Unwritten Rules (Phoenix, Ltd. Book 1) Page 8

  “How are you feeling?” Carter asked.

  Herman grimaced. “Sore all over.”

  Carter motioned toward the cast. “I see they got your wrist fixed up. Did the doctors find any other injuries?”

  “Nothing else is broken, but I must have hit my head pretty hard. They want to keep me overnight for observation.”

  “That’s a good idea.” Madelyn reached out and smoothed a wrinkle from the blanket. “I’ll call your office and tell them what happened. Then we’ll be back to pick you up tomorrow morning. In the meantime, try and get some rest.”

  Herman nodded, closed his eyes, and winced when he dropped his head back onto the pillow. Carter and Madelyn slipped out of the cubicle.

  The traffic had eased by the time they drove back to the hotel, which was a good thing because she was clearly distracted. Although she kept her eyes on the road, he could almost see the wheels whirring behind her smooth brow.

  “Let’s eat in the hotel restaurant,” he suggested as she parked in the garage and they climbed out of the car.

  “I’m not very hungry, and I’ve got work to do. I need to make some calls.”

  He glanced at his watch. “I doubt anyone’s answering the phone at Normandy Press at this hour.”

  “Maybe not, but I’m going to try. Besides, I only want a salad. Can’t you survive on room service one more night?”

  “I don’t like to eat alone.”

  “You live alone.”

  He knew better than to smile at her exasperation. “Yes, but when I’m home in Chicago, my mother and grandmother usually invite me over, or I catch a bite with Pat if he’s not tied up. There’s a sports bar near Wrigley Field we both like.”

  “O’Malley’s?” Her voice held a note of suspicion.

  “You know it?”

  “I’ve never been there, but Patrick used to try to talk some of us into going with him after work.”

  “If you’d come, we’d have met sooner.”

  She halted. “Don’t tell me those invitations were his sneaky way of trying to set us up.”

  “Okay, I won’t. Come on, have dinner with me. We can’t talk upstairs. For all we know, our friends have refreshed the batteries and tapes in the pens in preparation for another night of listening pleasure.”

  “I’m too tired to talk.”

  She looked beat, but he knew if he didn’t push, she probably wouldn’t bother to eat. “Quit arguing. We’re standing in front of the restaurant, and I’m hungry.”

  “As far as I can tell, you’re always hungry.”

  “Pretty much, and right now you are too. You just won’t admit it. I can tell because hunger makes you cranky.”

  Her eyes rounded in outrage. “I was nearly run over this afternoon. I think I’ve earned the right to be cranky.”

  “I was there too, if you’ll recall. Now, are you coming?”

  “Oh, all right.” She gave in and allowed him to usher her into the hotel restaurant.

  “You can try calling Normandy from here,” he said after they placed their orders.

  Madelyn pulled out her phone, checked her directory, and punched in the number. She spoke to someone for a few minutes then disconnected. “They don’t have the letters.”

  “It’s probably not important.”

  The familiar twin creases formed between her brows. “They’re evidence. Who knows what they might have told us. What kind of spy were you anyway?”

  “I was a field operative, not an analyst. We gathered the information and took the risks. We left it to the brains in Langley to figure everything out.”

  The waiter arrived with a chef salad for Madelyn and a T-bone steak and baked potato for Carter. She picked at her food as if searching for the choicest bits, but he dug in with gusto.

  After three or four bites had taken the edge off his initial hunger, he set his fork down. “I don’t want you to think I’m blowing this off. It’s just that it feels so childish—the letters, the fake bomb, the pens. The only thing that really feels threatening is the accident—or whatever it was—this afternoon.”

  She nodded, her fork halfway to her mouth. “I know what you mean. I’ve been trying to figure it out. Without seeing the letters, we don’t know exactly what they threatened. And what was the point of the fake bomb? If I hadn’t checked, no one would have known it was there. It wasn’t going to go off. The bugs are even more pointless. What could anyone hope to hear?” She pointed her fork at him. “Unless there’s more going on here than a simple book tour.”

