POISONED
ZERO PLUS TWO
THE BRISTOW RESIDENCE
LOS ANGELES
Jack turned his key in the deadbolt, feeling the weight of his carry-on bag and his briefcase for the first time today. Maybe he did need the rest. Maybe being home was the right call.
As he opened the front door of his house, the heady, rich smells of malt and vanilla and butter wafted into his nostrils. At first his stomach growled – it was a sweet, wonderful aroma, after all – but then his hunger pang was gone when he noticed the hints of orange and lemon oils, and remembered that it was Laura's –
Irina's- recipe. He could hear giggling from his kitchen, and the sizzle of a griddle. "Sydney?" he called.
The giggling ceased, like a blanket had been thrown over the sound. Jack removed his suit coat and walked into the kitchen. There his eyes found his soon-to-be fourteen-year old daughter and another girl, about the same age. The counters were only lightly floured, and the tile floor showed no signs of spills. Jack was mildly surprised, but kept it off his face. He couldn't make a sandwich without trashing a significant portion of his kitchen. "What's all this?" he asked, his words gesturing to the other girl, long-haired, and dark-eyed.
Sydney found her voice. "Dad. This is Karen. Jimenez. She's in Model UN with me." The buzzer sounded on the waffle iron, and Sydney flipped open the lid. Karen cautiously lifted the waffle from the hot surface and onto a waiting plate, while Sydney eyed her father's stoic expression, trying to read him, and not having much luck. "We got back from San Francisco around nine," Sydney continued. "Her mom was still at work, so I had her come over here, and we were hungry, 'cause we missed breakfast, so we decided to make waffles. 'Cause we had all the stuff."
"I see," Jack said, thinking about something else, but still not showing his cards. "Does Karen's mother know she's here?"
"We called her before we started cooking," Sydney said. "She'll be here before one."
Jack nodded. It felt robotic, even to him. "Good," he said. "I'll be upstairs if you need me."
"How was Boston?" Sydney asked as he turned away.
"Uneventful," he replied as he walked out.
WINDSOR HOTEL
LONDON
The concierge was admiring his lobby today. The new Persian rugs were a marked improvement over the old ones – the color scheme really brought out the angularity of the leather wingback chairs, and the restored fainting couches gave the whole space a classical spark. Even the marble and brass looked smoother and livelier. Yes, indeed, he thought. This grand dame is going to be the toast of London this year, that's certain. But even swept up in his reverie, when the phone rang, he picked up without waiting for a second alarm. "Front desk," he said, in his best prim and professional manner.
"Sir?" the male voice on the other end said. "I'm in room ten-oh-nine. And something's going on in the room next to me. Sounds dreadful."
The concierge frowned. "Loud music, sir, or – "
"Not music. It's this - well, I can't describe it except to say it's a God-awful racket," the voice continued. "Sounds like somebody's getting killed in there." Then, in a more hushed tone, he added, "The wife thinks that it could be…newlyweds. If it's a couple, they need to be more discreet. I've got my little ones with me and – "
"Say no more. I'll be up personally," the concierge said.
The voice sounded relieved. "Thank you. Room ten-oh-seven." Then, he said, "Maybe send security, too. Just in case."
"Of course, sir," the concierge said. He found the miniature two-way radio, parked conveniently next to the phone, and said into it, "Mr. Parker, could you come to the front desk, please?"
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LOS ANGELES OFFICE
Al's office was full when he returned. And while the mystery Christmas lay (Miss Steinman, he corrected himself) was there, so were two of her office mates – both gawky men wearing ill-fitting suits, one rather lanky, one rather not.
"Is there a party in here that I wasn't notified about?" Al asked, trying to be funny. Two half-titters told him that all attempts would be lost. Al shook his head. "Okay, then. What's up?"
"I'm sorry, Al – I mean, Agent Maxwell – but – " the woman said, blushing a bit.
"Come on, Sarah, I wanted to say it," the heavier man said.
"Say – what?" Al asked.
"Agent Maxwell," the heavier man said, taking a deep breath...
…and the lanky man jumped the gun, adding in a stereotypical nasal tone, "We found something." This earned him a punch in the shoulder from the stocky analyst.
"To be more correct, several somethings," Sarah said.
"That was quick," Al marvelled.
"Well, we are professional analysts," she replied, with a smile that was just for him.
Al had to admit to himself that he liked that smile a lot. "Show me what you've got," he said.
