Choke Point (12 page)

“Because the bullets came from different guns. One from a 9 mm. The other from a 22.” There was more, odd things he couldn’t explain and didn’t feel comfortable discussing—not with her. Not yet. “Two bullets. Two shooters.”

“Mother didn’t say anything about a second gunman.”

“No. She didn’t.” He could have said more, but wanted to give her time to work through the information.

She stood there, frozen in the doorway, the wheels turning. “Maybe she didn’t see the other guy; it must have been pretty frightening.”

“Probably,” he agreed, though he didn’t believe it. Billie Rynerson didn’t frighten, and she didn’t miss much. “But that’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“Two shooters from two different directions. That doesn’t sound like a botched robbery to me.”

“You’re saying—” She hesitated, thinking about it. “A professional hit?” She shook her head, rejecting the idea. “No. You’re wrong. If it was a hit, Daddy would be dead. They would have made sure.”

It didn’t take her long to identify
that
inconsistency, but that was only one of many, and only a small part of the wild-ass theory he wasn’t about to share. “There’s more.” He pulled Jake’s smartphone from his pocket, switched on the power, and navigated over to the appointment calendar. “Look at this.”

She came across the room and leaned over his shoulder, her scent soapy and fresh, her damp hair slicked straight back from her forehead. “What?”

“It’s your father’s cell phone. I retrieved it from the hospital.” He navigated over to the appointment calendar, tapped June 27, and pointed to the 10
P.M
. entry: Mei-li Chiang. “That’s Jake’s last appointment. The day he was shot.”

“Uh-oh.” She stepped back.

That was not the reaction he expected, not even close. “You know her?”

“No, of course not. I just…never mind.”

Never mind
wasn’t on the agenda—he was getting enough evasion from Billie. “What? You recognize the name?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just—” She sucked her cheeks into hollows and rolled her eyes. “It’s just that…it looks like Daddy might be up to his old ways.”

It took Simon a moment to process the remark. “Are you talking about another woman?”
Stupid question,
of course that’s what she was talking about. “Don’t be crazy, Billie was with him.”

“Unless she wasn’t. That would explain why she didn’t see a second gunman. She’s trying to cover up for that horny old bastard, make excuses for him, just like she always has. He was out tomcatting, you can bet on it. Why else would he be meeting a woman in that neighborhood? That time of night?”

“You’re way off base.” At least that’s what he hoped. “I knew something was wrong with the story, and I pressed her about it. She finally admitted Jake was trying to set up a meeting.”

“It sounds like she’s feeding you a line. Why would she have lied in the first place?”

“She was embarrassed. Said she didn’t want to admit that Jake was willing to pay a bribe.”

“Mother? Embarrassed? Are we talking about the same person? That woman has balls like the Jolly Green Giant. Please, don’t tell me you believe that
embarrassed
crap?”

Actually he didn’t. Billie was still holding back, still waffling around the truth, but he couldn’t believe Jake was on the prowl—he loved his wife too much. “It was a trap. He was lured into the area.”

“And just how did you arrive at that conclusion?”

He toggled over to a text entry linked to the appointment. “Look at these directions. It took me over an hour to trace the route. Someone was running them in circles.”

She stared at him, incomprehension in her eyes. “Why?”

“To make sure they didn’t have security.”

“That’s a pretty big assumption.”

No, it was experience—El Pato had done the same thing to him in Cali—but mentioning the man who had killed her husband didn’t seem like such a brilliant idea. “Call it intuition.” Something most woman considered completely reasonable.
Assumption, no. Intuition, yes.
The logic was beyond his neolithic comprehension.

“So you’re saying…?”

“I’m saying the shooting wasn’t a random street crime. Maybe they were trying to kill him, maybe they only meant to scare him off, but it’s all connected. We find out who’s behind the shooting, we’ll find out who’s behind the accidents here at the Pearl.”

“And just how do you plan to do that?”

He tapped his finger on Big Jake’s last appointment. “Mei-li Chiang.”

