “For me?” she asked Logan, as he stepped onto the tarmac beside her.

  “This is L.A.” He shrugged. “It’s been a while since you were in L.A. It’s perfectly normal now.”

  Remember who you’re playing, she reminded herself. She didn’t know much about Micky but she already knew the woman lived upon a different planet than surf-locked Sahara Taylor-Hughes. So she put her shoulders back and let Logan lead the way.

  It was still startling when the men in suits smoothly stepped along beside her.

  A limousine was waiting for them. It looked longer than her whole apartment. “Oh, jeez….” she whispered, her shoulders slumping.

  It didn’t improve when they got in the car. There were two bench seats facing each other, but Logan sat next to her, while Jacqui sat opposite. Logan pulled out a cell phone and dialled a single number. “Hi,” he said shortly and frowned as he listened.

  Jacquie was writing in a leather bound notebook, head down.

  Logan touched Sahara’s forearm. “Your cat. What’s her name?”

  “His name is Pippin,” she said. “Why?”

  He spoke into the phone instead. “Make sure she’s young and can live with cats. She’ll have to take care of Sahara’s. His name is Pippin.”

  Logan was arranging the care of her store.

  Sahara found it easier to
relax and look out the window after that. Gradually the streets grew cleaner, tidier and more luxurious. She had never been to Los Angeles before and watched with fascination. It was very different from San Francisco, yet there were comforting similarities.

  When they pulled up to the hotel her comfort fled. The hotel clearly earned a five star rating. It was glamorous and light-filled, with big potted palms dotting the marbled portico.

  “To the side door,” Logan said sharply and the limousine nosed forward again, swinging smoothly around the curved driveway and into a narrow lane that ran down the side of the hotel. It was badly lit and bumpy but a door opened ahead of them, spilling out light and revealing a gloved doorman holding the door.

  “We’re not the only ones who use the side entrance,” Logan murmured. “They’re used to it.”

  Micky wasn’t even in my stratosphere, Sahara realized. She looked down at her scuffed Converse sneakers and the ratty edge of her sarong and curled her hand into a fist to stop herself from brushing at her clothes or in any way hinting to Ms. Jacqui how uncomfortable this was making her feel. The woman was already studying her with close attention, her thin lips straight and expressionless.

  The limousine halted and the doorman opened the door. Another doorman stood at the steel door with a welcoming smile. “I have the service elevator waiting, Mr. Wilde,” he murmured, as Logan tugged her through the door. He led her down the long corridor lined with doors to a T-junction, where he turned left and headed to a pair of elevator doors facing each other across the corridor.

  Another red-coated doorman stood waiting with a gloved hand across the open doors of one of them, watching Logan and Sahara approach. She realized that not one of them had so much as glanced sideways at her clothing or appearance. They were either very professional, or else had truly seen it all as Logan had hinted.

  The elevator was lined in unadorned steel and covered in scratches and scrapes but it worked as smoothly as a public one. The lights flickered through the floors and stopped at the nineteenth, the next-to-last floor.

  They followed the doorman to the point where the corridor widened into a formal foyer. The foyer beyond seemed to be made of crystal, marble and suede and only two doors faced the elevator. The doorman led them to the closest one and pushed it open and held it aside.

  Sahara stepped inside and looked around. “Yeah, we’re not in Kansas anymore,” she whispered.

  * * * * *

  The hospital was tucked away in a quiet corner not far from Golden Gate Park. It was small and exclusive and more familiar with dealing with elective surgery clients than forced treatment of prisoners, so Grant Latham, MD took a while to absorb the fact that the big black man in front of him really meant it.

  Latham tried one more time. “You understand that the patient is barely conscious? He should be given at least twenty-four hours to recover before being subjected to any sort of questioning.”

  “You understand that he’s a prisoner, doc, right?” The black man didn’t smile.

  “This is all very irregular,” the doctor insisted. “I still feel it would be more appropriate to speak to the local precinct.”

  “I’ve explained that this isn’t a police matter,” the black man growled. “It’s a matter of national security. My activities fall under the jurisdiction of the Homeland Act. Calling in local cops is just going to annoy me and slow down my investigation. I showed you my credentials, I gave you the number to call for verification, you’ve agreed I have legitimate ID. It’s time to step aside and let me talk to the prisoner.”

  Latham had some experience dealing with stroppy, wealthy patients who wanted what was not best for them, so he kept his ground. “My Hippocratic Oath outweighs your Homeland Act, Mr. Longfellow. I would be neglecting my patient if I let you in there.”

  Longfellow just smiled. Moving slowly, he picked up the edge of his jacket and lifted it, just enough for Latham to see the butt of a black gun under the man’s armpit. “And my Smith & Wesson outweighs your Oath.”

  Latham scrambled for a sane response. “You’ve got to be kidding me! You’re going to pull a gun on me?”

  “You’re the one who sat down at the poker table, doc. I’m just raising the stakes.” Longfellow smiled. “So, you gonna let me in to see him, or have you got an ace tucked away somewhere?”

