The Athena Factor by W. Michael Gear Read Free Book Online Page B

heard the undertones. “ Call Lymon. I mean it. Meanwhile, I’ve i to figure out if my missing person is related to the sixteen priors. ”
    â€œSixteen?” she asked, amazed. “God, why haven’t we heard about this?”
    â€œWe’re just putting it together. Call Lymon. I gotta go.”
    She heard the line go dead. Glancing at the television, she saw the camera was giving a shot of the street in front of Ono’s ritzy building in New York.
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    Lymon really appreciated Sheela Marks’ pool. It was huge—like everything else in the house—but when an A-list star like Sheela made twenty million a picture plus residuals, she could have a lot of perks.
    The pool might have been a bit short of Olympic size, but the fitted-stone patio with its ivy-shaded trelliswork and overhanging live oak made for a cool and delightful sanctuary. A full-size Richard Greeves bronze of Sacagawea stood to the right, her face lifted to the sunlight. The few muted sounds of civilization—traffic and airplanes, mostly—that managed to seep past the high wall were drowned by the bubbling fountains that dominated the flower beds to either side.
    Lymon stepped out of the double French doors after checking to make sure the wires to the security sensors were still attached and unfrayed. Old habits and all that.
    Sheela sat in a lounge chair, a script in her hand. Lymon identified it by the brass brads in the three binding holes. She was in Balenciaga jeans and wearing a William B white cotton blouse unbuttoned over a turquoise tube top. Her red-blond hair had been done in a French braid. A glass of what looked like iced lemonade stood on the marble table beside her.
    Lymon seated himself on the padded wrought-iron chair across from her and waited. Even after three years of association,
she still affected him. Tall and long-legged, she carried herself with a sense of grace that no one would have associated with her obscure Canadian origins.
    â€œWhere do they get this shit?” she asked, smacking the pages she held. She looked up and fixed him with her irritated blue eyes.
    â€œGot me. I don’t write the things.”
    She shook her head and tossed the script onto the cement beside her. “I read it before it went into development. Good stuff, nice idea. Now, the execs have been having meetings, it’s been through two rewrites by four people, and it’s shit! I’m on page thirty, and I already know that by the third act my character is going to be raped by her father. So now I’m shooting him in the last scene? Duh!”
    â€œYeah, well, you shouldn’t complain. I know for a fact that producers and studio execs don’t get put in charge of really hot properties until their lobotomies have fully healed.”
    She grinned at that.
    â€œWhat did you want to see me about?” Lymon rubbed his hands together. “Are my people on the ball?”
    She lifted an eyebrow. “You come on your bike?”
    Lymon nodded.
    Sheela stood. “Come on.” She led the way back into the house, calling to Tomaso as she passed, “Lymon and I are going out for a while. If Rex calls, he can get me on my cell.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    Lymon lifted a brow as they stopped by the front door. Sheela stepped into the coatroom and returned wearing a white leather jacket and carrying a pearlescent helmet.
    â€œSheela, just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
    â€œWe’re going for a ride. You and me.”
    â€œAre you nuts?”
    â€œAre you armed?” She pointed at his armpit, where he kept his HK .40 Compact in a Kramer undervest. “Of course you are. So, I’m well guarded and safe, right? Come on, Lymon. We need to talk, just you and me.” She rolled her eyes
to indicate the opulent surroundings. “Away from here.” Her smile would have melted Kevlar. “And it’s been years since I’ve been