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

Central Macau, the old village

Wednesday, 4 July 21:18:12 GMT +0800

James Atherton pushed open the door to the underground bistro and stepped aside. “This okay?”

Kyra nodded, her saliva glands reacting instantly to the smell of grilled lamb and fresh mint. “Smells great.” She paused, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light before stepping inside. “Looks even better.”

The place was subdued and intimate, with lots of candles that cast soft flickering shadows across the tables and up the dark brick walls. He seemed to know all the good places. Not the ones found in guidebooks, but small and quiet. And very dark. With each successive night the places seemed to get smaller and darker and more intimate. If things got any more intimate, they would be eating breakfast in bed, and the thought of it scared the bejesus out of her. Was she ready? Was Atherton someone she could build a life with? He certainly had the assets: sophisticated and smart, with a good sense of humor and impeccable manners. All the important stuff. And it didn’t hurt that it came wrapped in such a nice package. So why the hesitation?

He stepped forward, peering into her eyes. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course. Why?”

“You looked, uh…confused, I guess.”

You have no idea,
but before she could think of an appropriate response, they were facing a small man wearing a crisp white apron wrapped high across his stomach. He bowed, his wrinkled skin the color and texture of old leather, then led them to a corner table at the back of the room. He waited patiently as they settled into their seats, then took their drink order, and withdrew. Atherton leaned forward over the small table, his amber eyes sparkling in the candlelight, his voice barely a whisper. “You look especially beautiful tonight.”

She smiled, trying her best to look pleased. Such compliments always made her nervous. And suspicious. Was it her, or was it the Rynerson money? Atherton was different, she knew that; he had money, had his own company, and hadn’t shown the slightest interest in the Rynerson empire.
Loosen up, lady, the guy likes you.
“Thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

He smiled, a slow tentative smile that ended before it reached his eyes. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t.” Was it that obvious? “It’s just—” She could feel her face growing warm with embarrassment. “I don’t take compliments very well.”

“I understand. I’m sure you’ve heard that one a thousand times.”

“It’s not that. It’s…”

“They make you suspicious,” he said. “Does he like me, or that I’m the daughter of Big Jake Rynerson?”

She nodded, feeling foolish and transparent. “Something like that.”

The smile expanded to his eyes. “Maybe I’m just trying to get you into bed.”

“Are you?”

“Absolutely.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“Patient.”

That she believed. Despite all the time they had spent together, the only thing that had passed between them was a good night kiss on the cheek. “Patience is good.”

He nodded and sat back. “You’re not ready. It’s a big step.”

It aggravated her—the fact that he was so right. “It’s been a while.”

“I understand. It was easier when we were young. No baggage. No pressure. No instant appraisal.”

“Instant appraisal?”

“That’s the way I see it. After a certain age, there’s no such thing as a casual date. No time for that. The clock is ticking. You need to bag someone. Would this person make a good partner? What are his assets? What are his liabilities? By the second date most women are asking, ‘where is this going?’” He shook his head, amused at the thought. “Hell, I was thinking dinner, a little conversation,
maaaybe
a romp between the sheets. She’s thinking dinner, a white picket fence, and babies.”

She could barely suppress a sigh of relief. Not only was he right, he was clearly in no rush to bag her, or the Rynerson fortune. “I get it, you don’t like babies.”

Though she meant to be funny, he seemed to take her seriously, his expression stony as he rolled his hand from side to side, a
comme cí, comme ça
gesture. “Depends how they’re cooked.”

The words, delivered in such deadpan fashion, caught her so completely off guard that for a moment she thought she might actually lose control of her bladder, but somehow managed to hold on through an uncontrollable onslaught of laughter. She had barely caught her breath when the waiter appeared with drinks and menus. Eyes still swimming, she slid her menu across the table to Atherton. “Surprise me.”

He quickly scanned the single handwritten page, then without the slightest hesitation rattled off his decision in rapid-fire Cantonese. The old man nodded his approval and withdrew, silent as a ghost.

