City Havoc Read online

  City

  Havoc

  Jack Adler

  City Havoc

  Copyright © 2011, by Jack Adler.

  Cover Copyright © 2011 Sunbury Press and Alecia Nye.

  NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact Sunbury Press, Inc., Subsidiary Rights Dept., 2200 Market St., Camp Hill, PA 17011 USA or [email protected].

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  FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION

  Printed in the United States of America

  August 2011

  ISBN 978-1-934597-62-0

  Published by:

  Sunbury Press

  Camp Hill, PA

  www.sunburypress.com

  Camp Hill, Pennsylvania USA

  For my brother Norm

  One

  SATURDAY

  "Ash, Ash!"

  Holly moaned as Ashley, her lover, laved her inner thighs with soft, delicate kisses. It was amazing, ironic and simply wonderful that a man she was originally attracted to for his mind should be such an expert lover. He raised his head, nuzzling her mound of soft darkish blond hair, and began a trail of kisses up to her navel and then her plump breasts, where he slowly licked and sucked each hardened nipple.

  They lay in the double bed of a hotel room in downtown Los Angeles. It was after midnight that Saturday, and occasionally traffic noises resonated within the darkened room even though the curtains were tightly drawn. Everyone else in their tour group was probably asleep already. Holly wondered how many knew that she and Ashley, the tour leader, were sleeping together. They had been very discreet, and this was actually only the second time during their weeklong tour of West Coast museums and cultural attractions that they had all too briefly managed to sneak off and share a room. There was probably some suspicion, but now the tour was almost over.

  Sex and travel! What a great combination! Each offered new avenues of enjoyment, some public and some not so public.

  But the brochure from Tramerica, the tour operator, only covered the travel itinerary. Ash was an unexpected dividend, and what a bonus!

  At twenty-three, only a couple of years out of college, she had slept with only two men—boys, really—one at college to find out what the big mystery was and then a graduate student she met at a friend's party. Ash was her first mature lover. He said he was forty-one, but he looked much younger; with a full head of wavy brown hair, a still firm body and a patrician face with a strong chin and well-set blue eyes over his ruler-straight nose. He traveled a great deal, and she wasn't sure when she would see him again. But he was often in New York, where Tramerica was located, and she was in Larchmont, not too far away. They would find a way. They had the same interests in art and the theater. He was a museum enthusiast, just like she was. She had a graduate degree in art history, and he had taught the subject at a small college in upstate New York. He was indeed her kindred soul, and he was knowledgeable about esoteric artists that most people in the tour group had probably never heard of. It was a pity, though, that she was catching a flight back to New York when the tour ended after breakfast the next morning.

  He was in her now, large and potent, pounding her like a well-oiled engine. She gripped him harder, grappling her legs around his long legs, her arms pressing him to her. She couldn't hear the door of the hotel room slowly opening. All she could hear were her own low moans of pleasure and his deep breathing.

  A man with a smile evident even in the shadows of the room stood over them aiming a gun. Another man stood in the background with a camera. Who were they? Robbers? Blackmailers? Private investigators? She had read about criminals bursting into hotel rooms to take photos of adulterers and blackmail them; detectives working for husbands or wives suspecting unfaithful spouses did the same thing.

  Holly was petrified as her mind pondered the possibilities. Ash was silent and just as scared as she was. She felt him still inside her but now as a silent, unmoving and leaden presence.

  "Don't talk!" the gunman commanded. His smile had vanished. "And don't move!"

  But Ash, quickly shrunk, had withdrawn from her body, though he still lay draped over her, moist and heavy. She could hear his heart beat—or was it her heart?

  "Stay exactly as you are," the man went on. His voice was curious, strong and clear, but not harsh. Holly could also make out some of his features now. He was in his thirties with cropped blond hair and a firm chin. The other man looked heavier and older, but it was hard to tell in the poor light.

  "We need some photos," the man said calmly as if he were in a store ordering some merchandise from a clerk.

  "What do you want?" Holly cried, though she thought she knew. How could this be happening to her!

  It was blackmail; it had to be. But how did they know who she was? And how did they know she and Ash would be in bed at this time? How had they found out? Another horrifying thought flashed through her distraught mind: Ash had said he was divorced. Suppose he had lied and was still married or separated? Was that it? Was she caught in some alimony-hiking scheme? Had she, like a senseless ninny, fallen into bed with a married man?

  "Please don't say another word!" the man said as he brought the pistol close to her head on the pillow. Ashley hadn't said anything, but she could feel the fear in him as his gaze commanded her cooperation. Sweat merged on their bodies in a nonsexual embrace.

  Quickly, the man with the camera took photos from different angles—the flash exploded like sudden flares—with the blanket and sheets over them. She closed her eyes each time, trying to bend her head so that she would be less recognizable. When the cameraman nodded, the gunman tore the covers off, exposing their naked bodies. Ashley still lay sprawled on top of her. He didn't look at her; he was probably as mortified and frightened as she was. Or was it a sign of guilt for having misled her?

