The Target

23

MELISSA SHAKER WAS crying so hard she nearly tripped down the steps leading into the garage. It had been two days now but she still couldn't believe it, didn't want to believe it. That damned ex-wife of his had held a dip-shit little memorial service, no actual funeral because there'd been nothing to cremate or bury.

Louey was gone, just simply gone, and nobody cared. Except her. She tripped again, grabbing the handrail to steady herself as she stepped into the underground garage. A car horn honked loudly. She felt its hot exhaust as it whooshed past her, the driver yelling at her to pay attention.

She wiped her eyes. There was nothing to do. Just nothing. Her father had sworn he hadn't killed Louey, but she'd looked into his eyes and seen guilt. She would never forgive him, ever.

"Miss Shaker."

She didn't want Greg anywhere near her. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to drive out into the desert and let the sun burn into her. She kept walking toward her car.

"Miss Shaker! Please, wait up. You know your father's orders, particularly now."

She waited for him simply because she didn't want to get Greg fired when all he was trying to do was his job.

She stopped by her BMW roadster, painted James Bond blue. It was exactly like the one he'd driven in a movie, except hers was more powerful. She loved that little car.

"Thank you," Greg said as he trotted up to her. "Listen, Miss Shaker, I'm really sorry."

"Thank you," she said, and got into the car. Greg came around the other side.

"Don't try to lose me, Miss Shaker. It's important that I stick close to you, particularly during the next week."

"They gave him a measly memorial service," she said, and turned the key.

The car exploded into flames.

IT came on the local Las Vegas news brought in via satellite at twelve-twenty in the afternoon.

Melissa Shaker, twenty-three, daughter of Rule Shaker, Las Vegas casino owner, was killed at ten A.M. this morning when she and a friend were in an explosion involving Ms. Shaker's car that was parked in the underground parking lot beneath the Sirocco Casino.

Arson experts say a bomb was involved. Police haven't yet said if there are any suspects. Details at five o

'clock.

Ramsey dropped his fork, sending the thin slice of ham slithering off onto his plate. He'd heard the TV playing from the kitchen, wondered why it was even on, wondered why it was turned up loud enough to hear in the dining room, wondered why it was on satellite to get a local Las Vegas station, and now this.

And now all his questions were answered.

Obviously someone had known it would make the local Las Vegas noon news. Obviously someone had been waiting for this.

There was an instant of shocked silence, then everyone was talking. He heard Eve gasp, heard her say something, but he couldn't make out her words. There was a crash of a pan that Miles must have dropped in the kitchen. At the head of the table, Mason Lord continued to eat his casaba melon, not missing a beat. There was a slight flush on his cheeks, but he said nothing, did nothing out of the ordinary at all.

Molly had been saying something to Emma. She stopped in mid-sentence. She looked over at her father and said quietly, "An eye for an eye, Dad?"

Mason Lord chewed on the bite of melon, gracefully laid down his fork, and looked at his daughter. "I suggest you refrain from such talk, Molly, particularly in front of your daughter."

Emma, attuned to the change in the most important person in her world, pulled on her mother's sleeve.

"Mama? What happened?"

Ramsey watched Molly pull herself together for Emma's sake. She banked the horror in her eyes and smoothed her expression into nothing more than a soft smile for her daughter. She turned to Emma, hugged her close for a moment, and said, "I taste something strange in Miles's quiche. What do you think?"

Emma gave her that weary adult look. "The quiche has bacon in it, Mama, and fresh spinach. I watched Mr. Miles make it. He even let me add the eggs. The quiche is just fine."

Molly looked as if she'd just been smashed on the head with a cannonball. She was having a tough time getting it together. "I'm sorry, Emma. You're right, of course. I don't know, love, I guess I just don't feel well."

Molly looked over at Eve Lord, who sat to her right at the foot of the table, her face tight, as white as the tablecloth. She was staring at her husband. Then, suddenly, Eve turned to Emma, and her face was again as smooth as a Madonna's. "I gave the quiche recipe to Miles. My mother was an excellent cook. I'm sorry your mother doesn't like it."

