John Miller - Smoke and Mirrors

“Then we’ll be here at nine sharp.”

As Klein showed Winter to the door, he said, “Mr. Massey, the thing to keep in mind is that I will not tolerate any threat to my family’s financial well-being.”

Alexa took Jason Parr’s cash out of her purse in the elevator riding up to the eighth floor. She looked in at her Glock and her badge case and frowned. Most women her age had never touched a gun, much less fired one. How many of them carried one in their purse ten hours a day as they might a tube of lipstick? But since she spent most of her time behind a desk, the gun in her purse was hardly more than a little extra ballast, which she was quite accustomed to by now.

The wide polished oak doors opening into the suites were hand-carved. According to the signs, there were twenty-five suites on the eighth floor, reserved for high rollers. Eight-twenty-two was down the hall on the right. She did a double take as she passed 825, which had double doors inside a foyer protected by closed wrought-iron gates.

Alexa stopped at 822 and tapped gently. “Come in, Alexa!” she heard Jason Parr yell through the heavy wood.

From deep in the suite, Jason called, “I’ll be right with you, I was just getting out of the shower when you called. Make yourself at home while I get dressed.”

“Okay, Jason,” she yelled back as she walked into the living room. “I can only stay a minute.” No expense had been spared in furnishing the living room. Instead of a medieval theme, modern furniture was placed on an oriental carpet, which made a horseshoe around a marble fireplace. The curtains were open, revealing large sealed windows, the Delta growing dark outside. To her left was an open kitchen with light marble floors, stainless appliances, pickled wood cabinets, and granite countertops.

“I could grow accustomed to this,” she called out.

“We sure ain’t in Kansas anymore,” he hollered back. “I’m almost presentable.”

“I brought your money back. I can’t keep it. I appreciate the gesture though.”

“Whatever you say. Just put it on the coffee table, would you?”

Alexa walked into the room and stopped at the large coffee table. She was about to put the cash on the table when she saw, evenly spaced out in the center of the slab of frosted glass, four red toothpicks. She picked one up and smelled it.

Realization gave way to a thick disorienting fear. She let the currency in her hand fall to the table as she reached into her purse for the Glock. She knew-as she sensed a figure rushing up from behind her-that she’d never get it out in time.

She turned, registered that the man coming at her was narrower than Jason Parr, and felt a stream of cold liquid hit her face-searing her eyes. Even so, she almost got the Glock out.

After Massey left, Kurt Klein sat in silence for several minutes, thinking over his options. All things considered, five million was a bargain. Even if it were not, purchasing the land from Mrs. Gardner was the only move he could make without changing the location and starting over, which was not an option. Time was money, and every hour of delay would be financially painful, because his family’s entire empire depended on the continuing trust of a trio of international financiers. These men, who didn’t know better, believed Klein sold them points in RRI’s profits as a personal favor. If they lived, they might find out that Klein had oversold future profits to nine investors at an inflation of almost three hundred percent. However, Klein counted on the fact that for a fee, Paulus Styer would whittle down the money men, and the percentages, to something he could live with.

Klein was in financial straits because of unfortunate choices he’d made regarding the futures of new markets and acquisitions that had unexpectedly tanked. His financial balance sheets were fiction, and if the River Royale resort didn’t open on schedule, everything could collapse like a house of cards. He was a man on the edge.

Styer was the only problem that had not yet been solved. Kurt would call him off, pay him a nice bonus, and send him home until he required his services again-and he was going to need to call on him in the near future.

Kurt placed the five tiny figures from the scale model on the table before him. He lit a cigarette and studied them before separating the two mystery men from the three deaths he was aware of. He had to talk to Styer and get some assurances.

He reached into his pocket and squeezed the key fob he kept close. Seconds after being summoned electronically, Finch walked into the room.

“Steffan, I need my laptop.”

Finch strode to the master bedroom and returned with the laptop, opened it on the table before Kurt, and stepped out to allow his boss some privacy.

Kurt watched the AirPort symbol darken as it found the hotel’s wireless router and connected to the Internet. Kurt went to his private encrypted site before typing the hyperlink to the page he had used to communicate with Styer for the past few years, and keyed:

New developments require an immediate halt to your assignment. I am purchasing some land at nine P.M. tonight. I understand you may have some company. Do remember that young ladies should be home before ten P.M. Please acknowledge receipt of this message.

After he closed the link, he typed an e-mail to the GM of RRI in Manhattan, which read:

Harvey, RRI paying 5 million US dollars for parcel C tonight. Have that amount in bearer bonds delivered immediately. Alert Jerry Cunningham to come at once with papers for the transaction. Kurt

He sent the e-mail. Klein smiled. Even though the relief he felt at that moment would be temporary, any break in the chaos of commerce was welcome.

Winter climbed into his jeep, slid his Reeder.45 from under the seat, holstered it, and drove toward the plantation at seventy miles an hour, checking his rearview mirror every few seconds for a tail. He was now certain of several things. When Kurt Klein had immediately agreed to pay the five million, Winter knew that Klein had not only been informed of the land situation all along, but he believed Klein himself had put Styer in play to make it happen.

Klein would have to call Styer off the family and go through with the purchase, but Winter figured that would have little, if any, effect on Paulus Styer’s intention to kill him.

Winter approached the roadblock at Leigh’s driveway, slowed and rolled down the window so the deputy could see him.

“How’s it going?” Roy Bishop said, slinging the AR-15 onto his wide shoulder.

“Never better,” Winter said. “Any traffic?”

“Nope. Cold and quiet. Had a Memphis TV crew come up, asking to see Ms. Gardner, but I shooed them off. The sheriff is expecting you.” Winter rolled the window back up and drove toward the house.

When Alexa woke up, she was groggy and lying in an extremely large bathtub, enclosed by marble on three sides. The frosted glass sliding doors were closed. Her wrists were handcuffed behind her. She was wearing only her bra and panties, her suit and blouse on hangers suspended from one of six showerheads above her. Her ankles were joined with cable ties, and a strip of duct tape covered her mouth.

Classical music played from hidden speakers. Her head ached, and she remembered the stream of chloroform hitting her face.

Had Styer partnered with Jason Parr, who had masqueraded as a pig farmer? They could have seen her get out of Brad’s truck. If Parr hadn’t won, and put the money in her jacket, she never would have come back. Winter had told her that nothing was beyond Styer’s diabolical planning ability. She cursed her naivete, squirming against the cold marble.