Intimate Knowledge
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Amanda Stevens
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15,3K
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21
Chapter One
Max Tripp could smell a scam a mile off. He’d known the moment Simon Decker walked into his Houston office a week ago that the man was bad news, although his nondescript appearance and squeaky-clean image seemed to suggest otherwise.
Their background check hadn’t turned up so much as a parking ticket in Decker’s past, and it had been Max’s experience that no one’s files were that antiseptic unless they’d been purged, either officially or unofficially.
Question was, why? What was he up to? Max wondered uneasily as he watched his secretary usher Decker into his office.
This was their second meeting, and Max couldn’t say that his initial impression of Simon Decker had changed much. If anything, his doubts had been strengthened by those whitewashed files.
“So,” Decker said with an anxious smile. “You said to give you a week to reach a decision. What’s the verdict? Are you willing to take me on as a client?” He tugged at his conservative navy striped tie, then nervously pushed his dark-rimmed glasses up his nose.
He certainly wore the accoutrements of an accountant, Max decided as he folded his arms and regarded Decker across the expanse of his desk. All he needed was a pocket protector. “I asked to take a week, not only to give us a chance to review the information you provided, but also to make certain that you understand the consequences of your decision. You haven’t changed your mind about this woman…this Penelope…”
“Moon,” Decker supplied. “Penelope Moon.” He gripped the arms of his chair as his gaze met Max’s. “No, I haven’t changed my mind. Not at all. She’s the woman I want to marry, and the sooner we can put your plan into motion, the better. I must stress again, however, that she can never know about our arrangement.”
“She won’t find out from us,” Max assured him. “We’re very good at what we do, Mr. Decker. As I told you last week, my operatives are the best in the business. They’ll find out everything there is to know about Ms. Moon, right down to the title of the book she has on her nightstand and where she shops for underwear. Once our investigation is concluded, we’ll design a coincidental meeting for you. By then, you’ll be armed with enough information to strike up a conversation that is guaranteed to spark the lady’s interest. The rest, of course, will be up to you.”
“That’s exactly what I want,” Simon Decker said eagerly. Behind his thick-rimmed glasses, his blue eyes gleamed with anticipation. “When do we start?”
“I need to ask you a few questions first.”
Decker looked crestfallen by the delay. “But I’ve already filled out all the necessary paperwork. I’ve even given you a sizable retainer, and I know you’ve had time to substantiate my qualifications. I assume everything checked out.”
“Oh, everything checked out all right. You met our client profile right down to the last bullet point,” Max said, a bit dryly. “Your professional résumé and financial portfolio are quite impressive. But if you don’t mind my saying so, you seem to have amassed quite a bit of wealth for someone of your age and profession.”
Decker gave him a tight smile. “Numbers are my business, and I’m very good at what I do, too. I’ve invested wisely over the years, and now I’m ready to reap the fruits of my labor.”
Max hesitated, then reached inside his desk drawer and withdrew Decker’s check. The retainer was substantial, as he’d said, and it pained Max to have to return it. But if he’d learned anything in his years as a detective for the Houston Police Department and now as a P.I., it was to follow his instincts. Simon Decker was trouble, and Max had no intention of getting involved in whatever scam the man was trying to run.
He slid the check across the desk. “I’m afraid we can’t help you, Mr. Decker.”
The man’s eyebrows shot above the rim of his glasses. “What? Why not? You said yourself my finances checked out, my business résumé is impressive—”
“Yes. A little too impressive, if you ask me,” Max said coolly. “I don’t know who you are or why you’re really here, but I’d stake my reputation that you aren’t an accountant or a businessman or even a savvy investor. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say you’re some kind of con man.” His gaze narrowed. “Either that or a cop.”
Instead of denying the assessment, Decker got up and strode to the window, where he stood staring out for a moment. Then shoving his hands into his pockets, he glanced over his shoulder. “What gave me away?”
The transformation was astounding. Gone was the nervous, geeky accountant who’d claimed to be seeking a meeting with the woman of his dreams, who’d appeared to have neither the experience nor the confidence to approach her on his own.
Instead, the man at the window exuded an innate self-assurance that bordered on arrogance. And as he removed the thick glasses and put them in his pocket, Max saw that his eyes were flinty and coldly assessing.
Max supposed he should have felt a measure of satisfaction at having so accurately nailed a grifter, but instead what he experienced was a faint prickle of alarm. And suddenly he found himself wondering if he could reach the .38 he kept in his desk before Simon Decker had time to pull his own weapon.
Somehow he doubted it.
“I’m serious.” Decker turned to face him. “I’d really like to know what tipped you off.”
Max tried to shrug off his unease. “Your background check was a little too clean for one thing. And you fit our client profile just a little too neatly. Beyond that, though, it was the small things. Like the way you check for exits before you enter a room. And where you sit. Nine times out of ten, the client who comes into this office is going to choose the chair directly across from my desk, but you picked the one that’s off to the side. There isn’t a cop alive who’d voluntarily place his back to a door when another alternative is readily available.”
“So you think I’m a cop,” Decker said with a faint smile.
“I never said that. It’s been my experience that the most effective criminals have some of the same instincts.”
“Interesting observation.” Decker walked back over to Max’s desk, but he didn’t sit. Nor did he place his back to the door. “I can assure you, I’m not a cop or a criminal.”
“Then who the hell are you?” Max challenged.
