Skin Game

CHAPTER 8

An awe-inspiring view, Serrano thought.

He gazed out over white mountaintops up into the impossibly blue sky. St. Moritz was such an intriguing dichotomy of cosmopolitan and quaint ski village. From up here, the view was positively panoramic. He was staying at Badrutt’s Palace Hotel, ostensibly enjoying a long-overdue vacation. His detractors said he’d fled town, not wanting to deal with the fallout from being bested by the woman he’d asked to marry him.

To some degree both were true, but neither comprised his chief aim. Among other things, he was in Switzerland because he anticipated needing an ironclad alibi. And what better place than a famous hotel? The hotel swarmed with staff as well as old-world charm. He’d make sure to order room service and let himself be seen now and again, quietly nursing his wounds. It was all rather poetic, actually.

He’d taken the penthouse suite of course. Though he had no need for three bedrooms or a one-hundred-fifty-meter wraparound terrace, he’d gotten into the habit of living ostentatiously. His lip curled as he took in the heavy stone and dark woodwork. The carpet was old and expensive; everything was a bit too European for him, but that was to be expected, here. He preferred the clean lines of his Vegas condo.

At least the bedchamber he’d taken as his own wasn’t too formal. It had heavy cream and blue patterned tapestries pulled back from the windows, a soft floral rug, an enormous bed, and a dusty blue armchair. Serrano regretted that he’d be sleeping alone, but companionship wasn’t part of the plan.

If he was to put on a convincing show of grieving for his lost relationship, he couldn’t bring any women up here. No, he meant to be the picture of a spurned lover, saddened but not angry, lonely but not vengeful. Image was everything, after all.

It still stung, remembering how much he’d wanted her. How much he’d ached for her. That damned woman’s smile made his heart twist. At one point, he’d have done anything for her, anything at all. Which was how he’d wound up on one knee, offering her a four-carat diamond.

He didn’t like to admit his judgment could be faulty but in this case, it had gone completely off the rails. It galled him that he missed her. Rachel— Kyra —had been a good listener, and he’d thought she would make a fine mother. God, she’d sunk her teeth into him but good.

But business was business.

A young man came out of the second bedroom, tying his tie. His name was Wayne Sweet, and until twenty-four hours ago, he’d worked security at the Silver Lady. “I’m almost ready. It was so cool of you to bring me with you.”

Serrano allowed himself a tight smile. “Think nothing of it. I needed a bodyguard; you wanted the credential for your résumé. It all works out very neatly, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. It sure does, sir.”

“Shall we go?”

They made their way to the funicular. At this hour, people were heading for the pubs and discos downtown, but he had other plans. They took the train first to the Chantarella station, and then continued upward again to Corviglia. There were a number of mountain restaurants open, if that had been his aim.

“Before dinner, I want to show you the highest point,” Serrano said, smiling.

He led his employee along a little-used hiking path, not toward the viewing area. It was cold up here. Dark. When the trail ended in a steep drop that could only be navigated by angels and mountain goats, Sweet said, “I think we came the wrong way.”

“No, this is it. Turn around. Take a look.”

Like a lamb to the slaughter, obedient, Sweet spun around, gazing out. Serrano drew a pistol, a cheap.22 fitted with a silencer, and plugged his former employee in the back of the head. Sound carried a long way in the mountains, and he preferred not to take chances. He liked a.22 for executions; it wasn’t a high enough caliber for an exit wound, so there was no blood spatter, no messy cleanup. In the same motion, he gave Sweet a nudge forward, enough to topple him off the cliff.

He glanced down. Hell of a drop. Casually, he tossed the weapon. It would be spring before they found him, if something didn’t drag him off and eat him first. And let that be a lesson to all the men who worked for him. They’d know the score when he came back from Switzerland alone; some things didn’t need to be spelled out. Sweet had been dead wrong for thinking he could get away with posting that video on the Internet. He hadn’t done a guy himself in years, but this would prove to everyone he hadn’t gone soft.

Nobody would miss the guy.

Though it was cold at this altitude, Serrano stripped off his leather gloves. He’d incinerate them later. Calmly, he retraced his steps to the funicular station, and then chose a path at random. He would have a nice dinner up here, where everyone could see him. Then he’d head for home.

Later, he’d order room service for Sweet, enjoying a free week on the boss in St. Moritz. When the authorities checked things out, they would discover that Sweet had gone missing long after Serrano had returned to the States. It would be impossible for anyone to tie him to this, no matter what they suspected.

“Looks like a nice place,” he said aloud, and strolled into the lodge to dine.

Several hours later, replete with truffles, venison in po lenta, and caviar, he returned to his suite and powered up his laptop. It would be the middle of the night in Vegas, but Foster should be at work for another hour or two yet. The Silver Lady needed constant attention, and his chief of security would be extra careful in Serrano’s absence.

Foster took his sweet time answering the request for a video conference. By his watch, which never ran fast, it took fifteen full minutes. He tapped his fingers, gently impatient, until the call sprang to live feed.

