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  "That's not good enough," Alex cut him off. "Where in the Middle East?"

  "Damn, I can't remember," Hugo seemed near tears. "Small country."

  "Israel?"

  "Kuwait," Hugo blurted. "I think Kuwait. No, Cairo. Cairo, Egypt. Dubai! That’s it. She told me he was now in Dubai."

  "What his name?"

  "Oh my God, I can't think," Hugo slumped into one of the chairs and buried his head in his hands. Alex crossed to him and pulled his head up by the hair. Hugo let out a pitiful wail. "I don't know."

  "Then you're coming back up to the Wolfe Estate with me," Alex threatened as he yanked Hugo out of the chair. Hugo's knees collapsed under him and he went down onto the floor.

  "Andrew," Hugo hissed. "She called him Andy. Andrew Hayden. He works for Mercury Oil Company or ah...American Oil."

  Alex pulled out the magnum and held it against Hugo's forehead with one hand, grasping his hair and tugging his forehead back with the other. "We have to find her, Hugo. She's dead if we don't."

  Hugo looked pleadingly at Alex, trying to comprehend the man's meaning. "She's in trouble?"

  "You're not as dumb as you look," Alex smiled down at him as he holstered the gun and drew a small white card from his pocket. On it was neatly typed a single phone number with a downtown Los Angeles prefix. Alex shoved the card between Hugo's teeth.

  "You call around. You find her. When you do, call this number. Tell whoever answers, Clarissa's location." Alex jerked Hugo's hair hard. "You do it." Hugo tried to nod his agreement. "Good boy."

  Alex went out through the back door of the beauty salon and got behind the wheel of the black Cadillac. As he pulled onto the San Diego freeway heading back toward Los Angeles he was unsure of how he had come across to Hugo Montego. He wanted to be tough enough to be believable. It was a long shot filled with pitfalls and unforeseen snags, but he was running out of time. If he had played Hugo right, it would work. If not, Clarissa would have no chance of staying alive and Alex would have a price on his own head. He was counting on Hugo's acute fear of Morgan Wolfe to save Clarissa Hayden's life.

  CHAPTER 8

  The flaps on the blue and white sun umbrellas cracked noisily in the wind. Most of the tables on the terrace were empty this early on a cloudy Monday morning but a few commuters, on their way into downtown Los Angeles, stopped at the ocean front cafe for croissants and orange juice before tackling the maddening, congested freeways.

  Alex Rogers sat alone, nursing his second cup of strong black coffee at a table next to the railing. Beyond, the beach was deserted and storm driven breakers crashed on the black jagged rocks. His nerves felt like those rocks, raw and broken, endlessly pounded upon by a merciless surf, wearing down with each new wave.

  He had hoped that Hugo would have been able to find Clarissa by Sunday night. As of this morning there had been no word, no phone call. He had to give her credit. She had buried herself good and deep. The only thing that bothered Alex was the fact that Marco had not been around at all on Sunday and Morgan had postponed his flight to Washington until late Tuesday night. No one seemed to know where Marco had spent his Sunday, or they were being real quiet about it. The entire Wolfe Estate had been all too quiet.

  Alex had spent Sunday evening with Wolfe going over the potential sale of the Roth Galleries and rehashing the details of Morgan's meeting in Washington D.C. Wednesday morning. Wolfe had seemed calm and eager to get the Roth deal settled. He had not mentioned Clarissa once. He asked only for a report on Alex's meeting with Hugo in La Jolla and seemed satisfied that Hugo had been bullied into cooperation.

  Still, Alex had been unsettled all day and, this morning, he was anxious to get this final business meeting with Wolfe out of the way. Three years of careful preparation was about to come to fruition or failure. His first estimate had been four to five years. Clarissa Hayden, in one night, had jumped the clock ahead. She had created a crack in the foundation of Wolfe's empire and the longer she stayed alive, the wider that crack became. Every move Alex made now was crucial and highly dangerous. The long hours of study in business management, current economic trends, corporate law, take-overs and mergers, and the endless case histories of white collar crime were about to pay off like a slot machine or completely bankrupt him. It was a power play where the prize was his life and his career. The penalty for failure was certain death.

