Meryl Sawyer - Better Off Dead

“Numero Uno,” he answered.

“We’re in place. Everything’s set,” said Operative 111.

His agents had numbers, not names. That way only Brock knew who they were. Their names weren’t written down anywhere except in his mind. They were paid in cash, not by the payroll department.

They never knew his name. He was the number one operative. He always answered the special operative line with “Numero Uno.”

He told Number 111, “Call me when you’ve made contact.”

“Roger that.”

Brock glanced at his Brietling. “If it’s after six EST, call me on my cell.”

He recited the number. He didn’t like talking on cell phones. The message went out over the airwaves, and anyone listening could hear every word. But he had a life beyond this underground bunker. Tonight he was showing his ’52 Gull Wing Mercedes in the Bethesda Classic Car show. To stay in contact he had to use a cell phone.

Every third day a con he knew brought him a stolen cell phone. Brock gave the man his phone, and the con resold the phone again. That way none of his cell calls could be traced back to him.

“It looks like a go for tonight,” Operative 111 told him.

They hung up without another word.

“She’s as good as dead,” Brock said out loud.

Of course, before Samantha Robbins died, she would have to deal with him in person.

BY SEVEN-THIRTY DARKNESS had fallen on Santa Fe’s historic district and customers had slowed to a trickle. Since returning from lunch with Derek, Lindsey had sold several more pieces of jewelry—including her most expensive piece.

“Lookin’ good,” she said to Zach before she remembered the retriever had trotted off with Romero when he’d left earlier to make enchiladas.

She knew the tourist season was relatively short. It began in late June and went full throttle through the opera season and Indian Market, but after Labor Day, the buying slowed. She needed to make money in the summer months to tide her over during slower times. Miraculously, the way things were going, she would make a profit her first season.

Lindsey tried not to let Derek’s departure bother her. Making friends was probably good advice. She didn’t want to rely too much on Romero.

For a moment, her mind wandered to Houston. Tyler and Skyler. Their names even rhymed. It was probably meant to be, but that didn’t make her feel any better.

“Get over it,” she told herself.

Easier said than done. She’d been in love and during these long, lonely months in isolation, she’d replayed every moment she’d spent with Tyler, becoming more in love with him as each memory replayed in her mind. How could he marry—Skyler of all people—within a year after she’d last seen him?

The thought tore at something raw inside her. She’d been living with a nagging, constant anxiety, wondering if she would be killed. The whole time she’d assumed Tyler was missing her, and in time, they would be together again.

WITSEC had refused to allow her to telephone him. Masterson claimed that since they weren’t officially engaged it was too dangerous. Now, she wondered if her interview with the risk assessment psychologist had somehow indicated she might try to see Tyler again while she was in protection and that was why Masterson insisted on cutting off contact.

“What does it matter?” she muttered under her breath. “It’s over. Forget him.”

She picked up the phone and hit autodial for Ben Tallchief’s number. While it rang, she gazed at one of her cell phones concealed in the letter rack on her desk. She had another, smaller cell phone in the deep pocket of her skirt.

Derek’s flight had already left. She was on her own for the next week. Now was the time to practice everything he’d taught her. Don’t become careless just because nothing has happened for almost a year.

“Ben?” she said when he answered with a grunt that was supposed to pass for hello. “Guess what? I sold the Rising Sun necklace.”

“No way!”

“Yes. Way. I love saying I told you so.”

“I made the right decision,” he said in his deep baritone, and she could almost see him fiddling with the turquoise beaded strip of leather that cinched back his sleek, black hair into a ponytail at his nape. “Your gallery shows my work—”

“Showcases your art.”

He grunted again. “I’ll make more money with you than I did at the other gallery.”

We’ll both make more money, she silently added. “I need two, three—whatever you’ve got—large important pieces.”

“My work takes time…inspiration.”

Lindsey studied the hand-hewn beams, vigas, that supported the ceiling in the historic building. Ben Tallchief received most of his “inspiration” in the horizontal. Not only was he a talented artist known for his inventive work with hand-forged silver, but he was a world class womanizer.

Most nights he could be found at the Pink Adobe’s bar, picking up female tourists who couldn’t resist a “real” Indian who was tall and drop-dead gorgeous. He’d gone to UCLA on a football scholarship and graduated with honors. He’d returned to his hometown to teach art at the Indian School where promising young artists from the pueblos studied.

From his West Coast days, Ben Tallchief had a surfer’s attitude about life. Laid back. She could almost hear him telling her, “Chill, Lindsey. Chill.”

Maybe he was on to something, she decided. She’d spent her life on the fast track. Look where it had gotten her. A cell without walls.

“Get me what you can, Ben, as soon as possible.”

The shop bell tinkled and a couple from the Midwest sauntered in. She smiled at them, but doubted they would buy anything. The man was in his early thirties, but he’d already lost the battle of the bulge. His stomach stretched his Ohio State T-shirt so much that the seam on one side had popped and a patch of skin showed through.

He had the worst comb-over she’d ever seen. Six or seven strands of light brown hair went from ear-to-ear. His expression told her he was “in tow” and his wife was the shopper. The plump blonde was inspecting the earring case more intently than Lindsey had expected when they’d walked through the door. Maybe Lindsey was wrong, and the woman would buy something.

It was a guessing game that Lindsey indulged in each time a customer walked through the door. Were they lookie-lou’s or buyers? Could she predict what they would do? She’d kept a tally on the pad beside her telephone. She’d been right almost ninety percent of the time. Not bad, she decided, knowing probability the way she did. Actually, her predictions were phenomenally correct.

“I’m sorry. What was that?”

Ben had been talking, but something was niggling at the back of her mind and she hadn’t heard him.

“Do you think I should make more sugilite pieces or turquoise?”

“Sugilite,” she replied without hesitation. The stone ranged from pale lavender to deep plum and looked spectacular when set in silver. “It’s unique. Most tourists seem to be drawn to those colors.”

“You got it. I’m just waiting for divine inspiration.”

“Hustle over to the Pink Adobe and pick up some…inspiration.”

“Why don’t you meet me there?”

It wasn’t the first time Ben had come on to her. The last thing she needed was to become involved with one of her artists.

“Sorry. I already have plans.”

“Too bad. We could discuss, you know, my work.”

“I’ve gotta go. Customers are here looking at your jewelry.”

She hung up the telephone. For practice, she reached forward and switched on her cell phone concealed in the letter rack. She pressed the autodial button that called the cell phone in her skirt pocket. That telephone was off, but anything said in the gallery would be recorded on her voice mail that was set to run for hours.