Warren Murphy: Date with Death

"Incredible," Quantril said hoarsely behind the soldier.

Bauer rushed back into the room to retrieve his Magnum, but Quantril stopped him.

"I'll just finish him off with one shot," Bauer explained.

"Don't be a fool. There are already pedestrians on the sidewalk watching."

From the street, they could hear a woman scream, "Look at that!"

"We've got to get out of here," Quantril said. "Now."

"What about him? He'll talk."

"He'll fall first."

"The cops—"

"They'll be busy. Remember?"

?CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"I think we take a right here," Remo said as he peered up at the street sign in downtown Santa Fe. "Yeah, this is it." He nodded toward a modern glass building up the block. "And that's the headquarters of Dream Date."

"What a loathesome name for a business enterprise," Chiun said.

"It's Quantril's operation. And if that soldier was right, he does a lot more than play matchmaker."

The building's lobby, as seen from the street, was brightly lit and ultramodern, with a massive steel-and-bronze sculpture as its centerpiece.

"There are no valets here," Chiun complained.

"It's Sunday evening. The building's closed. I figured it was the best time to check Quantril's records." He peered through the window. "Still, there ought to be someone here."

He leaned against one of the large glass doors to judge its weight, but to his surprise, they swung open. "I don't get it," Remo said. "There's not a security guard in sight."

Their footfalls echoed through the empty, cavernous lobby. Remo strode silently across the gleaming marble floor to consult the building directory. Dream Date occupied the entire penthouse floor. Across the way he noticed an elevator marked "Penthouse Only."

The unlocked door and the absence of a guard made Remo more than a little suspicious. He couldn't help thinking that their arrival had been anticipated. He wondered what kind of surprises Quantril and his friend. Major Deke Bauer, had in store for them.

"That's the way to the top," Remo said, indicating the private elevator. "Let's go up and take a look around."

Remo pushed the elevator button. The stainless steel doors silently parted. Three men were waiting inside. Each was holding a baseball bat.

"Surprise," one of them said, stepping out. He was so big that he had to stoop to clear the top. Remo slowly took in the bull neck and muscle-corded arms. The man was wearing a garish flowered shirt and lime-green slacks. His bullet-shaped head was bald and shining. His thick, meaty hands were wrapped around a bat. The top hand sported a red ruby ring that winked like a flashing roadmarker.

"Out for a little batting practice, boys?" Remo said in greeting.

"Yeah," the big man answered. "You can be the ball." He whacked the Louisville slugger against his open palm.

The two other men stepped out from the elevator, taking up positions on either side of the bald man. One was black, the other Hispanic.

"What do you guys call yourselves?" Remo asked. "The Bad Breath Bears?"

"Very funny," Flowered Shirt said. "Watch me laugh." He took a mighty swing at Remo's head. The only problem was that by the time the bat reached the place where Remo had been standing, Remo was gone. The bat hit the marble wall with a thunderous crash and splintered into shards.

"How the hell did you do that?" the black man asked.

"Like this." Remo moved one wrist. The next moment, the black man was flying through the air. He screamed as his massive body smashed against the unyielding bronze-and-steel sculpture in the middle of the lobby. His baseball bat went flying.

"Strike one," Remo said.

The Hispanic member of the team took a pace forward. "Willy musta slipped," he said. He raised his bat. "You're gonna pay for that, shithead." The hickory slugger in his hand cut through the air with a sharp, swooshing sound. This time Remo didn't move. A moment before the bat made contact with Remo's neck, he reached out and grabbed its end with two fingers. He pushed, and the bat slid through the Hispanic man's hands like a greased knife, lodging deep in his chest.

"Strike two," Remo said.

The bald, bullet-head man, alone now, blinked a few times in rapid succession. His forehead creased into a puzzled frown, as he picked up the black man's bat.

"Look out for strike three," Remo said, tapping him on the shoulder. The big man whirled around to find Remo leaning against the elevator doors.

Baldy lunged at him, both hands spread wide on the bat. He slammed it against Remo's throat with all the force in his powerful arms.

Remo exhaled and the bat snapped in two like a discarded toothpick.

The broken bat clattered to the floor as the bald man locked his arms around Remo's neck. "You bastard," he whispered. At close range, the man's breath smelled of meat arid cheap wine. His thick fingers edged toward Remo's windpipe. His hooded eyes gleamed as his hands closed on Remo's throat.

"It's language like that that gives the game a bad name," Remo said. He took a half-step, turned his wrist, and the bald man disappeared through the floor of the elevator. Remo heard a high-pitched echoing scream and then a muffled thud from below.

"You're out," Remo called after him.

They walked to the penthouse floor. The foyer was decorated with life-size photos of couples holding hands, skipping along the beach, or staring longingly into one another's eyes. None of the people in the pictures looked as if they would have any trouble finding dates on their own. There was a big teak desk in the unoccupied reception area, and beyond it twin glass doors embellished with Dream Date's swirling gold logo. Remo padded across the thick cream-colored carpet and tried the doors. Like the ones downstairs, they, too, were unlocked.

"I really don't understand this," Remo said.

"What is so difficult to understand? My reputation has obviously preceded me. The two men you seek, knowing they had an appointment with death, have fled the scene."

Remo shook his head. "I don't know. If there isn't anyone up here, then why did they go to all the bother of providing the welcome wagon in the lobby? Those three clowns weren't just hanging around the elevator for exercise."

Remo was still pondering the situation as he followed Chiun through another pair of double glass doors. They passed under an archway and into a big room lined with desks. On each desk was a small computer terminal and some software. There were some open doors off to the right. Remo poked his head into one of them. There was a video unit, another small computer, a couple of comfortable-looking chairs, and a low table piled with brightly colored brochures.

"This is probably where they bring the clients," Remo said.

Chiun pounded on one of the video units until it shattered to dust. "The man must die," he said.

"Huh? Hey, what are you doing? We're not supposed to wreck the place."

"The person you seek is a sadist. He has filled an entire room with television sets, and none of them has so much as a channel changer."

"There are more doors over there," Remo said, walking past the old man toward yet another area. Through the new set of doors, the atmosphere was radically changed. The sterile, modern furnishings were replaced with high-backed leather chairs, antique tables, and paintings in ornate frames. "I think we're getting close to the boss's office."

They pushed open a door marked "Private." "I'll lay odds this is it," Remo said, surveying the elegant room. Even though there was only a single glass-and-chrome desk inside, the room was bigger than any of the ones they'd been in before. Remo rummaged through the few neatly stacked letters on the desk.

"Nothing," he said. He looked at the shelves of leather-bound books, the wall-sized computer unit, and the giant picture window with its panoramic view of the city.