  He drummed his fingers on the blue tablecloth nervously and watched a sailboat with an orange stripped jib sail tack toward the marina farther down the shore. A shadow fell across the table and Alex looked up to see Morgan Wolfe staring down at him. The man always unnerved Alex but this morning, for the first time, Alex Rogers was afraid. There was malicious content behind Wolfe's dark eyes, like a panther licking its paws after a successful hunt. Something had gone down and Alex feared it might have been Clarissa. It would make sense. Marco disappearing for a day, the heavy stillness around the estate. Alex's stomach knotted as Wolfe sat down opposite him.

  "Good morning," Wolfe said without smiling and he set a black calf skin briefcase on the table and snapped it open. "We have an opportunity to acquire a major Canadian shipping line. These are the proposals on it. I want you to look into it carefully while I'm in New York and Washington over the next few days and give me your opinion. It looks pretty good. It'll cost us eighty five million up front but it has a lot of potential. Here is their latest statements and stock information. We have to move on it right away. Say first of next week."

  Alex took the offered papers and scanned them briefly. He forced his mind to concentrate on what Wolfe was saying.

  "The Steadman deal is solid," Wolfe went on. "Your research paid off. The weakest link is Nancy Steadman. She's inherited the business but doesn't have the savvy. The company is in some trouble. Lost a ship off the coast of Alaska in a storm a year ago. Cargo was some toxic drums and it cost them a pretty penny to get them back up off the bottom of the bay. They haven't recovered financially from that. Almost the same situation as the Roth Galleries. Nancy's got the respect of the board because she's a corporate attorney but you managed to dig up some of her more gray dealings. I think she'll see things our way. You need to do the same thing with this shipping line as you did with the Roth Galleries. Maybe another accident with some of our cargo on board. Then initiate a law suit that would wipe them out. On paper only, of course. We can use a shipping line for some of our other companies. Look over this Steadman proposal. Make sure we've covered everything we need to."

  "When do you need the Steadman proposal?" Alex asked.

  "By three o'clock this afternoon," Wolfe replied. "Oh, the Jaspar Electronics Cayman Island account will show a cash transfer of half a million. Make a note for yourself. It's off the books."

  "Half a million in cash?" Alex asked. "That could create some suspicions, especially coming from offshore accounts. That's real risky. We don't want to call that kind of attention to us."

  "This was necessary," Wolfe replied curtly. "That loose end from the other night had to be taken care of immediately. I sent Marco to Arizona with the down payment to get the job done."

  "You went outside the company?"

  "Yes."

  "So is it done?" Alex inquired cautiously.

  "Guaranteed by tonight," said Wolfe.

  "How did you find her?"

  "Marco tracked her down," Wolfe said and his eyes smiled evilly. "Man can track anything. He's a blood hound from hell."

  "But he's not going to do the job."

  "She knows his face," said Wolfe. "There are too many people around and she can't be flushed out into the open. I found someone who can do it. Best in the business. Quiet, discreet, able to get close to Clarissa in these circumstances."

  "Anything I can do?" Alex asked.

  "Everything's being handled," Wolfe assured him. "You're going to have to take over for Virginia for a couple of weeks. Her mother took ill. She had to go back to Flagstaff for a while."

  "No problem," Alex tried to smile.
/>   A waiter approached the table and Wolfe motioned for him to take Alex's breakfast order.

  "I have some phone calls to make," Wolfe said as he stood. "I'll be at the office at Roth Galleries. I think we should put the galleries on the market as soon as possible. Take care of it later this week."

  "Yes, Mister Wolfe."

  "Enjoy your breakfast."

  Alex watched Wolfe thread his way through the umbrella covered tables until he disappeared into the cafe. He felt like putting his fist through the table. The hand was being played and Wolfe held all the cards. The crack was closing up on Alex and he was powerless to do much about it.

  "I'm not hungry," he snapped at the patient waiter. "Just more coffee."

  He started to read through the Steadman proposal that Virginia had typed. He read it three times before he finally figured out what was wrong. There were two paragraphs simply missing. They were vital to the proposal. He had specifically discussed those revisions with Virginia. It was not like her to miss anything, especially critical points.