"I think it's time we had coffee," Mason said. "Miles?"

Ramsey said, controlling his voice, "I would like to speak with you, Mason. Shall we take our coffee to the living room?"

"It's a beautiful day," Eve Lord said, staring again at her husband. "Mason said that we would go out on the yacht, Ramsey. Perhaps you can speak with him later?"

They heard the phone ring. Miles appeared around the door of the dining room. "Judge Hunt, it's Agent Savich. He, uh, wants to speak with you."

Ramsey tossed his napkin on his plate and walked quickly to the kitchen where Miles stood patiently, holding the phone.

"Sherlock and I are at O'Hare. We just heard about the murders in Las Vegas. I can't believe this, Ramsey. The man has balls, I'll say that for him. You want us to come back?"

Ramsey wanted them back in the worst way, but there was nothing they could do, nothing anyone could do, really. How selfish did he want to be? "No, Savich. Take Sherlock off somewhere and make her happy. Just let me know where you're staying in Paris so I can call if there's occasion to sound the cavalry trumpet."

"It's a little pension on the Left Bank," Savich said. "Sherlock wants to show it to me. We'll let you know the number. Did Mason say anything? Have you seen him?"

"Oh yes. We all just heard it on the news at the dining table. It didn't even touch him that there were a federal judge and FBI agents in his house when he gave the orders."

"Here's what I think. Just get out of there, Ramsey. Take Molly and Emma, and check out of the Bates Motel. You don't need this. It's vengeance. Don't get involved. There's nothing you can do in any case."

"I can't believe you're saying that."

"I'm saying it as Molly and Emma's friend. You don't want them in the middle of something that could shape up into a nice little personal war. There's been tit for tat. Don't stay to see if it goes another round.

Just get out."

Ramsey said slowly, "You're right, of course." He rubbed his hand over his forehead. "I feel that I should question Mason, handcuff Gunther. No, you're right. It's Molly and Emma's safety that's most important.

I'll call you in a couple of days, let you know what's going on."

They spoke a bit longer, and then Ramsey laid the phone slowly back into its cradle. It was an old-fashioned black rotary, one that Miles had picked out specifically for his kitchen, he'd told Ramsey when he was whipping up pancakes for breakfast one morning.

Ramsey turned slowly to see Miles standing at the island, chopping celery. A chopped red apple stood in a bright pile to one side. Green grapes, sliced in half, formed another pile. Miles said in a very precise voice, "I'm making Waldorf salad."

"Did you know this was going to happen, Miles?"

"You know I can't say anything, Ramsey. Leave, sir, that's my best advice to you. Take Molly and Emma and leave. Since this man Shaker was behind everything, you're safe now that Louey's dead. Just leave."

"Unless Shaker plans his own vengeance now. Unless he plans to escalate. If he does, we're in really deep."

Miles shook his head, chopped some more celery in sure quick strokes, and said, "It doesn't work that way. It's over. One player knocked down, one opposing player knocked down. Everything's even again.

Those are the rules. Nobody breaks the rules."

The horror of it bubbled out of him. Ramsey slammed his fist down on the counter. "That's sick and you know it."

Miles just shrugged. "No one will miss Louey Santera. No one will miss this Rule Shaker's daughter.

Leave it alone, Ramsey. Get Molly and Emma out of here."

Ramsey, his jaw locked hard from disbelief and tension, left the kitchen. He looked only at Molly when he reached the dining room. "Come upstairs with me, will you?"

"Yes, certainly."

Then he realized that Emma was sitting there, quiche on her fork, staring at them. Ramsey calmed himself.

"Em, would you do me a favor?"

She wanted to ask him questions, he could see that, but he shook his head at her. "Would you come upstairs with your mom and me?"

Five minutes later, after they'd settled Emma with a book on animal husbandry for children in her bedroom, all of them knowing it was a ploy, especially Emma, Molly and Ramsey were standing alone in his bedroom.

He said without preamble, "I see no reason to stay. Do you?"

"No, no reason at all," Molly said, pulling a silver ring off her pinkie finger, then pushing it back on. "He's a monster, Ramsey. My father just blew up a twenty-three-year-old woman."

