I needed to find somewhere safer, in case the killers had circled back. I checked my map app. The motel was still a mile west. I stayed on the side streets and drove cautiously. Spent more time looking in the rearview mirror than out the windshield.
By the time I found the motel, my panic had lessened. Should I report an attempted murder? What good would that do? There had to be a million black SUVs in LA. I couldn’t identify anyone. No, a police report would just be a waste of time.
Instead, I checked into the motel, happy to see the lobby was filled with people. That made it less likely someone else would attack me. After heading to my room, I threw the deadbolt behind me and fastened the chain on the door. Then I flopped onto the bed and thanked God for letting me live.
Chapter 10
My mind raced through images of the SUV pulling alongside of me, and the gangbanger blazing away. All the while, one question kept coming back—who was trying to kill me? Had someone followed me all the way from the airport? It could have been the Russians wanting payback for me shooting their assassin. Or Sam might’ve been right about Wang’s family wanting to punish me. Or it could’ve been anybody else I’d managed to piss off lately. Somebody was damned unhappy.
The more I thought about it, the airport theory didn’t make sense. If they’d hacked the reservation system, they would’ve hit me before I reached the Federal Building.
Had one of the witnesses I’d visited tagged me? That was much more likely. Sanchez was Hispanic, but the shooter had been black. Probably Masai had ratted me out. Why would he have been pissed at me?
No answer came to mind. As my panic wore off, the churning in my stomach worsened. I had to eat to live.
When I’d turned into the motel’s parking lot, I’d noticed an In-N-Out Burger joint across the street. I wouldn’t have to drive there, and I could stay within my per diem. If it was good enough for Paris Hilton, it had to be good enough for me.
First, I made sure my gun was fully loaded and returned it to the shoulder holster under my jacket. Then I left the motel and reached the frontage road. No light or crosswalk anywhere nearby. Plenty of traffic.
A Hispanic guy had the same idea as me but apparently was suicidal. He dashed across two lanes of traffic into the center lane that both sides used for left turns. And cars did that, a lot. He slipped between two cars driving toward each other and almost got hit by both. Then he dashed to the other side laughing.
My stomach growled more, but I also wanted to live. I tried the same strategy, but it was trickier than it looked. Then, for a moment, the traffic stopped on my side of the road. I dashed to the center lane. But one old white guy was apparently blind because he aimed his beater right at me. At the last second, he slammed on the brakes. I patted the Chevy emblem on the front grill and punched myself in the chest to restart my heart.
Then, another miracle. Traffic stopped for a moment in front of me, and I dashed to the safety of the other side of the road. I could run with the fake foot, but it gave me an awkward gait. For the way back, I’d need to call a cab.
In the meantime, I’d never felt more alive. The smell of grilled hamburger almost drove me wild. But even after eight, the place was packed.
I stood in line and waited to order, unable to understand what was so special about this hamburger joint. It had an old-time atmosphere and a simple menu—cheeseburgers, fries, and shakes. Big whoop.
While I waited, I scanned the crowd for another would-be hit. No obvious gangsters, but lots of poor folks, with kids running around screaming.
After I ordered, I found a small table where I could wait for my food with my back against a solid wall. Using my laptop and the restaurant’s Wi-Fi, I reviewed my emails.
While I ate, I wondered why the place was crowded. I rarely ate fancy food, so it wasn’t that I was prejudiced against lowly cheeseburgers. The food was fine but nothing to drool over.
-o-o-o-
My stomach filled up, which was what counted. I lingered over my chocolate shake and answered emails until a redheaded woman approached. Twenty-something and pretty. There was something familiar about her, but I had no idea where I’d seen her before. In a thick Scottish brogue, she asked, “Mind if I be joinin’ you?”
Why would she when the table next to me was empty? “Actually, you can have this spot. I was just leaving.”
She snickered. In a whisper, she said with a French accent, “Don’t leave on my account, Hank.”
I looked closer. She grinned. The hair had thrown me off. Willow, formerly Charlotte and Christine and God only knew how many other names she’d used. “Are you crazy?” I asked, knowing she was. “How did you find me?”
“Lovely to see you, too.” She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “I knew you were somewhere close because of your motel reservation. Then you signed onto the Wi-Fi here.”
Without thinking, I kissed her cheek, but worry hit me like a hammer right between the eyes. In another whisper, I said, “You’re not safe. Someone tried to kill me less than two hours ago.”
Her smile vanished, replaced with a pale face and open mouth. “Are you all right?”
I closed the laptop and stood. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”
I’d forgotten for a moment that I had no car, but she waved me toward a black Mercedes sedan.
Once we sat inside—with her behind the wheel—she said, “Mon Dieu! Assassins?”
I gave her a brief rundown of the attack on the freeway.
“Hank, I can’t believe you checked in under the same reservation. You have to leave your motel right away.”
She had a point. I didn’t know how the gangsters had found me. “Give me a minute to find another place. Rooms are incredibly expensive here.”
“No need to look. You’re coming with me.” Without waiting for my answer, she drove us to the motel.
I couldn’t stay with her. “Did you already forget the part about someone trying to kill me? For all we know, the same people are after you. We shouldn’t be together.”
She snorted in a very unladylike way, and her Scottish accent deepened. “You’re like a wee bairn. Not enough sense to protect yourself. Until you wise up, lassie, I’ll be needin’ to watch out for you.”
Again, she was probably right. “How did you develop your incredible talent with languages?”
“I was born with the gift.” She jumped out of the car in front of the motel.
