Choke Point (9 page)

“I don’t see why,” Atherton said, his tone puzzled. “It was his suggestion.”

“I know, but it’s my mother. I should have taken the first shift.”

“Your mother’s a wonderful woman, she’ll understand.”

Kyra nodded, not about to debate the point, but when it came to her mother, nothing was understood. For the last couple of years it seemed like all they did was pick at each other—mother-daughter bullshit. Not that she didn’t understand the dynamic, it was typical animal behavior, and the human species wasn’t much different from any other: everyone trying to establish their territory. But why now, twenty years after she left the nest? “Yes, but that doesn’t make her Simon’s responsibility.”

“I’m sure he’s being well compensated.”

“That’s not true.” She heard the defensiveness in her voice and quickly softened her tone. “He’s here as a friend.” An innocent phrase, she realized, with modern-day implications. “To my father.”

“Oh.” He smiled awkwardly, clearly embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—”

“It’s okay,” she interrupted, trying to refocus the conversation. “You didn’t understand the relationship.”
Relationship,
now why did she use that word?

“Clearly.” He smiled tentatively, eyes curious but friendly, like a dog approaching a stranger. “I had no idea you were so close.”

She heard the question in his voice but chose to ignore it. “Here’s my ride.”

Even before the wheels stopped turning, the security men were out of their vehicles and taking up protective positions. The two men stationed outside the entrance immediately converged on the door, one with a large umbrella. Atherton barked a one-note laugh, an eruption of surprise. “Wow, I didn’t realize you were so—” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “So well protected.”

Kyra could feel a wave of heat rising up the back of her neck. “Mother’s a little paranoid after what happened.”

He nodded in an understanding way. “Can’t blame her.” Then he smiled, just a little, as if struck by an amusing thought.

“What?”

“I was going to offer you and Mr. Leonidovich a tour of the city, but—” He motioned toward the phalanx of bodyguards standing patiently in the rain. “I guess you don’t need me for that.”

Though she suspected the offer was not really intended for Simon, she appreciated the man’s quick recovery and gracious manner. “On the contrary, a personal tour by someone who knows the area sounds great.”

C
HAPTER
T
EN

The Pacific Pearl, Taipa Island, Macau

Friday, 29 June 10:02:54 GMT +0800

Simon stepped off the elevator and stopped, momentarily stunned by the sweeping view and vast expanse of open space. The place was truly spectacular, even beyond Billie’s gushing description.

Everywhere he looked there were people, from the casino floor far below, to the revolving cocktail lounge high above, craftsman of every ilk—electricians and carpenters; audio and video techs; carpet layers stretching out giant rolls of material; painters painting; stencilers stenciling; women on their hands and knees cleaning grout and shining tiles; men on short aluminum stilts hanging wallpaper—everyone intent on their task, all working like bees in a hive, their efforts coalescing into one deep sonorous drone.

And there was nothing, he realized, he could do to prevent another accident. There were too many people, too many opportunities for mayhem, too many ways something could happen. If he was going to help, he would need to figure out who was behind the mayhem
before
something happened.

Despite the frenzy of activity, most of the open walkways that circled the atrium were deserted, all the guest rooms finished and locked and sealed with tape, ready for the initial onslaught of visitors. Trying not to spill the two large, open-topped containers of café mocha, Simon made his way toward a broad-shouldered Caucasian man in a blazer and slacks standing post outside Kyra’s suite. “Good morning.”

The young man dipped his chin, his expression as impassive as a stone god. “What can I do for you, sir?”

Juggling the two Styrofoam cups into one hand, Simon pulled his new security badge and clipped it to his pocket. “You could open the door.”

“Sorry, sir, but no one is to be admitted without a verbal confirmation from the occupant.”

Simon eyed the man’s name tag, pleased that he had not given up
the occupant
’s name to a complete stranger, security pass or not. “That’s right, Paul, and I’m the one who issued that order. Would you please check with Ms. Rynerson?”