  More photos, more flashes. It was the most embarrassing and painful moment of her life. It was worse for Ashley, she thought, surprised by her own impulse, as it was his buttocks and body that were more exposed.

  "Thank you," the gunman said. His odd politeness was no comfort in the terrifying situation. Holly felt she would explode, her naked body flying in pieces throughout the room. How long would this go on? The pair didn’t look like they would harm them. Take the bloody photos and go! "I think we got some good shots," the cameraman said to his partner with an odd deference.

  Hadn’t anyone seen them enter the room? Holly thought. Hadn't anyone heard anything? Where was hotel security? The longer these intruders stayed, the more chance they would be caught, but she wanted them to leave. Go, and go quickly! If it was blackmail, her father would take care of it. Just don't hurt me or Ash, she thought. She still had faith in him. How could she have read him so badly?

  Holly's mind went blank with utter confusion as Ashley suddenly tumbled off her. She was so surprised that it took her an instant to grab the sheet and partially cover her body to just above her breasts.

  "Can I go to the bathroom now?" Ashley asked.

  Her mouth flew open and her eyes widened in shock as Ash picked up his underwear from the floor and strode into the bathroom.

  In the bathroom Ashley cleaned up and put on his shorts. He
was glad his role in this matter, at least as far as seducing Holly, was over. She had been surprisingly easy to maneuver into bed, especially given the little amount of time he had to work in and the staring eyes of some of the matronly types in the tour group he had to avert. No one would be able to associate him with Holly's disappearance. Bender had assured him of that. And truth to tell, he had enjoyed making love to Holly. She had a lovely, young and supple body, much more firm and vital than some of the older women he had bedded in previous tours for his own pleasure. It was strange, but the idea that they were visiting museums and cultural institutions seemed to justify releasing sexual inhibitions in some women. Were he still in the academic world, he might even try to write a paper on the subject. If his fiances weren’t in such a delicate state, he wouldn’t have needed to accept money for the pleasant enough role he played. It would be nice to know more about who he was dealing with, but they had paid promptly and in full.

  But the look of shock and surprise that Holly gave him when he tumbled off of her would probably remain with him for a while. Accusing and reproachful eyes formed part of the memory of his history of betrayal, and he could have done without it. But he could hardly expect her to show any understanding or sympathy. It was time to go back and get fully dressed while avoiding her cold, stabbing look. His part was done; he wouldn't even know where Bender and Luke would take Holly. That was his understanding, and it made sense. The less he knew the better. When Holly didn't show up for breakfast in the morning, he would ask others in the tour group if they had seen her; when they said no, he would call her room. There would be no answer. Following Tramerica's policy he would notify hotel security, and they would finally enter her room and then indicate she was probably missing. The police would be summoned, and questions would be asked, but he would be in the clear just as planned. Even if anyone knew or suspected of their short-term relationship, which was doubtful, there was no way to link him to her disappearance. His fingerprints in the room didn’t signify any involvement. Bender’s instructions for him as the tour leader were to ask to check several rooms allocated for the tour group at check-in as a clever precaution.

  "Ash, could you come back to the bed, please?" Bender asked as Ashley reentered the room. Bender stood by the bed with the gun still trained on Holly while Luke stood off to the side ready to take more photos. Didn't they have enough already? What were they doing, making a porno film? Holly’s eyes had a glazed, disbelieving cast when Ashley sneaked a quick glance at her. He looked away quickly, afraid her eyes would lock on him.

  Ashley obediently sat on the bed with his back to Holly. "What do you want me to do?" he asked Bender uncertainly, hoping it wasn't sexual. That would be too much.

  "That's fine; just stay the way you are," Bender said, walking to the other side of the bed. "Just look at your fingers or your hands, not the photographer."

  His fingers? His hands? What was Bender doing now? Bender was careful not to mention Luke's name. Why? Luke, he saw with mounting concern, had come next to the bed with the camera and was now facing him, poised to take more photos. Did Bender want to try to suggest a threesome in bed? What was going on?

  Ashley found out in one brief, terminally confusing second. Bender, moving quickly, picked up a pillow and held it behind Ashley's head. “Ash,” Bender said, “please stay in position and hold the pillow steady.” Confused over what sort of photo Bender wanted, Ashley obeyed. This was all going on too long; something would go wrong. He couldn’t see what Holly was doing, but he imagined she was probably staring holes into his back. Luke’s eyes were behind the camera, and Ashley couldn’t tell what his expression was.

  Taking Holly by surprise, Bender held her fingers to the trigger of the gun and took aim at Ashley through the pillow. With sudden pressure he forced her to squeeze the trigger. The bullet entered Ashley's skull behind his left ear, splattering dark blood and gray brain matter on the bed, the wall, the floor and Holly. Almost simultaneously she saw the camera flash again. Before she could scream, Bender placed his hand over her mouth.