"Is your dad mad at you?" Karen asked, drenching another waffle in blueberry sauce.
The question caught Sydney off-guard, just as she was finishing her milk. She pretended to brush it off. "No," Sydney said, not quite sure if she believed it. "I told you he's pretty serious."
"Yeah, but, there's serious, and then there's, y' know, serious." Karen began building a whipped cream mountain. "I mean, my dad at least smiles at my friends and me, even when he's PO'd that I invited people over."
Sydney sniffed a bit, and nodded, looking at the crumbs and sticky remnants of maple syrup still on her plate. "He smiles. Just not very much." She picked up her dish and carried it to the sink.
Karen finished the peak, and picked up her fork. "I mean, I'm not bad-mouthing him or anything," she said as Sydney returned to the table. "It's just, like, this is the first time I ever actually saw your dad and you in the same room, and not in a picture or anything, and it was, like, chilly."
Sydney's eyes were downcast. "He and I – we're not very close," she said softly. "He has work, and that's all the time, so I barely see him. I had a few different nannies when I was younger – after my mom – you know – and now, I don't need a lot of adult supervision…." Her voice began to trail away.
"I'm sorry," Karen said. "I didn't mean to – "
Sydney looked up again. "It's okay. You didn't mean anything by it." She offered her friend a sad smile, even though she didn't feel like doing it.
When Jack reached his bedroom, Irina was already there, sitting on the bed in that cream-colored satin nightgown she wore a night before she died, brushing her hair with those long strokes of hers. "You could have asked her about San Francisco, you know," she said.
"I will. I just need to clear my head," Jack replied, unbuttoning his dress shirt.
"How long will that take? You saw the look on her face. She missed you, and you didn't appear to miss her."
"I'm not talking to you, Irina," Jack groaned.
She stuck out her lower lip in her best mock-pouty expression. "Oh, come on, Jack. She's our daughter."
Jack snorted. "She is not our daughter. She is my daughter. You were simply a vessel for her gestation."
The expression faded. "Now that's cruel. I never gave you enough credit for your abilities in that department."
"Well, maybe you would now, if you weren't rotting somewhere." He sat down on the bed and began to untie his shoes.
Irina shook her head. "Now you're just being disgusting. And speaking of disgusting, who was that adorable girl from last night?" The look on her face was pure malice.
Sydney and Karen had sat in silence for a few moments, except for the sound of Karen's fork scraping her emptying plate. Then she looked squarely into her friend's eyes, an a-ha expression on her face. "I know what your dad needs," she said, popping another bite into her mouth. "A girlfriend."
Sydney laughed. "Karen…."
"He's not that old, Syd," she replied. "And he's even kinda cute," she added, with a tiny smirk.
"Ewwww!" Sydney said, wincing. "That's my dad you're talking about!"
"So? He is, kinda. Besides, I'm not saying I'd wanna be his girlfriend," Karen said, with an even broader grin breaking across her face. "Not yet, anyway."
Sydney grinned too, as she picked up the whipped cream can, and began to shake it.
"You wouldn't dare," Karen said, leaping away from her chair.
Sydney pointed the nozzle at her friend, fingertip at the ready. "I wouldn't?" Her grin was holding. "Call my dad cute again. I dare you."
Outside room 1007, there was more activity than usual. People were poking their heads into the hall, watching as the pinched concierge, flanked by two larger men, repeatedly knocked on the door. "Mr. Chase?" he had said more than once, "This is Mr. Halliwell, the hotel concierge. Could you open the door please?"
As had been the case the six or seven times before, there was no reply.
"Mr. Halliwell," said one of the larger men, a hulking bald fellow with a nametag that read PARKER, said to the smaller man, "I think we need to go in. Your passkey, please."
Halliwell shook his head. "I'm not allowed to give it out," he replied. "I'll unlock the door, then you can go in."
Parker sighed. "Very good, sir."
Halliwell slid the key into the deadbolt, and turned it. The lock snapped open, and he took a pair of steps back.
Parker raised his voice to a half-shout, and said, "Mr. Chase, this is hotel security. We're coming in." He nodded at his partner, who turned the knob, and swung the door open.
It took no time for the trio to discover why the guest in 1007 hadn't answered the door.
Or for Halliwell to faint.
Parker's partner rushed toward the warped body on the floor, covering his mouth as he arrived. He looked back and shook his head, and Parker raised the two-way radio to his lips. "Get me the police," he said. "Now."