  Perhaps she was just worried about her mother, Alex thought. Still, that did not convince him. His mind wandered through the possibilities. Something had distracted Virginia to do such a poor job on the proposal. There were typing errors and two other paragraphs had been typed in reverse order. Alex sipped the hot coffee as he read through the report a fourth time. Grandmother. Virginia mentioned a grandmother that had raised her on some Indian reservation. Virginia told him once that she never knew her mother. Maybe Wolfe had misunderstood. Alex dismissed that possibility. Morgan Wolfe's mistakes were far too rare.

  Alex shoved the Steadman proposal into his own briefcase, left a sizeable tip on the table, and signed Morgan Wolfe's name to the tab. Whatever the reasons for Virginia's sloppy work, Alex would have to type the missing paragraphs himself and run out a new copy on the computer. He pulled his keys out of his pocket and noticed the six master keys on the ring. One was to the Roth Galleries Building, a warehouse in San Fernando Valley, an apartment complex in New York, the Mayvale Hotel in Miami, and the Wilshire Towers in Beverly Hills. He fingered the Wilshire Towers key thoughtfully. He did not know Virginia Essex well, or what it was exactly that bothered him so much about her sudden trip to Arizona or the missing paragraphs.

  His explicit instructions from Wolfe were to use the master keys only in an emergency. Since his life was at stake, he could think of no better emergency.

  The condo smelled fresh with the odor of carpet shampoo. Alex could still see the swirling imprints made by the electric shampooer's circular brushes. Despite her mother or grandmother's sudden illness, Virginia had thought to have her carpets cleaned while she was away.

  He crossed to the patio door and pulled back the drape. A smashed coffee cup lay in shards on the patio. He let the drape fall back in place and surveyed the living room. He wiped his finger over the fireplace mantle. Not a speck of dust. The furniture looked as if it had been recently polished. Only a couple of deep gouged were evident in the glass top of the coffee table.

  In the kitchen, the refrigerator was filled with food. Juice, fresh vegetables, yogurt, an unopened carton of almond milk. It was as if she had just stocked it. Alex opened the dish washer. It was half full with dirty dishes, mostly coffee cups and small plates. Under the sink was a brand new box of dish washer soap unopened and the trash compactor had not been emptied.

  In the bedroom, the carpet was still slightly damp. Alex checked the closets and found one empty suitcase on the upper shelf and another one, packed with clothes, on the floor behind some cardboard boxes. The watch with the silver and turquoise band Virginia usually wore was laying on top of the bureau. He found her toothbrush still in the holder on the sink in the bathroom. Make-up and a vial of prescription medication for Vicodin were on the vanity. He rifled through the bathroom trash can of lipstick stained tissues. The bedroom trash can was empty.

  The condo had told him pretty much what he had suspected. Virginia was not visiting a sick mother in Flagstaff. Where she was and why only Morgan Wolfe knew the answer. Alex was certain now that Clarissa had contacted Virginia on Friday night. Somehow, Wolfe discovered that Virginia knew where she was hiding. Alex ran his fingers nervously through his blond hair. There was nothing more dangerous than a cornered wolf.

  That left him no closer to finding Clarissa. Someone had already gone over the condo with a fine toothed comb. Probably Marco and he had found something that had led him to Clarissa. Whatever clue it was, it was most likely no longer here. This was a dead end.

  Alex was about to leave the bedroom but somehow was reluctant to do so. He looked around the room again as if he had missed something yet nothing looked out of place. The bathroom had been cleaned, the furniture dusted, the bed made. His gaze fell on the answering machine. There was no light indicating that the machine was still on and it looked as if it had fallen off something. The plastic exterior was cracked on one corner and the smoke tinted Plexiglas cover was deeply scratched. Alex pushed the replay button and nothing happened. Maybe it didn't work, he thought and was about to leave the room again when that nagging feeling tugged a little stronger. He looked down and noticed that the machine had become unplugged. He searched the wall for a socket and found it behind the night stand. The machine came to life, rewound, clicked, and played back the messages. There were several hang-ups, a then a message from Morgan about Clarissa not coming home and being on drugs. Then Clarissa's desperate voice pleading for Virginia to come to the Hempstead Hotel with her purse.

