Lethal Measures Read online

  As Joanna was being seated, the sommelier appeared and uncorked a bottle of Dom Perignon 1983. He waited for Joanna to taste the champagne and nod her approval.

  Then he placed the bottle in a bucket of ice and disappeared.

  Joanna sipped her drink and glanced around at the others dining at Le Chateau.

  The crowd seemed more European than American, with their dark, conservative attire and quiet manners. They looked like old money, people accustomed to wealth and everything it brought. Old money, she thought again, and plenty of it.

  Her mind went back to her childhood in the San Francisco Bay Area and the privileged life her family had lived. They had big homes and luxury cars and belonged to the best country club and vacationed in Aspen and Maui. It was an existence most people could only dream of. Then her father died in a plane crash and left a mountain of debts. Suddenly her world was turned upside down and life became a struggle. She needed scholarships and loans to finish her college education and more loans to get through medical school. And even more loans to see her sister, Kate, through college and graduate school. The big houses,

  the luxury cars, the country clubs all gone in the blink of an eye. Joanna knew what it was like to have real money, and she knew what it was like to lose it.

  Her gaze went back to the decor of the restaurant. Everything about it had elegance and style and understated richness. Those were the qualities she so admired in places and people. And those qualities pretty much summed up Paul du Maurier, she thought.

  She had met Paul three months earlier, at a cocktail party in Bel Air. She had glanced across the room at him, wondering who he was and whether he was married.

  A moment later he caught her eye and walked over, saying, “I wasn’t planning on coming tonight, but now I’m glad I did.” He was an investment banker who commuted between Santa Barbara and Los Angeles, and he was handsome, charming and bright. And his timing was perfect. She had just parted from Jake Sinclair for the umpteenth time, vowing never to go back but knowing deep down she eventually would. He was like a bad habit she couldn’t break. Then Paul showed up and swept her off her feet, and Jake faded. She had to admit that she still thought about him now and then. And when she saw Jake at the crime scene, she’d gotten that funny hollow feeling. But she had quickly pushed it aside. Jake was no longer the main man in her life.

  God! How long had it been since she started up with Jake Sinclair? In over ten years nothing had changed, not a damn thing. And like an idiot she had stuck around, hoping he would. Not that it was all bad. Jake could be fun and exciting and sexy as hell. But with the right man she could have been married with children by now. It was time for a sea change, she told herself, time to let go of the old and move on.

  The couple at the table next to her turned their heads toward the door. Joanna followed their line of vision and saw Paul du Maurier being greeted by the maitre d’. As he walked across the room a dozen pairs of eyes watched him. He had that effect on people. Something about the tall, debonair man drew their attention. He was very good-looking, with sharp features, a firm jaw and wavy grayish blond hair. His gait was even and unhurried, like that of a man accustomed to setting his own pace.

  Paul reached for her hand and kissed it.

  “You look beautiful in that dress. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before.”

  Joanna smiled. The black cocktail dress was new, and so were her black shoes and purse. The only thing old was the strand of Mikimoto pearls

  around her neck. Paul leaned away as the waiter poured from the bottle of Dom Perignon. He raised his glass to Joanna.

  “To us.”

  “To us,” Joanna toasted him back and sipped the champagne, now studying Paul’s clothes. He was wearing a dark blue Armani suit with a pale blue shirt and subdued red tie. He looked like a model for Gentlemen’s Quarterly.

  “I’m sorry I was delayed,” Paul said, squeezing her hand gently.

  “I hope you didn’t have to wait long.”

  “I just arrived,” she said.

  “Was there a problem at your meeting?”

  Paul sighed wearily.

  “The Japanese don’t seem to realize that the wheel has turned and their country is mired in a sea of red ink.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  “Worse than anybody thinks,” Paul said gravely.

  “To begin with, their banks are holding a trillion dollars in bad paper, mainly from bad real estate loans.”

  Joanna’s brow went up.

  “A trillion?”

  “A trillion, with a capital T.” Paul continued, “On top of that, some of their giant corporations and trading houses are teetering on the brink of bankruptcy and are being propped up by the Japanese government, and of course that can’t go on forever. To make matters even worse, their Asian markets are drying up, and the value of the yen is dropping like a rock. Put this all together and you have an economy that is floundering in the water like a ship without a rudder.”

  Joanna looked at him seriously.

  “Are they going to go belly up?”

  Paul grinned.

  “Are you worried about them?”

  Joanna shrugged.

  “Not really. They didn’t give a damn when America was in trouble. I remember one of their ministers telling America to get its house in order. That would be my advice to them.”

  Paul’s grin turned into a wide smile.

  “You sound like a banker.”

  “Is that good?”

  “For me, it’s perfect.”

  They both chuckled. Paul brought Joanna’s hands up to his lips and kissed them.

  “Don’t concern yourself about the Japanese. Eventually they’ll make the necessary reforms. But until then, foreign capital will stay away.”

  “And you’re certain they’ll make these reforms?”

  “They won’t have any choice,” Paul said hoarsely.

  “No choice at all.” “Are you saying they’ll be dictated to?”