Jack frowned at his imagined wife, then went back to his shoes. "What girl?" he asked.
This made her smirk. "You remember, the one who took care of you in the shower this morning? What was her name again?"
"I don't know," Jack replied.
Irina pointed toward the bathroom door where the girl was now standing, drying the beads of water on her tanned body with a terrycloth towel, but keeping her sparkling blue eyes on his. "She was very young. And very attractive," Irina said. "How did you manage?"
"I don't remember," Jack said, unable to take his eyes off his last conquest. "Getting old."
"Yes, you are. Too old for girls. You need a woman." At that, Irina appeared in the younger woman's place, wrapping the towel around her body.
"A woman? Like you?"
"Not necessarily," Irina said, slinking toward him. "But definitely someone who you won't just forget."
"I am sick and tired of this discussion," Jack said, lying down. "Why won't you just go away?"
Irina swung a leg over him and straddled his hips. "You won't let me go away. Down deep, you still want me." She lifted his undershirt and exposed his stomach. "You still feel me next to you at night. You dream about the things we did together." Her hands smoothed his skin, then loosened his belt. "You can't fight me, Jack," she said, and it was true. He couldn't move to push her away. Somehow he'd lost control of his limbs – they were hers now. She opened his trousers and exposed more of his flesh to the air. And then, as she rolled her pelvis slowly over his, she said, "You remember and you fantasize. About my body and your body and how we responded to each other." She stripped off the towel and tossed it aside. And he was helplessly lost in her sumptuous beauty once more.
His mind was a contradictory swirl: he ached to caress her, to explore her body like he had done so many times before, then take her – or let her take him – just as much as he wanted to push her away. She lay on top of him, her breasts pressing against his torso, lips tantalizingly close to his. She smirked, catlike. "The girl from last night," she purred, "so young and beautiful. But you had her, and now you don't want her anymore, so – poof! – she's out of your mind. But me - a woman you say you hate, by the way - you still want. And here I am." She sat up once more and laughed, good and hearty, her hands finding their own way.
Jack's mind was resistant, but weakening. Her touch was still…delicious…
…and he saw the gleaming straight razor in her other hand…
…and she was still laughing…
…and she was still stroking him…
…then she sliced open his ribcage…
"No!" he cried, bolting upright, hand over his heart. Irina was not on him now. She was standing at the door, clad in a Soviet military uniform, like the one he'd seen her wearing in a faded surveillance photo. He was dressed again, but still aroused. They stared at each other for a moment, and then Jack had to speak. "Lusting for you and wanting to tear you apart, those are two different things," he said, trying to catch his breath.
"No, Jack. They're one and the same," she said, and gave him a sly wink.
Jack lay back down, trying to slow his pounding pulse, and as he breathed, he settled deeper into his pillow, and drifted off.
Al couldn't believe he was pulling up in front of Jack's house again. He'd been there maybe three times in the last two years, and now he was showing up twice in one day. Jack's probably going to punt my ass into the neighbor's bushes, he thought, as his car phone buzzed. "Al Maxwell," he said.
"Agent Maxwell?" the wheezy voice asked.
Al recognized it – it belonged to the lanky analyst, whose name was slipping away from Al at that very moment. "That's me," he replied.
"Kendrick's looking for you," the voice said, in a hushed tone.
"Is he pissed?" Al asked, looking at his reflection in the rearview mirror.
"The little vein in his forehead looks like it's about to – oh, hello, sir – "
"Maxwell!" Kendrick's voice bellowed through the pops and crackles. It had sounded like he'd torn the receiver from the other man's ear. "Where the hell are you?"
"On my way to a late lunch," Al said.
"At Jack Bristow's house?"
Shit, Al thought. Damn phone tracers. "Sure," he said. "The man knows how to make a tuna melt. I'll have him put one together for you, too."
"Goddammit, Maxwell, you know intra-office communications policy regarding ongoing – "
"Yeah, I glanced at it before I left," Al said, noticing a rusting Chevy Nova parking behind him. "I couldn't wait for your approval. Jack needs to be kept up to speed on this. And I can't wait for him to return from his sick days – or whatever they're being called – or just give him the details over the phone. When we're working together, we need to be in the same damn room."
Kendrick started to say something about insubordination and the infallibility of CIA policy and something else, too, but Al wasn't listening, because he noticed that a very attractive woman – who was dressed as a very plain one – was getting out of the Nova and walking toward the house. When she was gone from the mirror, Al remembered Kendrick.