  He knew the place, a government subsidized homeless shelter off Western Avenue just south of Hollywood. How long had Marco known? It was little wonder Morgan looked so smug this morning. Alex snapped off the machine and pulled out the message tape. He jammed it into his pocket as he ran from Virginia's condo.

  Clarissa curled up under the thin green blanket. She had barely slept during the night. Her feet were like ice and her stomach was sore from cramping. The Sunday meal at the church kitchen was fried chicken dripping with grease and thick salty gravy on mashed potatoes. Clarissa hardly touched the food even though she had not eaten all day.

  She had lain awake hating Virginia Essex for not showing up with her purse as she had promised or even returning the phone call. Had it not been for the rain storm, Clarissa seriously contemplated walking the ten or so miles back to Virginia's condo and demanding her purse and her jewelry. Now, Clarissa did not even have another quarter to make a second call.

  She threw back the blanket and swung her stiff legs over the side of the bed, rubbing them for warmth, trying to shake the fogginess out of her head. The thought occurred to her that maybe Rowland would lend her his cell phone. She slipped her feet into the worn loafers and shuffled to the bathroom. There were dark circles under her eyes and her cheeks were hollow with fatigue. No amount of running fingers through her hair made it any neater and she longed for a comb and a toothbrush. Again she felt light headed and chastised herself for not eating. She needed her strength despite the total lack of appetite. A splash of cool water on her face warded off the spell. What she would have given for some facial cleanser instead of the harsh, gritty bar of dirty looking soap. She lathered her face as best as she could then she used the cracked plastic drinking cup to pour cold water on her head and the back of her neck until the soap was gone and her head began to clear.

  She groped for one of the threadbare towels on the shelf above the toilet to pat her face and hair dry. She scratched absently at an itch on her scalp, then one on the back of her neck, still another down her arm. There was crawling sensation on her hands and down her back. She looked up into the mirror and screamed. In a wild frenzy she raked the cockroaches out of her hair and brushed them off her arms. They scurried down her jeans as she ripped off her work shirt, swatting at them as they ran. The shelf where the towel had been was thick was a nest of disturbed roaches.

  Clarissa screamed and shook with revulsion as she continued to scratch and claw at them lo
ng after the roaches had scattered under the baseboards and behind the sink. She backed into the bedroom, unable to rid her head and arms of the awful skin-crawling feeling. All she could do was sit on the edge of the bed, her arms folded tightly around her and rock back and forth until she could stop shaking and crying.

  She had to get out of here. The tiny room was suffocating, closing in on her. She slapped madly at a lock of hair brushing her cheek and the loathing of the bugs made her skin tighten with renewed repulsion. Somewhere in this God forsaken hell hole there had to be a cell phone to beg Virginia for the purse and jewels. There had to be a way to reach Hugo, someone, anyone.

  The closeness of the small room was suddenly oppressive. The restless urge forced her to her feet. She threw open the door and stepped into the hallway. The room directly across the hallway again was ajar and closed softly as Clarissa passed.

  "Rowland?" she called as she banged loudly on the old man's door. "Rowland, it's Miss Dugan."

  There was no answer. Clarissa sagged against his door in disappointment. There was no question of spending one more night in this roach motel. Clarissa simply could not. She watched as the patch of sunlight on the hall carpet from her open door suddenly faded and her hopes faded with it. Another storm was due, more clouds and rain, a means of escape cut off once again. The darkened hallway felt stifling and close and Clarissa needed to be where there was light and fresh air. The shelter was beginning to feel like a trap rather than a haven. She found herself looking forward to her one meal a day with Rowland. It got her outside into the real world with real people that seemed a lot less hostile than it had two days ago.

  Her mad flight from Morgan and Marco seemed to be fading into a gray unreality. She no longer felt so afraid. Her thoughts had turned to getting out of this hole, to getting back into life again. Even the idea of running to Andrew was losing its appeal. As she slept more and her strength began to return, her confidence was not so fragile and her reserve not so weak.