  Latham licked his lips and realized that his heart was thundering. “I insist I be there while you question him.” His mouth felt thick and awkward.

  The man shook his head. “We’re talking about national security here—”

  Latham held up his hand. “You can pull all the guns you want, Mr. Longfellow but that’s my terms. You can question him only if I am present.”

  Longfellow considered. “Sure, but you’re going to have to be debriefed after.” He grinned. “It ain’t a pretty process.”

  Latham wanted to ask what that meant but Longfellow was already heading down the corridor toward the ward where his John Doe was resting. Latham hurried after him. Longfellow was cat-soft on his feet—unusual in such a big man.

  The patient pressed back into the upright mattress when he saw his visitor and not for the first time, Latham wondered how the man had been injured. The emergency crew had found bruises and contusions in many places on the man’s body, while they were stemming the blood flow and stitching his wrist.

  Longfellow floated right up to the side of the bed. “Seoc, my boy, you’ve got more explaining to do.”

  “You have everything I can possibly explain to you, Mr. Elias.” The man, Seoc, shifted his bandaged arm against his side, as if he wanted to hide it. Or protect it.

  “Not even close, toothpick.” Longfellow shifted his weight and leaned over the bed, one big slab of hand resting on the raised side rail. “You like Logan Wilde, don’t you?”

  “He is a kind man,” Seoc said nervously.

  “Yeah and that’s the sort of thinking that gets you into trouble. You were there when his wife got killed, right?”

  “Ms. Micky?” Seoc’s eyes widened and genuine hurt shadowed them. After a long moment, he finished softly, “I was there.”

  “She would never have got killed if Logan hadn’t pushed her into his affairs. What kind of a nice guy does something like that to his own wife?”

  Seoc didn’t answer.

  “Wilde ain’t a nice guy,” Longfellow continued. “But compared to me, he’s a fairy fucking godmother. You ain’t talking to Logan anymore, Seoc. Now it’s just you and me and what you have to appreciate is that I’m the wild card.”

  Seoc’s eyes seemed to be getting larger, as he stared up at Longfellow with what looked like growing terror.

  “I don’t care about the price of things. I don’t care who gets in the way and I’m not really big on human rights. So consider this well. Thanks to you we had to bring that red airhead into this and I agree that she’s going to get me that notebook, so there’s an upside to that one. But the problem is, Seoc, you know who she is plus you’ve been talking to some interesting people. You’ve been talking way too much. It makes me unhappy to think you might have mentioned the redhead to your new friends.”

  Seoc swallowed and Latham could hear the dry little click from where he was standing at the side of the room.

  Longfellow was getting a lot closer, now. He was leaning right over, his face bare inches from Seoc’s. The patient glanced frantically at Latham and he knew what the man was silently saying. How can you let this happen to me? Latham wasn’t sure he could answer.

  Longfellow grabbed Seoc’s face and wrenched it back to make the man look at him. Latham jerked forward in reaction but the man’s other big hand shot out and up, in a silent and imperative demand to halt. Latham halted, amazed at the way the big man had taken control of the situation despite his own finely tuned sense of power as a physician.

  Longfellow hadn’t taken his eyes from Seoc’s face. “No one in the world cares what happens to you anymore, toothpick. Even the doc, there, is just standi
ng and watching. He’s doing what I tell him to do. Get it?”

  Seoc nodded his head a fraction of an inch inside the pinch that Longfellow’s fingers and thumb had on either side of his cheekbones.

  “You’re going to tell me who your new friend is, Seoc, because that’s the only way you’re going to get out of this. Right now, you’re just a guy who knows about the redhead and therefore making me unhappy that you’re around. But if I knew who your boss is, then I might be able to see you as something more useful than I find you now. Do you get it, Seoc? Do you understand your new role in the grand scheme of things?”

  Seoc’s chest was rising and falling. No, it was heaving. Latham swallowed, mentally swearing at himself to stop this outrageous abuse but he couldn’t get his feet to move, or his mouth to open.

  “He will kill me,” Seoc whispered hoarsely.

  Longfellow smiled. “Only if he finds out. Only if he knows. I’m the one you have to worry about, because I’m the one with my hand around your face.”

  Tears built in the man’s eyes and spilled down his cheeks.

  “Do you doubt I couldn’t crush your skull by just squeezing a little more?” Longfellow asked. He leaned down to whisper right by the man’s ear. “Tell me.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sahara woke to broad sunshine streaming in her window and stretched like a cat. The sheets smelt strange and it wasn’t her bed but she had slept with unusual soundness, all the same.

  Los Angeles, she reminded herself. They were in Los Angeles, in a hotel on Wiltshire Boulevard. It was a short flight from San Francisco but a whole world away.

  Almost as if she had been monitoring Sahara’s sleep, Jacqui stepped through the bedroom door, closed it softly and smiled politely. “Good morning,” she said, her voice perfectly modulated. She was dressed in another suit this morning, a slim-fitting black suede number with a soft white silk shirt that folded in a vee at the neck. Her hair was up and a notebook rested in her crooked arm. “Are you ready to begin the transformation?”