  “I’m saying they’ll receive an offer they can’t refuse.”

  “That sounds like a line from The Godfather.”

  Paul smiled thinly.

  “It’s used in banking too.”

  The change in his expression and tone of voice told Joanna that international pressure was already being applied and that reforms in the Japanese financial systems were not far off. And Paul du Maurier would know these things firsthand.

  He was a senior executive with a Los Angeles investment bank that did business all over the world. It had branch offices in New York, London, Paris, Singapore and Tokyo.

  “Enough about business,” Paul said, signaling for more champagne.

  “Let’s talk about you and our trip to Montreal. Are you all packed?”

  Joanna smiled unhappily.

  “I’m afraid I can’t go. I’m sorry.”

  Paul’s eyes narrowed.

  “Why not?”

  “You heard about the bomb explosion in West Hollywood last night?” she asked.

  “Well, I’m the forensic pathologist assigned to the case.”

  “Can’t they get somebody else to do it?”

  Joanna shook her head.

  “I’m the one they want.”

  “Damn it,” Paul grumbled.

  “I had everything planned so well for us. It would have been perfect.” He strummed his fingers on the tabletop, his gaze still on Joanna.

  “Are you sure there’s no way for you to get out of this?”

  “Believe me, I tried,” Joanna said.

  “We’ll just have to do it later on.”

  “Do you have any idea how long this project will take?” Paul asked.

  “Are we talking weeks or what?”

  “Months,” Joanna said, thinking about the body parts at the bomb site. A total of twenty-eight had been uncovered, the largest being a scapula and two blown-off feet. The C-4 blast had virtually vaporized its victims, leaving behind only scraps of tissue. There wa
s no way she could make a positive ID from them. She would need something more to go on. Clothing or jewelry or something else that was distinctive to a given individual.

  “My daughter, Sasha, will be very disappointed.” Paul broke into her thoughts.

  “She was really looking forward to meeting you.”

  “And I her,” Joanna said.

  “Please tell her we’ll meet soon.” Paul sighed loudly.

  “I’ll call Sasha’s mother in the morning and tell her about the change in plans.”

  “You make it sound as if that will be a very unpleasant task.”

  “Any conversation with my ex-wife is unpleasant,” Paul said.

  “It becomes impossible when I have to ask her for a favor.”

  “But surely she’ll understand when you explain why ” Paul flicked his hand disdainfully.

  “You don’t know Catherine.”

  The waiter came over to refill their wineglasses. Paul watched, keeping his expression even. To himself he seethed, remembering the bitter divorce five years ago. Catherine had tried to break their prenuptial agreement, despite its generous terms. And when the court ruled against her, she demanded full custody of their daughter, claiming that Paul had an explosive temper and had emotionally abused the child. That was absolute bullshit. When Sasha misbehaved he raised his voice and corrected her. That was discipline, not abuse. But Catherine’s lawyers made it sound as if he yelled at the child constantly. The embarrassment Paul bristled inwardly the utter embarrassment when the judge warned him to control his temper when he visited his daughter in Montreal. And Catherine, who loved her daughter so dearly, couldn’t wait to hire a full-time nanny so she could travel and play on the Montreal social circuit. Son of a bitch! He hated even the thought of talking to his ex-wife.

  Joanna noted the faraway look on Paul’s face and guessed that he was thinking about his daughter.

  “How old is Sasha now?”

  “Twelve.”

  “So she’s a young lady.”

  “Absolutely,” Paul said.

  “And she becomes more beautiful by the day.”

  “Damn it,” Joanna cursed softly.

  “I should be with you on that plane to Montreal tomorrow.”

  “Yes, you should,” Paul said and sipped champagne, his mind going back to his ex-wife. Catherine had been a clinical psychologist when he married her. She had a big practice that always seemed to be interfering with their family life. At times her patients appeared to be more important to Catherine than her husband and daughter. The female judge in their custody fight didn’t allow that to be entered as evidence. Irrelevant, she said.

  Joanna studied Paul’s expression.

  “Your mind is somewhere else.” “I was thinking that all too often events dictate our lives,” Paul lied.

  “I guess,” Joanna said resignedly.

  “It just would have been so great for us to get away together.”

  “And we still will,” Paul said.

  “In six weeks there’s a bankers’ conference in Bermuda. It will take up very little of my time, and the island will be perfect for us. How does that sound?”

  “Like paradise,” Joanna cooed.

  “Great! I’ll make all the arrangements.” Paul waved a finger at her playfully.

  “And I won’t accept any excuses this time. You must clear your calendar for the third week in April.”

  Joanna took a date book from her purse and flipped through the pages. Her smile suddenly faded.

  “Oh, no!”

  “Don’t tell me you can’t make it.”

  She sighed dejectedly.

  “I’m scheduled to receive the Medal of Freedom from the President on April nineteenth.”

  Paul’s eyebrows went up.

  “From the President of the United States?”

  Joanna nodded.

  “Tell me why they’re giving you the medal,” Paul said, interested.

  “I want all the details.”

