Samurai Game (Ghostwalkers, #10)(2)
Brenda’s body slipped to the tiled floor from the edge of the basin. With gloved fingers, the woman threw a handful of water onto the floor around Brenda’s feet and the soles of her shoes, crouched to snap one stiletto heel, and jerked the envelope from Brenda’s purse, all in one smooth, silent move. As she stood, she removed a tiny camera placed just over the mirror and seemed to disappear in the blink of an eye.
“Brenda?” Sheila called out tentatively.
The water continued to run in the sink. Sheila frowned and glanced under the door of the stall. Brenda was lying on the floor. “Brenda?” she said again, her voice cracking. There was no answer, only the sound of the water running.
Sheila continued to stare under the door, frozen in place. She couldn’t see any other feet, but Brenda’s shoe was off her foot, the heel broken. A thin stream of red ran along the cracks, moving in an ever-widening puddle. She gasped and jumped up. Behind her the toilet automatically flushed and she nearly screamed. Very slowly, with the tips of her fingers, she pushed open the door and peered out. Brenda lay on the floor, the front of her skull smashed from where she had slipped on the water. Her clothes, instead of looking sexy and tempting, revealed her for what she was—a highly paid prostitute, her body obscenely displayed there on the bathroom floor.
Swearing under her breath, Sheila quickly took toilet paper and opened Brenda’s purse to retrieve the envelope of cash. It was gone. Her heart jumped. Whitney would never believe her. The money had to be on the body somewhere, and she had to find it or he’d think she stole it. That would be just like him. She crouched down beside Brenda and looked her over. There didn’t seem to be a place she could have concealed the envelope.
Voices just outside the door had her jumping up and backing away, back toward the stall door. She let out a scream and stood, covering her mouth, her gaze frantically searching the body as the bathroom door burst open and three women came to an abrupt halt and added their voices to hers. At once chaos erupted.
*
Harry Barnes, aide to Senator Lupan, scowled as he pushed his BMW to the limit on the curved mountain road. Why in the hell had Sheila Benet picked such a ridiculous place for a meeting? There were plenty of safe places downtown where civilization reigned. He was allergic to grass. To bugs. To stupid cows. He was finally about to score with the woman he’d been chasing for three straight months and he wasn’t going to blow his chance because Sheila had suddenly gotten paranoid. They could meet under the nose of the senator and the old man wouldn’t notice.
He punched a button and music flooded the car. He set his teeth as he glanced at his GPS. Another three miles. Stupid, stupid woman. Maybe he could call and his date would understand he’d be an hour late. Sheila had said not to make any calls, that if someone was on to them, they’d pick up his cell phone call. Damn. He slammed his flat palm against the steering wheel in pure frustration. No one was on to them. Why should they be? How could they be? And no one would dare to monitor his cell phone.
“Friggin’ Sheila,” he snapped and ordered his phone to call the sexy Miss Catherine. She looked very good in her prim little pencil skirts and red silk blouses as she sat behind a desk, her long hair coiled in that uptight little bun. He had images of unwrapping her like a Christmas gift stuck in his head and until he made it happen, he couldn’t move on. He talked for the next couple of minutes, persuading her to wait for him, that he’d make it worth her while. He hung up feeling smug, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat. Using the senator as an excuse was genius. What woman wouldn’t be impressed that he was so indispensable to a senator that he couldn’t get away until the senator was ready to call it quits and go home?
Smirking, he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, pleased with himself. “That’s how it’s done,” he told himself aloud and grinned at his reflection in the rearview mirror. For a few moments there, he’d forgotten how good he was at playing the game. Now that he knew for certain his evening’s fun wasn’t lost, his mood swung back to cheerful—after all, Whitney was going to pay him handsomely for keeping the old senator in line. Not hard to do at all these days. It only took a little work on his knees and the man was putty in his hands.
Sheila Benet’s car was parked to one side exactly at the mile marker she’d told him, leaving enough room for him to pull over. He slipped out of the car and stretched. It was a beautiful night, the stars overhead and a half-moon shining brightly down on them.
“Hey, Sheila, how’s it going?” he greeted as he sauntered over to her car. “Nice night for all this cloak-and-dagger drama.”
Sheila stuck her head out the window. Her car was still running. “No one followed you?”
“I don’t think there’s a cow alive on this road tonight. I haven’t seen headlights in the last fifteen minutes.” He resisted rolling his eyes as he held out his hand for the fat envelope. “Senator Lupan will do exactly as I ask him. Tell Whitney he has no worries on that score. The old man can barely breathe without his oxygen. I keep him isolated and happy. He has no family; there’s only me, and no one realizes just how bad that last stroke really was. He relies very heavily on me now.”
“He can’t step down until this is done, Harry,” Sheila reiterated as she placed the envelope in the aide’s outstretched palm.
“No worries. He’ll hang in there, if for no other reason than for something to do. He’s sick, but his mind is active and he needs the interaction and the adulation his position provides. I stroke his ego and a few other things for him and he falls right into line.” Harry flashed her his most charming smile. “It’s all good, Sheila. He’ll vote the way we want him to. I guarantee it.”