  He shook his head. “I swear I’m done with all that. Until last night, I hadn’t seen anyone from the Agency in almost a year.”

  She popped the forkful of lettuce into her mouth and chewed for a minute. “Well, someone’s trying to send you a message. I just hope no one else gets hurt before we figure out what it is.”

  ****

  Madelyn tossed and turned all night, alternating between worrying about Herman and trying to make sense of the events of the past two days.

  The next morning, she called the hospital and learned Herman would be ready for discharge by noon. Taking advantage of the downtime, she called Risa and asked her to do more in-depth background checks on Herman, Normandy Press, and several of the guests at the reception Thursday night, especially Syed al-Hawari, Al Witkowski, and Senator Sam Barnett. Phoenix wasn’t a detective agency, but Risa was a whiz at ferreting out information in the public domain.

  Technically, Madelyn could do her job and keep Carter safe without knowing the source of the threats, but that option left her little control. She would much prefer to be proactive than reactive, a step ahead rather than a step behind. Hopefully Risa would come up with something. The answer was out there, and she was determined to find it.

  She and Carter drove to the hospital a little after eleven and found Herman dressed and waiting, sitting on the side of his bed.

  “How are you feeling?”

  His expression was even droopier than usual, and tears glinted in his brown puppy-eyes.

  Alarmed, she searched for the controls near the head of the bed. “Where’s the nurse’s call button? Do you need more pain medication?”

  “No.” Herman’s voice wavered. “They gave me these.” He held up a small brown bottle. “I’m so sorry.” He raised his uninjured hand to cover his eyes.

  Carter patted his back. “Hey, you don’t have anything to be sorry about. None of this was your fault.”

  “Oh, but it was.” He shook his head, still covering his eyes.

  She handed him the box of tissues from the bedside table and poured him a glass of water. “Here. Take a deep breath and drink this.”

  Herman blew his nose noisily, tidied his moustache and struggled to regain his composure. Madelyn knew from experience with overwrought witnesses that calm was usually contagious, but Carter appeared to be nonplussed by the other man’s emotional display. He wandered around the room fiddling with things and looking out the window. When Herman had regained his composure, Carter returned to the bedside.

  “Now tell us why you think anything that’s happened is your fault,” Madelyn said.

  Herman stared at his hands in his lap. “I made the car bomb.”

  His admission brought her more relief than surprise. At least one mystery was solved. “But the bomb wasn’t real.”

  His head popped up. “Of course not. I wouldn’t risk that. What do you think I am?”

  She crossed her arms. “I’m not sure. Why did you do it?”

  “Carter wasn’t taking the threats seriously, and I was afraid you wouldn’t either. I just wanted to convince you.”

  “Did you write those letters? Were they part of your publicity plan?” Her sympathy for Herman was disappearing fast.

  “No, no! The threats were real—I swear.”

  The sincerity of his distress disarmed her. If she was any judge, he appeared to be telling the truth. So much for a tidy solution.

  “What about the accident?” Car
ter demanded. “You called that news crew in. Did you arrange for a speeding car to barrel into us as part of some idiotic publicity stunt?”

  “Absolutely not.” Herman clouded up again. “It was a silly idea.” He snuffled loudly and reached for another tissue. “I don’t know what went wrong. A friend of mine has a client who’s a race car driver. I thought it would look great if he zoomed by behind us during the TV interview. You know—making lots of noise. He wasn’t supposed to hit anyone.” He blew his nose then his face brightened. “But some good did come of it. We made the ten o’clock news on Channel Five. Did you see it?”

  “No, we didn’t see it.” Carter looked as though he’d like to add to Herman’s injuries. “What about the bugs?”

  Herman jumped from the bed and shook the blanket furiously. “What bugs? I hate bugs.”

  “You know what I mean, the listening devices in the pens in the hotel rooms.”