"…and when you get back here, we are going to discuss your attitude, am I clear?" Kendrick finished saying.
"Crystal clear, sir," Al replied. Then he was out the door, and behind the woman, who was going exactly the same direction he was.
A knock stirred Jack from his slumber. "Dad?" Sydney asked from behind the door.
Jack sat up. He could still feel that odd contradictory arousal. God forbid that he was also talking in his sleep. "What is it?" he replied.
"Someone from your work is here for you. Mr. Maxwell. He said it's urgent."
Jack's expression was instantly one of bewilderment. He looked at his alarm clock. 2:35. He wondered, is it tomorrow already? "Did Karen's mother pick her up?" he asked.
"Not yet. She just got here. And Karen wanted to borrow a couple of tapes, so she's in my room right now." A hesitation, then, softer, "Are you mad at me? About Karen, or the waffles, or just - in general?"
Jack kept his sigh inaudible. Why should the apparition be right more often than he was? "No. I'm not mad at you. Just jet-lagged." He stood up and began to button his shirt again. "Tell Mr. Maxwell I'll be down in a moment."
The sound of sirens was growing louder outside. They had left the hotel room door open wide, and watched the cold wind blow over the bloated and gored corpse. Halliwell was sitting cross-legged on the hallway carpet, staring into the room, unblinking, but unseeing. Parker was right next to his boss, and noticed that his partner was returning with a cup of coffee. "Who called you, Mr. Halliwell?" Parker asked, gesturing for the cup. He handed it to the shaking man.
Halliwell spoke slowly. "A guest next door, in ten-oh-nine."
Parker pointed to the door. "There?"
"He was saying that the noise was disturbing his wife and children…oh, God…what if – what if whomever did this…oh, God - " Halliwell's words vanished in anguish.
"Sir, just relax here for a moment," Parker said. Then he rose and knocked on the door to room 1009. There was no answer. He knocked again, more forcefully. Said, "Sir, this is security. Could you open the door, please?" Still nothing.
"Ohgodohgodohgod," Halliwell whispered.
"Eddie!" Parker barked to his partner. "Grab the passkey!"
Eddie took the key from the deadbolt in 1007, and inserted it into 1009's. Turned it until the lock snapped open.
Parker put his hand on the brass knob. "Sir, this is security. We're coming in," he said.
Then he pushed open the door.
By the time Jack arrived at the foyer, there was another visitor in the house. And she was an actual woman – rounder and softer than most of the females he'd been around for some time, with bronze skin that actually glowed, and deep brown eyes. She was dressed casually – just a gray sweatshirt and blue jeans – and when she noticed him, she offered a small, real smile. That was enough to make Jack not notice that Al was also in the room, standing right next to her, putting his most nervous junior executive face forward, as he was supposed to.
Before Jack had a chance to say anything, Al stepped up to him. "Sorry to show up unannounced," Al said, indicating his briefcase, "but I forgot to have you sign those papers. Can we head to your study and get these squared away? If the Sakamoto concern doesn't see them by next week – "
"Of course, Al," Jack said. "Right this way." He didn't move, though.
Sydney noticed her father's paralysis. "Oh, Dad, this is Karen's mom. Pilar Jimenez, this is my dad, Jack Bristow," she said.
Jack put his hand out, and she accepted it, for a moment. As she released his hand, she motioned for her daughter to join her. "I am sorry I was late, Mr. Bristow," she said. "My shift ended late, then I missed my bus. If it was any trouble…"
"Don't worry about it, Mrs. Jimenez," Jack said. He zeroed in on her accent. Texan, via Mexico, via Spain.
"Miss," she said firmly.
"Miss Jimenez," he corrected. .
"Jack," Al said, desperation growing in his voice. "Sakamoto?"
"Right," Jack replied. "Nice to meet you, Miss Jimenez," he said to the woman, then gestured for Al to follow him down a hallway. Then he stopped and turned toward the foyer again.
Sydney was opening the door to show the others out, and there he saw Irina, standing on the front step, eyes behind sunglasses, and smiling her most venomous smile. Jack turned away.
"Are you sure?" Steinmann asked, her face white. "Okay, thank you. Someone will be in touch shortly." As she hung up the receiver, she felt a rush of terror that forced her out of her seat.
The stocky analyst looked over at her. "What is it, Sarah?"