Decker hesitated. “I work for the United States government. I’m afraid I can’t tell you much more than that.”
“You’re a fed?” Max gave him a skeptical look. “And I’m just supposed to take your word for it? How about showing me some credentials? The legit ones this time.”
“If you agree to help us, I’ll give you a phone number that you can call to verify my credentials,” Decker said smoothly.
“If I agree to help you,” Max repeated, his tone mocking. “Now why would the United States government need my help?”
“For the very reason that Simon Decker, the accountant, required your services. To find out everything there is to know about Penelope Moon.”
Max stared at him for a moment. “I don’t get it. The government has far more resources than we do. If you want this Moon woman investigated, all you have to do is make a few calls.”
Decker shrugged. “We may have more resources, but we don’t necessarily have your expertise. Not for the kind of information we need. How did you put it? When you’re finished, you’ll know everything there is to know about her, right down to the title of the book she has on her nightstand and where she shops for underwear.” He paused, as if intrigued by the prospect. “I want you to proceed with your investigation, Mr. Tripp, exactly as we discussed, and then I want that meeting with Penny.”
“Penny?”
Decker’s expression turned enigmatic. “Did I forget to mention that Penelope Moon and Simon Decker have a past?”
“Seems as if there are a lot of things you forgot to mention,” Max said accusingly. “And you’ve yet to give me one good reason why I should still be listening to you.”
Decker seemed to ponder the dilemma. Then, as if deciding he had no choice but to trust Max, he gave a curt nod. “All right then. What if I were to tell you that the museum where Penelope Moon works is being used to smuggle illegal substances into the United States?”
Max frowned. “You mean drugs.”
“Probably not what you have in mind, but the people we’re dealing with are every bit as dangerous as the cartels who traffic in heroin and cocaine. One of our agents was murdered last week in Mexico City, and if this ring isn’t shut down, a lot of innocent people could die. Under the circumstances, I think you’ll agree that it’s your civic duty to help us—”
Max cut him off. “One thing you need to know about me, Decker. I don’t respond well to coercion, subtle or otherwise. So just get to the point, okay?”
Annoyance flared briefly in Simon Decker’s eyes, but his expression remained coolly resolved. “Whatever you say, Mr. Tripp. You’re calling the shots here.”
But for how long? Max wondered. He didn’t trust Simon Decker. Not for a second. “So what kind of drugs are we talking about?”
“It’s a toxin known as Nicin, a derivative of the nerve agent niacine,” Decker explained. “Both are produced from the seeds of Niacinus toxifera, a plant indigenous to the Amazonian rain forest, but it’s now being cultivated in greenhouses all over Colombia, Central America and Mexico. It’s also called the fountain-of-youth plant.”
“Why? What does it do?”
“When injected into the skin, Nicin performs similarly to botulinum toxin type A. Facial muscles are paralyzed to smooth wrinkles. But with Nicin, the results are far more dramatic and long-lasting.”
“So what’s the catch?”
“The side effects,” Decker said grimly. “When the injections are discontinued, muscle degeneration accelerates. Within a few months, the patient can end up looking ten or even twenty years older than when he or she began the treatments.”
“Bummer,” Max muttered.
“The only way to halt the deterioration is by increasing the frequency and strength of the injections. Eventually, when enough poison builds up in the system, the paralysis can spread to other parts of the body, including respiratory muscles.”
“In other words, the patient suffocates,” Max said.
Decker nodded. “Which is why the FDA not only prohibits the use of Nicin in cosmetic medical procedures, but has banned the importation of Niacinus toxifera in any form. Unfortunately, however, supply will always meet demand. The illegal trafficking in Nicin has become a billion-dollar business in Europe and South America, and it’s spreading rapidly into this country. A vial can be bought on the black market for two hundred dollars and the charge for injecting it can be anywhere from two to five thousand. Repeat the process again with another patient ten minutes later, and you get an idea of the kind of money we’re talking about.”
Max whistled. “Not pocket change, that’s for damn sure.”
Decker walked back over to the window and stared out. “We know the Morehart Museum is being used to smuggle Nicin into the country in one form or another. What we don’t know is the identity of the kingpin.”
“Which is why, I assume, you need to get close to Penelope Moon.”
Decker turned, his eyes dark and unfathomable. “We believe she’s the key to the whole operation, although we’ve yet to ascertain whether she’s directly involved or not. But at this point, her innocence is irrelevant.”
“Not to me, it isn’t,” Max said angrily. “We may push boundaries at this firm, but we do have ethics. We don’t break the law, and we don’t deliberately put innocent people in harm’s way. In fact, we do everything we can to protect both the client and the target. That’s why we have such an elaborate screening process. If I agree to help you, I’ll need two things from you.” He ticked them off on one hand. “Indisputable proof that you’re exactly who you say you are and your assurance that Penelope Moon won’t be physically harmed.”
Decker nodded. “You have my word that I’ll do everything in my power to keep her safe.”
Max’s frown deepened. “I don’t know if that’s good enough. Given the involvement of my firm, I think I have a right to know what your intentions are toward her.”
“My intentions?” Amusement flashed in Decker’s eyes. “Very well. I see no reason why you shouldn’t know. My intentions are exactly the same as they were when I walked into this office a week ago.”
“Surely you don’t mean that you intend to—”
“Marry her?” Decker’s expression hardened. “Watch me.”
