Jeanne Stein: The Watcher

I DON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT CAB FARE. WILLIAMS left me money as well as my purse and clothes—outfits to hold me at least a week. I found both last night as I was preparing for bed. This time, I have no doubt that Williams did the shopping. Instead of jeans, tailored linen slacks, silk blouses and a blazer were hung on padded hangers in the closet. Even a pair of leather loafers that are butter soft and my size. I guess he didn't want my lack of style to embarrass him in front of his yacht club friends.

I fill the oversized tub to the brim and pour in bath salts. Like last night, soaking in a tub of perfumed water and lavishly applying the spa products set out on the bathroom counter, help to soothe away the horrors of Martinez and his mother. I won't soon forget what happened, but with these simple luxuries, I'm getting more comfortable again in my own skin.

When I appear at the door to David's room at ten, I'm surprised to see Max there. He's in a wheelchair, his ankle elevated. It's in a cast, but in spite of that, he looks rested and healthy. He's clean shaven and dressed in a hospital gown. There are two nurses in the room, too. Laughing and fluffing blankets and pillows as if that alone will guarantee quick recovery. I can't blame them. Between Max and David, the nurses must think they've died and gone to heaven to have two such handsome men to fuss over.

I'm glad I'm not a patient on this floor.

There's a break in the frivolity when I ease the door open. The nurses excuse themselves and leave. Max and David don't seem as excited to see me as they are disappointed to be losing their groupies.

I decide to take the high road and pretend I don't notice.

"Williams isn't here yet?"

David gestures toward the phone. "He called a few minutes ago. Said he'd be a little late."

I turn to Max. "You look good this morning."

He gives me a once-over. "So do you. Real clothes. Have I ever seen you in anything but jeans before?"

I smile. "How's the ankle?"

He lifts it a little off the elevated platform. "Good. The break was clean. It's going to take time to heal; ankles evidently do. But the doctor commented on the fact that it had been properly set and splinted. He sends his regards to you."

David looks surprised. "Anna, you set his ankle?"

That launches us into what happened in Mexico. I let Max do the talking. He tells David a story that sounds credible because he purposely omits the incredible parts. To sum it up, Foley lured Max and me to Mexico where Martinez killed him. Max and I escaped and somehow Martinez and his pilot ended up dead, too. Max flew us to safety and when we got back to San Diego, we found out about David.

End of story.

No mention of vampires. No mention of how I decapitated Martinez or snapped Marta's neck with one hand. Max takes credit for the killings without actually saying so and I let him.

He finishes at the same time Williams makes his appearance.

He's in full cop mode today, even dressed in his uniform and carrying a leather attache case. He makes no attempt to communicate with me telepathically. With him, another uniform, a street cop, takes up a position outside David's room.

"Another guard?" I ask. "For David or Max?"

"Neither," he replies, looking at me for the first time. "This guard is for you."

TO SAY THAT I WAS NOT EXPECTING THAT ANSWER is an understatement. He knows me better than to think I'd accept a guard. Instead of shrieking at him, though, I exercise uncharacteristic restraint by asking quietly, "Why would I need a guard?"

Max frowns in concern. "Is it because of what happened in Mexico? Has Anna been threatened by one of Martinez' gang?"

I realize he hasn't heard David's story. When I look at Williams, he's shaking his head.

"No. This has nothing to do with Mexico. We know who killed Alan Rothman in Palm Canyon and who shot David." He places the attache case on the foot of David's bed and opens it. He withdraws a half dozen pieces of paper and hands half of them to me and the others to David. "Recognize this guy?"

The three sketches he hands me are artists' renderings of a man in his late thirties, early forties. In each portrait, the hair and beards are different, but the eyes and basic facial structure are the same. In the first, the man is clean shaven and dressed in a sports coat, shirt and tie. In the second he has a scruffy beard and wears a T-shirt. In the third, his head is shaved and he has an earring in his left ear. David and I exchange sketches. Again, different hair color, style and wardrobe, but definitely the same man.

I hand them back to Williams with a shake of my head. "I don't think I've ever seen this guy before."

"Who is he?" David asks.

Williams gathers the sketches. "The Ghost."

My internal alarm system shrieks. Ghost? A real ghost?

Williams allows a bubble of laughter to escape before realizing how inappropriate that will seem to Max and David. He tries to stifle it but not quickly enough. Max and David are staring at him.

He covers his mouth with his hand and fakes a cough. Not a real ghost, he says sharply. There are no such things as ghosts.

Like I'm supposed to know that.

He drops his hand and his features have rearranged themselves into a properly somber expression. "He's called The Ghost because we don't know who he is or where he comes from. The Feds suspect he's responsible for two dozen contract hits, maybe more. But ballistics matched the bullets from the Palm Canyon killing and David's shooting to others on file."

David asks the obvious question before I have a chance to. "A contract killer? Why would he be after Anna and me?"

"That question I think I can answer." Williams pulls a folded newspaper out of his case. "Have either of you seen this?"

He hands it to me and I hold it so that David and I can look at it together. There's a small article circled in the middle of the page. It's from the local paper and dated four days ago.

INMATE FOUND SLAIN IN JAIL CELL

Anthony (Tony) Tuturo was found dead in his jail cell early yesterday morning. Tuturo was being held pending extradition to New York where he was facing charges of extortion and grand theft. He was stabbed in the chest. No motive has been cited for the killing and no suspects have been named.

David and I finish reading at the same time. He says, "I didn't see this article. But what does his death have to do with a hit man? Or with Anna and me? All we did was pick him up on an outstanding warrant."

"Tuturo was to be extradited to New York," Williams replies. "Where he'd made a deal with the Feds. A deal that involved implicating a high-ranking government official in some kind of shady arms deal. That's when we believe a contract went out on him. Tuturo heard about it, panicked and ran. You picked him up on his way to Canada. When he was killed in jail, that effectively rendered the contract void. I suspect our Ghost friend was not happy about that. He was out a lot of money. I figure he decided to take his revenge on the two people who denied him a kill and a payday."

I start to wonder out loud why this Ghost didn't just kill me in Palm Canyon. Then I remember his last call. He wants to enjoy it. Must mean he intends to get up close and personal. Instead of sharing that, I say, "So, let me get this straight. David and I are the targets of a contract killer pissed off because we got his guy before he did?"

Williams nods. "It's the only thing we can figure out."

"So what do we do now?"

Williams smiles. "We set a trap."

It's not hard to figure out who the bait will be. David, after all, is already "dead."

Max jumps in before I can say anything. "You aren't seriously considering using Anna as bait to catch this guy."