Her eyes were wide. "I need to find Kendrick," she said, pacing.
"Why?"
"We just got a report from a London operative. MI-5 has dispatched half a dozen of their people to the Windsor Hotel, and they're not saying why."
The man nodded. "Could be just training, or something else that's none of our business."
Steinmann shook her head. "Someone in the hotel called home. Since it happened about thirty minutes after the MI-5 development, our man trapped the call. And that someone told whoever it was that picked up that there is a dead man in room ten-oh-seven. And – I'm quoting here – 'the man looked like someone set a grenade off inside him.'" She gave her office mate a kind of pleading look.
The stocky analyst shivered, then said, "Forget Kendrick. You know who to call." Then he picked up his phone, dialed a twelve-digit string of numbers, and handed the phone to Steinman, as the receiver whined and popped and buzzed.
As they entered the study, Al shot a teasing grin at Jack. "If I knew you were having chicks delivered now, I would have called first," he said, feigning an elbow poke at Jack's ribs.
"Funny," Jack groaned. "She's Sydney's friend's mother."
"I gathered that," Al said. He smiled impishly. "Cute, though. And a nice name, too. 'Pilar Jimenez.'" He gave the name a little Castilian twist. "Intriguing, no?"
Jack bit his tongue. "Why didn't you call?"
"Because I've actually got something to show you, and it couldn't wait," Al replied.
"Not even five hours after I get sent home, too? Must be big."
Al nodded. "A couple of the analysts aren't paying for their lunches for the next week or so. Oh, and you're pitching in with that, just to let you know."
"Spit it out, Al," Jack said.
"They lucked out," Al replied. "Item one: our source at the LAPD came through. Apparently, somebody did see Donnelly leave the ballroom last night. And not alone."
"Who?" Jack asked.
"A guy who was playing in the band at the banquet. He was loading up some instruments when he noticed our DOA leaving the hall with what he said was, quote, 'a much younger guy,' unquote. Basic description: white male, twenty-five to thirty years old, five-ten to six feet, medium build, sandy hair, in a tuxedo."
"A decent description," Jack said, then added, "Of seventy percent of the attendees."
"And that's where the second lucky analyst shows up." Al popped the locks on his briefcase, and produced a VHS cassette from inside. "Item two: videotape from a security camera in the corridor outside Grace Donnelly's hotel room."
"How'd you get that out of the building?" Jack asked, indicating an oak cabinet across the room.
"You don't want to know," Al said, as he walked over to the polished furnishing. He tugged on the brass door handle and found Jack's combination TV/VCR behind.
"You're probably right," Jack replied. "Hey, what about the name tag?"
"Nothing yet," Al said. "The tag's genuine, according to the organizers of the conference, and whoever this 'Ryan Corcoran' was, his paperwork was in order, and his check cleared. Problem is, the tags were handled by every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the organizers' office before the conference even started, so – "
" – so the prints were virtually unsalvageable," Jack said.
Al nodded. "That's pretty much it. Barring a miracle, they aren't counting on finding anything usable. Unlike this," Al said, as he slipped the tape into its slot, and began searching for the power button. "I haven't seen the tape myself, but I was told that the video's not the best," he apologized. "The tape's obviously been used over and over, so the static lines are fairly heavy. Also, our new pal here, he never really faces the camera for more than a second or two. But the techies say they can make something of it. We'll have more definitive images to work with in a day or two, at least they hope so."
As the tape began to run, Al's phone rang. He put the receiver to his ear as Jack moved closer to the screen. Soon he saw Grace Donnelly, alive and well. And someone else, just as he had been described. They kissed on-screen as Al was saying into his phone, "This better be good."
Jack watched the couple break apart, and the late Dr. Donnelly say something as she opened her hotel room door. As she did, the man turned, and at that, Jack paused the tape.
Paused it right on the blurred face of her killer. Gotcha, you son of a bitch, Jack thought.
Then he noticed that Al had ended his call and was staring at the screen. "What is it?" Jack asked.
Al's eyes were narrowed slits, and his jaw was tight. "I think I might know that guy," he said in a virtual whisper.
Jack frowned. "Him? From where?" he asked.
Al shook his head. "I don't know. But if it is who I think it is, it isn't good." He looked at Jack. "And there's more. That was the office. I'm going to London."
Jack knew the answer, but felt the question leave his lips anyway. "Why?"
"Two guesses," Al sighed. "And you won't need the second one."TO BE CONTINUED...