“Took you long enough.”

From his side of the camera, the chief of security regarded him with cool blue eyes. “I have twice the workload with you on vacation, but the Silver Lady is doing well. How can I help you, sir?”

“Has your guy checked in this week?” He knew he didn’t need to elaborate. In fact, he wouldn’t. Never say anything on the phone that could be used against you.

“Not yet.” Foster frowned, just a flicker of twin lines between his well-groomed brows, and then the look vanished, but not before Serrano saw it.

“What does that mean?” he demanded. “Is there a problem? I need this finished.”

“He’s a pro. At this point, he’s trying to unearth the answer to your first pressing question, sir.” Such as where she’d hid his money. Serrano appreciated Foster’s discretion. “If you want to disregard that inquiry, we can step up the timetable.”

And put an end to the irritation named Kyra Marie Beckwith.

That was tempting. He’d like to forget this ever happened, but conceding the loss would send a lesser message to his competitors. At this point, he couldn’t afford weakness. He’d have to be patient a little longer.

“No,” he said finally. “Give him a little more rope. What do we know about this guy anyway?”

Foster had handled the hire. Serrano didn’t want certain details. As long as he didn’t, he could pass a polygraph if he had to. Being able to say, “I really don’t know” sometimes offered immeasurable value.

After a minute’s hesitation, Foster said, “I’ll send you the personnel data. You should have it in the morning. I think you’ll find his résumé fascinating.”

Foster would use a private, bonded Swiss courier. Documents like this should never be trusted to FedEx. He was breaking his policy of noninvolvement, guaranteeing him plausible deniability, but he needed to know what kind of contractor was handling his business. If the man was employing finesse, that was fine, but if he thought he could stretch this task, and add billable hours, Serrano would show him the error of his ways.

“That’ll do. I’ll let you know if I have further questions about our new hire. See you in a few days.”

It irked him that Foster rang off without another word, but like the best Germanic stock, the man was nothing if not efficient. With everything handled to his satisfaction, he straightened his tie, ran a hand through his dark hair, and headed for the bar downstairs. He needed to make sure people remembered seeing him tonight.

It wouldn’t be hard. Serrano hid a smile. If these people knew where he’d been born, they’d choke on their caviar. He nursed a drink, held on to his receipt. Within the hour, he had a glamorous redhead trying to convince him she could heal his broken heart.

Foster was proud of the file he’d sent Serrano just before leaving work the night before. There was nothing so useful as lying with the truth. It was chock-full of impressive—and true—information regarding the man they’d hired.

Reyes was an interesting man, a bundle of contradictions. Like most of his ilk, he worked under a pseudonym, but Foster wouldn’t have hired him if he hadn’t been able to dig up the truth, including his real name. They’d exchanged e-mail addresses initially, free anonymous accounts from which Reyes doubtless bounced his messages to other locations, maybe several of them, depending on his paranoia. By now, Serrano would be reading the information and congratulating himself on hiring top personnel to deal with his problems.

It was not quite 2:00 P.M., which meant he was operating on less than five hours sleep. Since it was Thursday, there was no help for that. He’d make it up tomorrow. Foster parked his car and leaned over, pulling a bottle of cologne from the glove box. After dabbing on a little, he got out, his long legs eating up the sidewalk.

Shortly, he came to a set of mirrored doors, set in a white, ultramodern building. Inside it was cool and quiet, tinted glass protecting the residents of this place from exposure to the desert sun. The nurse on duty raised her head as if to challenge him, and then she relaxed, offering him a warm smile. She was in her mid-thirties, and slightly interested in him, if he offered any encouragement.

Foster wouldn’t.

“I’ll sign you in,” she said. “Your mother’s waiting for you.”

He nodded and continued down the pale hallway. Here, the tile was not bile green or scarred by hundreds of feet. This was a costly private nursing facility, where people received the best care money could buy. Too bad it couldn’t buy hope or comfort as well.

Foster stood for a moment, gazing into the room. The old woman sat by the window, dressed in her best housecoat in honor of his visit. Her snowy hair had been styled, and someone had painted her thin mouth with bright red lipstick. The jar beside her bed that held her teeth was empty, which meant she’d put them in today.

Beulah Mae Finney was eighty-seven years old, and she wasn’t his mother. She thought she was, but her son had been incarcerated for the last five years, and hadn’t come to see her for four years before that. He’d initiated the visits to test his ability to mimic voices. If he could fool someone’s mother, he reasoned, his gift would stand up to any scrutiny. Since she suffered from cataracts, she was perfect for his purposes.

He’d slipped into the state-run hellhole where her natural son had dumped her, signed the register, and gone to see if he could imitate the street-rough cadences favored by James L. Finney, prison-bird esquire. He knew Jimmy Lee wouldn’t be back to interfere; he was doing hard time in Mississippi for messing with an underage girl.