  Joanna told him about the scientific expedition to the waters off Alaska where a toxic iceberg was killing people and sea life.

  “We were able to locate the iceberg and identify the toxin and eventually destroy it. All the scientists involved are receiving the medal.”

  “What was the toxin?”

  “It was biologic,” Joanna said evasively.

  “But it’s no longer a problem.”

  “I think you’re downplaying the importance of this scientific mission,” Paul said.

  “They are very particular when it comes to awarding the Presidential Medal of Freedom. I know that for a fact.”

  “It was dangerous,” Joanna admitted, thinking about all the people who had died in those icy waters.

  “I was lucky to survive.”

  “I thought the medal was usually presented in Washington, D.C.”

  “It is,” Joanna told him.

  “But the President will be out here to dedicate a new research institute. And since the three scientists who will receive the award are from western universities, they decided to make the presentation in Los Angeles.”

  “May I come?” “Of course,” Joanna said, pleased.

  “But what about your bankers’ conference in Bermuda?”

  “You’re more important to me than they are,” Paul said, his eyes twinkling.

  “Way more important.”

  “Damn! I want so much to be with you in Montreal tomorrow.”

  “Well, that’s not possible,” Paul said and leaned over, his lips brushing over hers.

  “So we’ll just have to make the most of tonight.”

  Saturday, March 13, 6=48 a.m.

  From the balcony of the penthouse suite at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, Joanna watched the dawn breaking. The sky was overcast and gloomy, matching her mood.

  She had spent the night in the lap of luxury, making love to Paul du Maurier.

  But soon they would part and she would return to the world of bombs and terrorists and rotting scraps of human tissue. It was like going from heaven to hell.

  A chilly breeze blew in, and Joanna snuggled up in her thick terry-cloth bathrobe, wondering what it would have been like if there had been no bomb. They would have had a leisurely breakfast, then dressed and taken a limousine to the airport and boarded an Air Canada jet to Montreal. And there she would have met Sasha and gotten to know Paul even better. It would have been perfect.

  Again she thought about calling Simon Murdock and removing herself from the case. Let somebody else take on the impossible task. But she knew she’d never make that call. Once she started something she never backed out. Tenacity was a trait in the Blalock family. Her father and sister had it, and so did she. It ran in their genes and drove them to succeed. But at times it could be a curse.

  Like now.

  Behind her Joanna heard a shower being turned off. Moments later she heard Paul walking into the living room and switching on the television set. The announcer was talking about early morning drizzle that was already causing slow-ups on all the freeways. Who cares? Joanna asked herself. And it surely wouldn’t have mattered if she was in the

  backseat of a limousine listening to Mozart while she nibbled on fresh strawberries and washed them down with a nice Blanc de Blanc. Now the announcer was talking about the bomb explosion in West Hollywood.

  “Joanna,” Paul called out.

  “You may wish to listen to this.”

  Not really, Joanna told herself, but she went and sat next to Paul on a large, soft sofa.

  “They won’t say anything.”

  “You never know,” Paul said, his eyes glued to the television screen.

  “They’ll say nothing that might aid the remaining terrorists,” Joanna said evenly.

  Paul looked at her oddly.

  “The newspaper said that all the terrorists were killed in the blast.”

  Joanna gestured, not wanting to go into any detail.

  “There could still be one or two out ther
e.”

  “Will you be in any danger?” Paul asked.

  “None whatsoever,” Joanna said, touched by his concern.

  “I’ll be working inside my laboratory at Memorial.”

  The television screen was now showing a live aerial shot of the explosion site.

  Giant floodlights illuminated the crime scene and the people working on it.

  Joanna could make out several aTF. agents with their distinctive jackets. They appeared to be moving toward a truck.

  “Something is going on down there,” the Channel 4 helicopter pilot reported.

  “I

  think they’ve found something important.”

  “Any idea what it is?” the studio announcer asked.

  “I can’t be sure,” the pilot answered.

  Joanna watched as the aTF. truck sped away with several police cars right behind it. Then she noticed others running from the bomb site, heading down the winding street.

  “They’re clearing the area,” she said quietly.

  “Why?

  “Paul asked.

  “They must have come across something dangerous.”

  “Like another bomb?”

  “That’s possible,” Joanna said, wondering if the terrorists had left behind some type of booby trap.

  The helicopter reporter blurted out, “They’re clearing the area! We’ve been instructed to leave immediately.”

  “Then get out of there!” the studio announcer said urgently.

  Now the television showed the devastated block of houses from a distance. The floodlights remained on and caused the mounds of rubble

  to glow eerily in the early dawn darkness. Paul lit a cigarette, thinking for a moment.

  “Didn’t you tell me you had investigated the bomb site yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “And didn’t you just tell me there was absolutely no danger for you?”

  “There’s always some risk,” Joanna said, still wondering what could have made the aTF. agents run for their lives. It had to have been a bomb or at least something that could have exploded. And it had to have been there yesterday and the day before. She shuddered, wondering how close she and Jake and Dan Hurley had been to the device. Probably close enough to blow them all to kingdom come.