She raised her glass in salute, offering the traditional toast,
“Gon-bui.”

“Dry the cup,” he responded, converting her Chinese into English, then with a single swallow drained the small glass of
Moutai,
a local wine distilled from millet.

“How many languages do you speak, anyway?”

He shrugged, as if his abilities were an embarrassment, and refilled their glasses. “Five or six. I can muddle through a few others.”

From what she had seen, the man didn’t
muddle through
anything, which was obviously why the State Department had chosen him to help coordinate the final details for the most important trade agreement since NAFTA.

“Any word on your father?” he asked, clearly wanting to change the subject.

She shook her head, her lighthearted feelings evaporating like water in the desert.

Atherton reached out and squeezed her hand. “He’s going to make it.”

She nodded. Of course he was going to make it—the infection had been subdued and his wounds were healing—but as what? A vegetable? The thought was repugnant. Unacceptable. Not her father. Not Big Jake Rynerson. Better he was dead.

“Full recovery,” Atherton said, as if reading her mind. “Guaranteed.”

It was one of the things she liked most about the man—his confident optimism—and she did her best to match his enthusiasm. “I’ll drink to that.”

As they clinked glasses, the waiter arrived with a basket of steamed bread and a cauldron of bouillabaisse. He ladled heaping portions of the pink broth overflowing with fish and lobster into large bowls, removed their half-finished drinks, replaced their glasses and the
Moutai
with a bottle of white Bordeaux, then melted into the shadows. Kyra leaned forward, savoring the spicy aroma, a tomatoey combination of fennel and garlic and saffron. “Smells wonderful.”

He nodded. “It’s the best in Macau. Simon doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

Though she realized Atherton really wanted to spend time with her, he was always gracious enough to invite Simon, who always found a reason to decline the invitation. She was tired of making excuses. “What can I say, the guy’s a workaholic.”

“I admire his dedication.”

But it was more than dedication, she was sure of that. Both men were like a couple of wary dogs, sniffing around to see what the other was all about, not quite trusting their instincts. Similar, she realized, to her own feelings.

Atherton lifted his wine glass but didn’t drink, holding it in both hands, looking at her over the rim. “Is there some problem I should know about?”

“Not at all,” she answered. “These three days of dry weather have been a godsend. Mr. Quan assures me we’re on schedule. Maybe a little ahead.”

“That’s wonderful news. Excellent. I thought something might have happened. That was the reason Simon couldn’t—”

“No, no,” she interrupted, “it doesn’t have anything to do with the Pearl.”

“It?”

“It’s nothing.” She didn’t really believe that, but was afraid Simon’s theory about the shooting would sound too far-fetched, that it would diminish him in Atherton’s eyes. Why that should bother her so much, she wasn’t sure, but it did. In her mind she was always comparing the two, hoping they would like each other. “Really.”

“Really?” He smiled, as if he found her avoidance amusing, and crossed his eyes in mocking disbelief. “I don’t
thiiii-nk
so.”

She knew she was getting sucked in by his disarming smile, but couldn’t resist. “Promise not to laugh?”

He held up his right arm, two fingers extended. “Scout’s honor.”

She took a sip of wine, gathering her thoughts, wanting to keep it simple and real. “Simon thinks the attack on my father was planned. That he was lured into a trap.”

All the features on Atherton’s face seemed to shift and resettle: from shock, to confusion, to skepticism. “Are you—” He shook his head, as if trying to wave off his own doubts. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

“That’s no laughing matter.”

“No, of course not. I was afraid—” Afraid of what, that he would think less of Simon? “Afraid you might not believe me.”

“Of course I believe you. Simon’s no alarmist. Has he gone to the authorities?”

“No,” she answered, relieved that he was taking the idea seriously. “The details are a little fuzzy.”

He leaned back and folded his arms. “Your mother said it was a botched robbery.”

“Yes.”

“She’s changed her story?”

“No.”

He nodded slowly, the picture coming into focus. “So what is it Simon intends to do?”