  Herman’s brow knit in puzzlement. “I don’t know anything about listening devices. Why would I do that? That wouldn’t help sell books.”

  He was right. He had nothing to gain by eavesdropping on their conversations. And there was still the matter of the letters. She was inclined to believe Herman about the bugs and the speeding car stunt. Perhaps she should give him the benefit of the doubt about the letters for the time being until she had more evidence. However, no matter how badly she needed this job, she could not be associated with any further illegal or unethical actions on his part.

  “Mr. Perryman, do I have your solemn promise to pre-screen every publicity-related activity with me for the duration of this tour? Because, believe me, if I don’t I will be on the next plane back to Chicago, and I might have to inform Lt. Pirelli who was responsible for wasting the bomb squad’s time.”

  “Yes, yes, I promise.” He bobbed his head up and down.

  He seemed chastened, but was that enough to keep him on the straight and narrow for the next three weeks? Maybe she should up the ante with a threat she knew he would take to heart.

  She gave him a long, considering look. “In light of your injury, it might be best if I requested Normandy Press to send you back to New York and cancel the remainder of the tour.”

  Herman blanched. “Oh, no! You mustn’t do that. I can still work, and the tour is vital to the company and to Carter’s career.”

  She hadn’t considered that canceling the tour might hinder the success of Carter’s new book and was surprised how much she wanted him to succeed. She could still hold that option in reserve, but perhaps the pain of a broken wrist would be enough to convince Herman to abandon his more outlandish ideas so the tour could continue without further incident.

  She gave him a brief nod. “Very well. Let’s get you out of here and back to the hotel. You have the rest of today and all day tomorrow to rest before the next scheduled event. We’ll see how you’re feeling before making any decisions.”

  No one had much to say on the ride back to the hotel. Madelyn could almost see the steam rising from Carter’s head in the seat next to her, and Herman sat cowed in the back. As she drove, she mulled over the implications of his confession. If he was telling the truth, why hadn’t the drive-by outside the bookstore gone according to plan? Carter might be comfortable leaving loose ends hanging, but she wasn’t.

  She glanced in the rear view mirror. “Do you think you can walk from the parking garage? I can let you two out at the front door.”

  Carter answered before Herman could speak. “I think we should stick together for the time being.”

  Herman met her eyes in the mirror. “I swear nothing else is going to happen.”

  “I think Carter’s right. Until we have answers to all the questions, no one goes anywhere alone.”

  She pulled into the garage and drove slowly through the aisles until she found an empty space in a corner on the third level down. Carter helped Herman out of the back seat and gripped his upper arm to keep him upright. After the strain of the morning, the little man was as limp as a deflated balloon.

  The hollow echoes of their footsteps rang out in the silence of the damp underground ramp as they walked toward the elevator. Harsh fluorescent lights cast sharp shadows around the parked cars.

  Up ahead and to the left, a faint skritch, like the sound of a shoe on sand or gravel, caught her attention. Instinctively she thrust her arm in front of Carter, who must have heard it too. He had stopped and kept a firm grasp on Herman.

  It might be a small animal who had somehow gotten trapped on the lower level of the garage or someone taking their time getting out of their car. She didn’t want to overreact and pull a gun on a lost squirrel or an innocent tourist, but she hadn’t heard a door slam after the chirp of the automatic lock on the rental car. If someone else was in the garage, they had already left their car and were waiting.

  “What’s the matter,” Herman whispered.

  The silence magnified every syllable. Carter shook his head in warning. The publicist’s eyes grew round, but he kept quiet. They waited, scarcely breathing, for a couple of minutes. Madelyn scanned the rows of cars, but it was impossible to see between them. When there was no further sound, she glanced at Carter. He nodded. They began walking toward the elevator again.

  Her heart pounded, but with each car they passed, she relaxed a bit more. She hadn’t imagined the sound, but it was probably nothing. Her nerves were on a razor’s edge.

  They had nearly reached the elevator when two men in ski masks burst from behind a mammoth black SUV. Each clutched a large knife in a black-gloved fist. Carter shoved Herman toward the closed doors of the elevator.