  Two

  SUNDAY

  As one of the giants of the American travel industry, Tramerica offered tours throughout the world, and its special interest packages were among the company's biggest sellers. I knew this for a fact because I had written many articles about Tramerica back in my days as a reporter for the Daily Travel News. At that time I never thought I would wind up working for Tramerica as a sort of combined public affairs specialist and general troubleshooter. But the increasingly turbulent world convinced management to have on hand an experienced man who could handle a variety of sensitive assignments.

  As a well-known trade journalist—that is self-flattery but true nonetheless—I had received an inside track on the newly created position. Several other factors were in my favor. With a BA in history from Berkeley, I was considered reasonably well-educated once they were sure I hadn't been a raving student political activist. I spoke some Russian and Spanish—enough to get into trouble was my usual line—suggesting a flair for languages. It didn't hurt, though it wasn't especially cited, that I was still single at thirty-three and had no family. ( My parents were dead, and I had no siblings.) Presumably my intelligence training in the army, utilized on a mercifully brief stint in Vietnam, didn't damage my resume, either.

  Since then I had been dispatched to help find a runaway child in Cairo (reunited, fortunately, with her distraught mother, who was also in the tour group); I was sent to Mumbai in a case involving alleged smuggling of art treasures out of India by our tour leader (the charges were eventually dropped, but not without incredible bureaucratic finessing); I even went on a cruise through the Caribbean, where a divorce-bound couple was off-loaded in St. Thomas for their violent spats aboard the liner. A busy boy, I was.

  So when my phone rang at home early Sunday morning after I was already up and intent on finishing a fine book, The Great Game, about the British-Russian rivalry to secure control of Central Asia, I wasn't at all surprised there was a problem somewhere on the globe for Tramerica. But I was taken aback when Agnes, my boss' acerbic secretary, ordered in a grim tone, "Be here as soon as possible. Problem in L.A. Woman on the tour has been accused of murdering our tour guide."

  “Yes, sir,” Bender told his contact using his disposable cell phone. “We’ve set up shop with everything in place to display our goods and establish our niche in the West Coast market.”

  It was only necessary to report to the contact, who he had never met, at the outset and only after on an emergency basis. Half of the fee had already been deposited in his offshore account. While analysts from the Department of Homeland Security and other governmental agencies couldn’t access his cell phone conversation, it was always better to make exchanges appear innocuous by using everyday words.

  Bender listened silently for an instant and then mangled his cell phone on the floor and threw it into the garbage.

  Located in mid-Manhattan off Fifth Avenue, Tramerica had its own building, leasing out floors and offices it didn't use. Miniature flags of every nation its tours went to flew from the abutments over the first level of the massive building with its finely hued glass facades over light blue bricks. Behind the glass windows on the ground floor, pictures of international and domestic attractions vied for attention along with displays of samovars from Russia, prayer wheels from Tibet, candy skeletons from Mexico and ebony masks from Zambia.

  It was cool and breezy at half past eight that early May morning—I almost always got to places and appointments early—but not so cool that I couldn't stop for a moment and consider the appeal of the artifacts. I wondered how I might organize a window display and decided there was no way I could do any better. The world was gathered with exotic objects from around the planet, and it worked, drawing in street traffic.

  The lobby had more travel material inside: photographs, paintings, woodcuts, currency and coin collections, tapestries and even a triptych with a French medieval theme. Tramerica the mu
seum, I thought. Some of the items had probably once been in or targeted for a museum. Even though it was Sunday, we were open with a skeleton crew, though the reservations desk wasn’t open. A cute redhead at the information desk gave me a bright smile—perhaps commiserating with me because we both had to work today—as I went to the bank of elevators, where two other early risers were standing.

  Just under the penthouse level, where the executive offices were based, I went to my boss' office. Wolcott Harris was the vice president of public affairs by title, but he had a lot more behind-the-scenes influence by dint of his nearly thirty years of service in the company. Agnes was already there in a dark green pantsuit and a multicolored scarf tucked in at the neck. She was in her forties and married, and she was still quite attractive, with an oval face, blue eyes and soft brown hair that reached her shoulders.

  "Good morning, Derry," she said "Wolcott's with Mr. DeCosta. He said to have you wait."

  "I'll wait," I said dutifully, sinking into a plush black leather couch. DeCosta was the president of Tramerica, and if he was in the meeting early on Sunday morning, it was as serious as could be.

  "Have you heard anything else?" I asked Agnes as she sat straight-backed behind her desk proofreading letters and memos. This wasn't the first Sunday she had to come in to work; nor was it mine. "Do you know who the woman accused of murder is?"

  She looked at me as if I was badly out of the loop, and maybe I was. “You don’t know?” she said, making it sound more like a statement than a question.

  I shook my head. I hadn't seen any news of such an incident on early morning television before I left my Upper West Side apartment; nor was there any story about it on the front page of the New York Times, though I hadn't had time to go through the rest of the paper, being engrossed in Central Asian intrigues.