Without taking his eyes off the containers of hot liquid, the man pulled a small two-way radio off his belt and pressed the
TALK
button. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

A good fifteen seconds ticked by before a soft, croaking “yes” reverberated back through the tiny speaker.

“I have a Mr.—” He paused, a frown of consternation as he studied Simon’s badge.

“Le-on-o-vich,” Simon offered, enunciating each syllable.

“He’s okay,” Kyra answered before the guard had a chance to repeat it. “Just a sec.” There was a shuffle of bed covers, followed by a soft buzz as she unlocked the door with a remote. The guard gave Simon a little salute, finger to brow, and pushed open the door.

Simon stepped inside and the sounds of construction faded to a distant purr as the door closed behind him. The air smelled pure and clean, with the faint scent of fresh-cut flowers. From what he could see in the dim light the suite was moderate in size—central living area, small dining room, four-stool bar, two bedrooms—decorated with floral prints and Chinese watercolors. “Where are you?”

“In here,” she answered, her words almost swallowed up by the plush fabrics and blackout drapes that covered the windows. “And unless you have coffee, I’m going to order that nice young man to shoot you.”

He followed her voice into the room and snapped on the light. She was sitting slumped on the edge of the bed, eyes closed, head drooping, blond hair spiking out in every direction, hands dangling between her legs. “I feel like roadkill.”

“You sound more like a wounded frog.” A very attractive frog wearing white drawstring shorts and a pink tank-top camisole. “And you look even worse,” which wasn’t exactly true. Somehow, despite the tornado-victim appearance, she looked sexy and virginal, more like a teenager than a mother in her thirties.

“I’ll get you for that, Leonidovich.”

“You should be so lucky.” He said it without thinking—some knee-jerk, competitive reaction to the thought of her and Atherton leaving the hospital together—and immediately tried to turn it into a joke. “Because contrary to what you might think,
Rynerson
—” He punched the name, forcing her to look up. “I’m better than
okay.
Much better.”

“What?” She squinted at him, a bewildered frown creasing her forehead. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You just told yon gatekeeper I was ‘okay.’ A measure of mediocrity to which I take great umbrage.”

“
Aaah,
the fragile ego of the hairy beast.” She shook her head in mock disappointment. “And I thought you were different, Leonidovich.”

He held up the two grande-sized containers. “Play nice, Rynerson, I come bearing gifts.”

She grinned, placed her hands on her knees, and levered herself to her feet. “You are my god, Simon Leonidovich. I bow to your wisdom and benevolence.”

“That’s all I ask, a modicum of devotion and worship.”

She stretched, a graceful cat waking up after a long nap, then snatched away one of the mochas. “What happened? Someone was supposed to wake me at six.”

“I asserted my new authority and countermanded the order.” Though she was wearing more than most women did at the beach, it was difficult not to take a little sightseeing tour. “I knew that flight was going to catch up with you sooner or later.”

“Apparently it did.” She sipped at the coffee, checking the temperature, then with a robust slurp inhaled an inch off the top. “What about you? Get any sleep?”

“Some.” If a twenty-minute catnap on the ride between the hospital and hotel qualified as sleep. “I’m okay.”

She fluttered her eyelashes. “Oh, no, sir, you’re so much better than
okay.
”

Smartass.
“That was a test. I was just checking to see if you were paying attention.”

Her expression suddenly mutated from teasing to troubled, as if the caffeine had finally reached her brain receptors. “What about my father? Any change?”

He shook his head.

“Mother?”

“Still there. I tried to get her to leave, but…well, you know Billie.”

She turned and started toward the bathroom. “I need to get over there.”

“Not this morning. We have a meeting with Li Quan at eleven o’clock.”

She spun around, her silk camisole twirling up and exposing her flat stomach. “You can do that without me.”

“I could, but I won’t. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Mr. Li Quan is not going to appreciate some idiot who doesn’t know a damn thing about the resort business looking over his shoulder. You’re a Rynerson, he’s got no choice but to accept your presence.”

“But—”

“No buts,” he interrupted. “We have to do this as a team.”