They visited for months, and he took quite a liking to Beulah Mae. Once he’d established his ability to fool her, he didn’t have the heart to leave her languishing in a rundown nursing home that smelled of urine, decay, and morbidity, and it had been astonishingly easy to commandeer someone else’s mother. He supposed people were not crawling out of the woodwork, eager to foot the bill for aged and infirm seniors who didn’t belong to them, so there was no protocol in place.

Foster took a step then, knowing to the inch when he would get close enough for her to smell the cheap cologne Jimmy Lee had always worn. Her lined face brightened into a smile, showing a smear of lipstick on her porcelain teeth. He’d just bought her a new set of those, too.

“Jimmy Lee!” she exclaimed. “Right on time. I can set my clock by you these days. Have I told you lately how proud I am that you turned yourself around?”

His voice came out low, harsher than his usual tones. “Ever’ time I see you, Ma.”

She laughed. “Well, then. Come on over here and give me a kiss.”

Foster did as he was bid, brushing the old lady’s cheek in a gentle peck. Then he sat down opposite to hear who was cheating at cards, who was sneaking into whose room at night, and who probably wouldn’t last the month. It had to be depressing to get old, he thought, not for the first time. Good thing I am not likely to live to a ripe old age.

He spent the requisite hour with her and wrapped up the visit to the second. She wanted a second kiss, but he dodged away from a hug. Close physical contact would reveal that he was taller and slimmer than her incarcerated offspring, and he’d miss Beulah Mae if his deception were exposed.

With a muttered, “See ya next week, Ma,” he stepped out into the hallway.

Time for part two of his weekly pilgrimage. Foster made his way to the other part of the facility, where they kept long-term, no-hope patients. Oh, the administration wouldn’t call them that, but the people in this section would never wake up from their comas. They’d never pull out their wires and IVs and go dancing down the hall. These people were locked into whatever worlds their minds could conjure because their bodies were done.

The nurse here recognized him, too, but not by the name he’d received at birth. Unlike Beulah Mae Finney, he was, however, related by blood to the girl who lay pale as snow against her linen sheets. It had seemed to make sense to bring Beulah here, where they took such good care of his little lost one. She had his blond hair and pale eyes. Such fair coloring looked fragile as glass in her unnatural repose.

Infirmity had stolen away most of her puppy fat. She was small for her age. Though she should be a young woman by now, time had passed her by. Now she lay there stick thin, nourished by needles in her veins. Nurses trimmed her nails and cut her hair. They washed her and dressed her like the living dead while the heart monitor tracked every little blip. If he were so inclined, he could chart her permanent sleep.

Foster closed the door, and stood for a moment with his forehead resting against the cool wood. Each time, it hurt a little more, and yet he returned, week after week. Apparently, he represented some brave new world of masochists who liked their wounds so deep nobody else could see them bleed. It took almost more strength than he possessed to straighten and square his shoulders, if it mattered that she shouldn’t see his weakness.

She hadn’t seen anything in six years.

He’d decorated the room with her drawings and her favorite things: pictures of unkempt kids skateboarding, a teddy bear she’d painted in art class. He paid enough money that the staff didn’t complain. Deliberately, he lowered himself into the chair beside her bed.

“Hey, Lexie.” He waited a count of fifteen as he always did, offering her the opportunity to respond. It was a ridiculous ritual, one he could no more discontinue than he could fly.

She lay pale and quiet, but no number of kisses could rouse her. He’d tried that at first and then desperate arms around her, and then finally, his tears. Like the Ice Queen, she could not be moved. She could only sleep and dream.

So into the bleak silence he spoke of Gerard Serrano, his own plans and schemes. The medical equipment that kept her alive offered a steady accompaniment to his voice. Sometimes, in this closed room, Foster felt more alone than anyone else in the world. There was no one left who knew who he had been, the people he’d loved.

Loss motivated him. At last, as the light waned, he stood. Bent to brush a kiss across her cool brow.

“I’ll see you next week, min skat.”

In the old days, she would have hugged him around the neck. She would have wrestled with him, spilled grape juice on his freshly ironed shirt, and laughed like a hyena over it. When he got home from work, she would’ve demanded a pint of ice cream. So many things had changed—so much he loved, lost, and all for the sake of greedy men.

Most likely, he should sign the papers and let her go. In the six days between his weekly visits, he considered the problem from all angles. Logically speaking, it was the wis est course. He knew it; he just couldn’t make himself go to the director and request the forms. On some level, he hadn’t stopped wishing for a miracle, even though he didn’t believe in such things. Not for him. But maybe God, if such a being existed, could spare some grace for Lexie.

On another level, she kept him from deviating from his self-appointed task. When she wound up in the hospital—and he’d discovered who was to blame—he had promised himself he would not rest, would not allow himself a moment’s peace, until the guilty paid with everyone and everything that they loved.

So he’d worked quietly. Cleanly. Sliding from one disaster to the next like an albatross in human form. Gerard Serrano was the last one on the list.

And no matter the cost, he wouldn’t stop.