"That's the league he plays in, Molly. The media should be back here anytime, if they haven't already pulled up to the front gates. Let's fly to Denver today, to your house. You and Emma can pack stuff for Ireland, then we'll go to San Francisco. Okay?"

Molly said more to herself than to him, "Ireland would be beautiful, I've seen pictures." Then he saw a sparkle in her eyes. "I could begin work again. I could take my cameras."

He realized it would be a new beginning for Molly. And for himself as well. "Yes, bring all you need. Will you take a photo of Emma for me?"

"You don't think the media will follow us, do you?"

"I doubt that we're interesting enough."

"You know that's not true."

"All right, so we'll have to be smarter than they are.

"You're leaving," Mason said, no particular regret or surprise in his voice. "Miles said you'd ordered a taxi." He smiled. "I can understand why you wouldn't want to take one of my cars or have one of my people drive you."

It was a joke Ramsey hoped Emma hadn't understood. He'd dealt with men like Mason Lord in his professional life. They were men to whom a designated death was just another move on a chessboard.

"Yes," Ramsey said, "we're leaving. Molly is ready to return to Denver." He wasn't about to tell Mason Lord where they were really going.

"Eve wanted to go out on Lake Michigan. We didn't go. I knew you'd leave if I left."

"You stayed and we're still leaving. It doesn't matter, Mason. Thank you for your hospitality."

Eve Lord came up behind her husband and said that Detective O'Connor had arrived.

Ramsey cursed under his breath. He should have foreseen this, but he hadn't. He'd been focused on getting the Hell Out of Dodge. He turned to Molly. "You and Emma stick close for a moment. I want to speak to Detective O'Connor." Ramsey got to him before he'd stepped into the living room.

"I was just leaving. Mrs. Santera and Emma are going with me."

Detective O'Connor looked as if he'd slept in somebody else's face. The skin didn't fit, it was loose over his jowls. There were bags under his eyes. "I don't blame you, Ramsey. Before you head out, do you know anything about this?"

"I heard it on the TV. We were all at lunch. I remember wondering why a local Las Vegas station was on the TV in the kitchen, why it was so loud. Then, of course, it was clear. You know as well as I do that Mason Lord arranged for the explosion. I've been told that now things are even again and there won't be any more violence."

Detective O'Connor whistled between his teeth. "I feel like a fly buzzing around with no place to land. I don't suppose Mr. Lord admitted to you that he'd done it?"

"No, he didn't say a word. But you know, he had a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes that he couldn't quite hide. Sure he ordered it. This place is like an alternate universe."

"The cops down in Las Vegas say they ain't got dip. Everything was neat and tidy, except for the two bodies left over."

"You'll be checking to see if any of Lord's men took a quick trip down to Las Vegas?"

"Yeah, but it won't matter if they did. Lots of folks go to Las Vegas. Besides, the chances of Mr. Lord bringing the murders this close to home are slim to none. These guys don't operate like that. It's like dogs and their own backyards. But I got to talk to everyone, go through all the motions, just the way homicide did with me down in Las Vegas. Maybe some of the Las Vegas detectives will come up here, who knows?"

"I still have trouble with what Miles told me about the even-up rules. If it were me, I'd want to up the ante myself, not walk away, not just wipe my hands and say, well, that's how it is. My daughter's dead, but hey."

"Probably Shaker knew when he had that bomb planted that he was putting his daughter's life on the line.

It does make him sound like he's not the greatest dad, doesn't it? These guys aren't like you or me, Ramsey. There's something missing somewhere in how they're put together. But they don't get where they are by being stupid. He probably thought Mr. Lord would try for him, only he didn't."

"Let's say he didn't expect Mason to go that far. Let's say he doesn't consider things even. What happens then?"

"Listen, go home, Ramsey. I'd say for you it's over. Rule Shaker isn't about to make another mistake. He can't afford to; he's got too much to protect.

"Send the little girl and her mother home. The Denver cops will take care of them.

"It's over now. You can leave the rest of it to us. We'll let you know if we find out anything that would fill a cereal box."