Unwanted Company - Barbara Seranella Read Online Free Page B

you hand it to me, I'll unlock it."
    He found the telephone and handed it forward. The
coiled cord stretched across the expanse of seats as she zeroed the
minute counter and punched in the codes that would enable him to call
out.
    " All right then, sir," she told him as she
handed him back the mobile phone, 'We're all set. The buttons over
your head operate the moon roof and privacy partition. You'll find
ice and mixers in the compartment on the right. Help yourself to a
drink."
    " Thanks," he said. "After the Beverly
Wilshire we need to make a stop in West Hollywood. He handed her a
slip of paper with an address on North Gower written on it and a
hundred-dollar bill. "Can you find it okay?"
    "No problem."
    " Great" The privacy partition slid up. As
soon as it did, she heard the tape recorder under her seat click and
whir. Microphones were strategically placed throughout the passenger
section. It probably wasn't legal, but it was her best defense
against the teenagers who rented the limo for proms. The tape
recorder was activated whenever the thick upholstered panel separated
her from her passengers. It had been her experience that whenever
teenagers put the partition up they were about to break the
no-drinking rule. The mikes fed to the tape recorder under her seat;
another led directly to an earpiece. She slipped the earpiece into
her left ear. The system was functioning properly. Raleigh-baby was
on the phone.
    "Yeah," she heard him say "We're on
the way. All set on your end?" There was a moment of silence,
then he said, "You just worry about you. "
    The Beverly Wilshire Hotel was built in a section of
Beverly Hills where no freeways run. To get there, she headed up big
Santa Monica Boulevard, past the Mormon Temple, with its golden
steeples and acres of perfectly trimmed grass. The lavish expanse of
green amidst the teeming streets of West Los Angeles was as
impressive a testimony to the section's wealth as anything else. As
she passed the block-long black wrought-iron fence surrounding the
grounds, she read the sign posted near the sidewalk. THE CHURCH OF
LATTER-DAY SAINTS it proclaimed.
    Latter-day Saints.
    She pictured angels catching the last train to
heaven, waiting till the last minute to leave earthly temptations
behind. Better latter than never, they were saying.
    At Wilshire Boulevard she hung a right, past Wilson's
House of Suede on the corner of little Santa Monica and Wilshire. The
six-lane thoroughfare was crowded as usual. No matter what time of
day it was, the road never seemed wide enough to accommodate the
never-ending stream of jaguars, Mercedes, and Rolls Royces as they
headed for the pricey restaurants and the exclusive showrooms of
Rodeo Drive. When they arrived at the entrance of the Beverly
Wilshire, with its baroque facade and thick brass railings, Raleigh
Ward did wait for the white-gloved valet to open his door. "You
going to be okay?" he asked her before he jumped out. "I'll
be back in fifteen."
    " I'll be here," she said.
    The doorman told her she couldn't congest the
entrance and would have to circle the block.
    "Didn't you see who that was?" she asked.
    His cocky expression wavered for an instant.
    She made a derisive noise through her teeth and shook
her head in disgust. "Only the owner of this hotel."
    He studied her for a moment, then moved a cone and
let her wait unmolested in the hotel's circular driveway. Ten minutes
later, Raleigh returned with a plump, bald man. The second man's
polyester pants flared at the hem, and the points of his shirt collar
nearly reached his pockets. She was no fashion expert, but she knew
which decade it was.
    The first words out of Mr. Disco's mouth were, "Where
are the whores? You said we'd have broads." He had a European
accent-something Slavic,
    Raleigh looked pained. "We're going to pick them
up now."
    The address on North Gower turned out to be an
apartment complex. The entrance to the parking lot was blocked by an
electronically operated, twelve-foot