“But what about mother? She’s got to sleep sometime. She can’t just—”

“
Can’t
is not a word you’ll find in the Billie Rynerson dictionary. She won’t leave, whether you’re there or not, and your father doesn’t know the difference. The only way you can help him, is to help me.”

She hesitated, as if searching her brain for an argument, then apparently gave up the quest and agreed. “You’re right.” She shook her head, the expression in her eyes remote and reflective. “I shouldn’t have been so tough on her last night.”

“Trust me, she understands.”

“Not likely.”

“No, really, we talked most of the night. She gets it. You’re worried about your father. She’s worried about her husband. It’s as simple as that.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right, simple as that.”

“Exactly,” though it was obvious they both knew better.

“She didn’t sleep at all?”

“No, but I had an orderly put a cot in the observation room. She promised to use it.”

“Fat chance.” She took a deep breath and let it go, a sigh of resignation. “What did you think of James Atherton?”

He shrugged, the abrupt change of subject catching him off guard, then realized how petty such a casual show of indifference might appear. “He seemed like a nice guy.”
If you like tall, suave, and good-looking.

“He offered to give us a tour of Macau.”

An offer, Simon was sure, meant for two, not three. “That was nice of him. When?”

“Five this afternoon.”

“Sounds good.” More than enough time to come up with a reasonable excuse.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

The Pacific Pearl, Taipa Island, Macau

Friday, 29 June 10:58:36 GMT +0800

Never moving from behind his desk, Li Quan stood and bowed his head in welcome. A small man, with intelligent eyes and amber-colored skin, he was dressed in a dark navy suit over a starched white shirt and matching navy tie. He extended his hand toward two stylish but very uncomfortable-looking steel-mesh chairs facing the desk. “Please.” In sharp contrast to the frenzy of activity taking place just beyond the door, the office was silent and serene—incredibly stark, sterile, and well organized. Decorated in pastel shades of gray, with glass and chrome furnishings, the room seemed perfectly suited to its occupant’s formal manner. “I understand your father’s condition has improved dramatically.”

Kyra nodded. “That’s correct.” Dressed in an open-neck cotton blouse and tailored slacks, she looked fresh and rested, her damp hair combed straight back from her face, giving her the chiseled look of a high-fashion model. “The doctor is very optimistic.”

“This is good to hear. Your mother has tried to keep me informed. Unfortunately, I have not yet had time to visit the hospital and pay my respects.”

“We understand. You have a hotel to open.”

“There is still much to be accomplished,” he continued, obviously feeling the need to explain. “With all the rain…” He gestured toward the window, then rolled his eyes heavenward, as if to say:
It is in the hands of God.
“We have crews working around the clock, but…”

Simon hardly listened to the words, they sounded rehearsed, and concentrated on the man’s verbal intonations and body language, hoping for some insight into his character. Quan continued unabated—all his attention and comments directed toward Kyra—summarizing the progress of construction, answering questions never asked, but not once referring to the problems that threatened to delay the opening. After fifteen minutes, Simon had heard enough about nothing. “Excuse me, Mr. Quan, but what about all the accidents?”

“Most unfortunate,” Quan answered. “Very bad
joss.
”

“And you believe that’s all it is?” Simon asked, being careful not to sound accusatory.

“Construction accidents are common, Mr. Leonidovich. A certain number of problems are to be expected,
neh
?”

“Yes, but—” He hesitated, knowing he was venturing into unwelcome territory, and that he needed to choose his words carefully. “You don’t think it’s possible someone might be trying to sabotage the opening?”

“Possible?” Quan smiled tolerantly, his tone a touch condescending. “‘All things are possible until they are proved impossible.’”

Simon nodded, recognizing the quote. “‘And even the impossible may only be so, as of now.’ Pearl S. Buck.”

“Very good, Mr. Leonidovich. You are obviously an educated man.”

Kyra snorted softly, a mixture of admiration and incredulity. “The man’s got a brain like an elephant. He reads everything and forgets nothing.”