Erica Spindler - Cause for Alarm

Luke spent the hours after his meeting with Kate wandering through the French Quarter, refamiliarizing himself with the sights, sounds and smells that were New Orleans. He enjoyed beignets and café au lait at the Café du Monde, walked along the moon walk, sat on a bench in Jackson Square and studied the people who passed.

As he did, he was swamped with memories of his days at Tulane, of the young man he had been back then, of the force of his dreams. Kate resided at the heart of each of those memories: the things they had done, the way they had laughed, how she had made him feel without doing anything but being at his side.

A part of him regretted the things he had said to her earlier that day, the way he had hurt her. That same part had longed to chase after her, apologize, make some hollow excuse for his behavior and beg her forgiveness.

He had quelled the urge, reminding himself that she had come to him for an airing out of the past. That she had come to him for honesty, and he had simply and frankly given her what she wanted.

His publisher had booked him into a suite at the Royal Orleans Hotel, one of the French Quarter's grandest establishments, built and maintained in the tradition of the Old South.

When he entered the hotel, he was struck by both the cool and the quiet. Out on the street, the shift in the French Quarter crowd had begun, the day-trippers being replaced by the night owls, the shoppers by the partiers.

Luke crossed the sweeping lobby with its massive crystal chandeliers, heading toward the front desk. Helena had arranged a dinner at Commander's Palace with the company's regional sales rep and the local book distributor. She had promised to leave a message at the front desk confirming the place and time they would meet. He glanced at his watch. If he was lucky, he could take a quick shower, change and still put in two hours at the laptop.

He stopped at the desk. The clerk, an exotic-looking woman named Aimee, greeted him by name. He smiled. "Any messages for me?"

She returned his smile. "I think so, Mr. Dallas. Let me check." She crossed to the message center, then looked over her shoulder at him. "Yes, you do. There's also a package for you. It's in the back. I can have it sent up, or if you have a minute, I'll get it."

"I'll wait. Thanks." She handed Luke an envelope, then disappeared through a door at the back of the registration area. Luke ripped open the envelope to see that he did, indeed, have several hours before his dinner engagement.

Aimee returned with a small shopping bag. She handed it to him. Inside was a copy of Dead Drop, autographed by him that very day, inscribed to Bird Man.

Luke frowned. He had signed so many books that morning, had seen so many faces. There had been at least a dozen Marys, a handful of Stevens and Daves-but only one Bird Man. He remembered signing the book-why couldn't he recall the man? With a name like that, he should be firmly fixed in his memory.

Luke drew his eyebrows together. He had been middle-aged and rather nondescript; Luke remembered looking right at him. But now, no matter how he tried, he could recall nothing else about the man's appearance.

"Mr. Dallas?" Luke looked up from the book, meeting exotic Aimee's eyes. She flushed. "I just wanted you to know, I love your books. I can't wait to read your new one."

He grinned, pleased. "Thanks. By the way-" he held up the bag "-did you see who left this for me?"

"Sorry, I just came on."

"There was no note with this? No message?"

"Not that I saw. But I'll double-check for you."

There wasn't, so Luke headed up to his room. The phone was ringing as he let himself in; he hurried to catch it before the hotel message service. "Hello."

"Meet me in the bar of the Vieux Carré Gun Club in twenty minutes."

"Who is this?"

"Twenty minutes," he repeated. "If you still want to talk."

The line went dead, and Luke held the receiver for a moment before dropping it into the cradle. Condor, he realized, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Bird Man. Of course.

The Vieux Carré Gun Club was a private organization and judging by the building's address and facade, catered to an extremely wealthy clientele. The doorman allowed Luke in, directing him to the receptionist's desk. The woman, a beautiful blonde, immaculately dressed in a Chanel suit, stood as he approached, greeting him by name. She asked him to sign the guest register, then led him to the lounge.

Luke spotted Condor immediately. He sat alone at a corner table, his back to the wall.

"Bird Man, I presume?"

Condor smiled. "Corny, but I couldn't resist." He motioned to the chair across from his. "How long did it take you to figure it out?"

"Too long, I'm embarrassed to say." He settled into the leather tub chair. "That was you at the signing? I never would have guessed."

Condor signaled the waitress. "Look at the eyes, they always give the man away."

The waitress arrived to take his order, and Luke glanced at the other man's drink. As if reading his thoughts, Condor said, "I never consume alcohol. It dulls the senses and impairs reaction time."

"Precisely why most people do drink it. Personally, I like the taste." Luke smiled at the woman, ordered a beer, then turned to Condor. "Pretty fancy digs."

"It ain't shabby, that's for sure." The man raised his glass of tomato juice to his lips.

"And you're a member?"

"Let's just say, I have friends in high places."

They chatted about nothing for a few more minutes; Luke sensed Condor was still sizing him up. Testing the waters.

"I'm curious," he said, "why did you decide to talk to me?"

Condor shrugged. "I like your books. My wife likes your books."

"You're married?"

"You sound surprised. Aren't I allowed?"

Luke took a swallow of his beer. "I suppose. It just doesn't fit the image of the hired killer."

"Your image," he murmured, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Hollywood's."

"Does she know what you do?"

"Of course not. I'm a software salesman. I travel a lot."

"You have kids?"

"Two. Age six and eight. Boys."

Luke thought about that a moment. "Do you ever imagine how she would feel, if she found out? If your kids found out?"

"That's not going to happen. There's no reason they would."

"And if you're killed on assignment?"

"The Agency would take care of my cover from there." Condor stood. "You shoot much, Dallas?"

Luke followed him to his feet. "Enough to write about it with some authority."

"Good." Condor smiled. "Let's go have some fun."

The glitz and glamour of the gun club's common areas ended as they entered the indoor range. Garagelike, windowless and well insulated, it was outfitted with six firing stations, each with a mechanical pulley used to move paper targets forward and back.

They were alone in the range. On the table at station one sat two boxes of ammo and a gun.

Condor crossed to the table and picked up the weapon. "Beretta 9mm, semiautomatic."

While he spoke, he examined the gun, checking the magazine, pulling back on the slide, then releasing it, tipping it from one side to the other, running his fingers expertly over the metal. He handled the weapon with reverence and familiarity. Like it was an old friend.

"Fifteen round magazine," he continued, "weighs 2.52 pounds, fully loaded. Muzzle velocity 1280 feet per second, rivaling the.357."

He loaded three clips, then slid one into the magazine. "You own any hardware, Dallas?"

"A.44 Magnum."

Condor met his eyes. "That's a lot of firepower. More than I would have thought an author would need."

Luke laughed. "I bought it when I was writing Last Dance. What can I say? I like Dirty Harry movies. I saw my lead character as a kind of Harry Callahan, a rugged loner. A renegade."