  “Get upstairs!” he shouted. “Call the police.”

  Madelyn didn’t wait to see if Herman followed orders. Carter was already grappling with one of the attackers, trying to dodge the wicked-looking knife. She reached for her gun in its waist holster, but the other man pounced, and she had to use both hands to fend him off.

  Just as she’d practiced over and over in Master Wu’s studio, she kept her body centered and upright, using the blocking and deflective movements of Hsing I Chuan to attack as well as defend. She knocked her attacker off balance with a couple of low kicks, but mainly used her fists and the heels of her palms. The man seemed surprised by the level of resistance and was slow to respond. A sharp blow to his wrist stunned the nerves, causing him to drop the knife.

  “Run!” he shouted then tore off up the ramp toward the exit.

  She turned to see the other man explode from Carter’s grasp and race after the first. She grabbed his arm before he could take off in pursuit. “Let them go.” She turned him to face her and scanned him from head to toe. “Are you hurt?”

  “Nothing but my pride.” He tucked his shirt tail back into his pants. “I should have had that SOB in less than a minute. I’ve got to get back in shape. I’ve really lost my edge.”

  “You’re a writer now. You shouldn’t need an edge.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t, but it looks like I do.”

  “What do you think they were after?”

  “Money, I assume.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not so sure. Did anyone demand money? I never heard a word. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”

  “It does. Most muggers would rather avoid a fight if possible. Why risk getting hurt if you don’t have to?”

  “Exactly. I don’t know what’s going on, but I think you should give serious thought to calling off this book tour.”

  “No, we can’t,” a small voice behind them protested. Madelyn turned to see Herman crouched against the closed elevator doors.

  Carter frowned. “What are you doing here? I told you to get upstairs and call the police.”

  “I’m sorry.” Herman’s reply was nearly inaudible. “I was too afraid to move.”

  He almost lost his balance trying to stand, and Carter and Madelyn rushed to his side.

  She reached out to steady him. “Tell me the truth. Did you have anything to do with this?”<
br />
  “Of course not. Those men had knives.”

  “That’s right, and they knew how to use them.”

  “I swear I don’t know anything about it.” He shrank further against the elevator doors, his fear palpable in the dank underground air.

  “Okay. Are you all right?”

  Herman nodded. “I don’t think they even saw me.”

  She caught Carter’s eye. “They did seem to be concentrating on us.”

  “I noticed. Let’s get upstairs.”

  He grasped Herman’s uninjured arm with his left hand and pushed the button for the elevator with his right. When they reached the lobby, they crossed to the main bank of elevators and rode to their floor. No one spoke, but the staccato rhythm of Madelyn’s heartbeat pounded in her ears.

  “Where’s your key?” Carter extended his hand to Herman.

  The publicist passed him the plastic card then followed them into the room. Carter nodded to Madelyn and glanced toward the bathroom. She followed his direction and conducted a quick search while he checked the bedroom.

  “What are you doing? Do you think someone’s in here?” Herman backed toward the door.

  Carter lifted the desk pen and shook his head. “No. Everything’s fine.”

  She got the message—no bugs here.

  “Lie down and rest.” She headed for the door. “You don’t have any commitments for a day and a half, and I don’t want you to leave this room. Call for room service when you get hungry. We’ll check on you later.”

  Herman slumped on the bed. “All right.”

  They crossed the hall, and Madelyn waited while Carter slid his key into his lock. When the green light blinked, he turned the handle. “I know it would upset Herman,” she said, “but I still think we should consider canceling the tour.”

  “It’s too soon to make that call. It’s only been a couple of days.”

  “And look what’s happened already.”

  “Maybe we’ve just had a run of bad luck.”

  “Do you honestly believe that?”

  He sidestepped her question with an attempt at a smile. “What’s the matter? You’re the bodyguard. Isn’t grappling with bad guys all in a day’s work?”