I followed her in and led her to my room.
“Languages have always come easy for me,” she said, “particularly when I have an example to mimic. One of my roommates at Oxford grew up on the Orkney Islands, northern end of Scotland.”
At my room, I was happy to see no one had bothered my stuff. I hadn’t unpacked, and that made it easy to collect everything.
On the way out, I dropped off the room key with the desk clerk. “Sorry, but something has come up. I have to leave.”
He shrugged like it happened all the time. “Your room was prepaid online. It’s too late to cancel.”
I didn’t argue. When I’d booked the room, I’d seen a warning that no refunds would be allowed.
Outside again, Willow said, “Leave your car here for now.”
I stopped. It would be too dangerous for me to stay with her. “I should find somewhere else and keep apart from you.”
She patted my cheek with her oh, so soft fingertips. “How’s that’s supposed to work? If they could trace you here, your credit card has been compromised. I doubt you have enough cash to rent another room, and no respectable establishment will accept you without credit anymore. You obviously don’t get around much, Hank, as you Yanks like to say. Let me keep you alive while you’re so far from home.”
“I’m the one with the gun, remember?”
She opened her fancy Yves Saint Laurent purse enough for me to get a glimpse of a Sig Sauer micro-compact pistol.
Another fucking complication. “Do you hap
pen to have a California concealed carry permit for that thing?” I asked. “This state doesn’t offer reciprocity, you know?”
“Do you?” she asked instead of answering.
“I’m a cop. Legally entitled to pack heat everywhere.”
She stuck out her arms in front of her with her wrists close together like she was expecting me to slap a pair of cuffs on her.
I didn’t, although I wanted to. Then I realized she was safer with cold steel in her purse.
Wordlessly, I put my suitcase in the trunk and sat in her car.
She slid behind the wheel and took off. “No more nonsense, my lovely. Tell me how much you’ve missed me.”
-o-o-o-
Willow and I talked as she drove expertly through the city’s busy streets. She gave up the Scottish accent for her native French. That was a lot sexier, but it didn’t go with the flaming hair. Actually, the last thing I needed was a sexy geek.
A massive hand seemed to crush my heart as I imagined her staring at my mutilated left leg. “Listen, this will never work. I’m not…whole.”
She gave me a sideways glance. “You mean the scar below your ear or the missing foot? I know all about both. They matter not.”
I thought back to how she could’ve noticed my wounds. Alex must’ve told her. I thought he’d keep his mouth shut, but apparently not.
“Alex?”
“No, he didn’t say a word about that. The scar is obvious to anyone who sees you close, and I noticed you balancing on that foot awkwardly. Subtle thing, but my younger brother lost a foot above the ankle in a farm accident a decade ago. He’s struggled with prosthetics over the years.”
“You’re telling me you’ve seen a stump?” I asked. “And you still want me to stay with you?”
“Bien sur. Now, can we get back to the real problem, namely people shooting at you?”
I didn’t know whether I believed her, but hope began to well up in my chest. I could hardly speak as I told her what I’d learned about Splendid’s case since we’d last chatted.
When I’d said my piece, I asked what she’d been up to. All she would say was, “I’ve been laying low in Los Angeles. It’s like New York City, easy to disappear here.”
“What have you been doing? Hiding out in your room?”
“I have friends here. Today, we attended a special exhibit on Picasso at the Getty Museum. Lunch at Spago.”
She rattled along in her relaxed, charming style until I asked, “Where we going, anyway?”
“Almost there, mon chou. Then I can’t wait to see this great wound you’re so anxious to hide.”
I could never have a future with her, if for no other reason than I couldn’t get her to answer simple questions. But it’d been a long day. I was too tired to argue or worry anymore.
We’d headed northeast on Santa Monica Boulevard until she turned east on Wilshire Boulevard. I didn’t know where we were, but it was obviously a fancy part of town. We passed a Saks Fifth Avenue, a store I’d heard about but had never been in. There used to be one at the Cherry Creek Mall in Denver, but one look at the window display had told Mom and me we’d be uncomfortable inside.
Willow came up on Rodeo Drive. That, I’d seen in Beverly Hills Cop. I’d loved that movie when I was a kid. Might’ve gone into law enforcement because of it.
Willow parked in front of a large archway made from rose-colored stone. A couple of men in suits came forward. She handed one the keys to her car, and before I could make a move, the other one grabbed my bag out of the trunk.
“We’ve already checked in,” Willow said to the bellhop. She handed him a few bucks to convince him to give me back my own suitcase. We walked inside to a grand lobby filled with chandeliers and fancy shops. She headed for a bank of elevators, and I followed.
When we reached the fourth floor, she motioned me out of the car.
“What is this place?” I asked.
She handed me a key. “The Beverly Wilshire. It’s nice enough. Good security, thanks to all of the ritzy boutiques downstairs. Tonight, though, it’s just a quiet spot for the two of us.”
She opened the door to a fabulous suite. I didn’t notice much but her dazzling smile…and a bucket of champagne on ice sitting on a table next to two crystal flutes.
-o-o-o-
It was the best night of my life. Although I knew I’d never fit into her world, nor would she be comfortable in mine, I was gut hooked by a beautiful French woman who could look at me and not turn away.
The room was bright and airy, filled with luxurious contemporary furniture. The kitchen had an expresso machine, which Willow knew how to operate.
We ate breakfast from room service on a balcony overlooking Beverly Hills. I felt like a hillbilly, but she was right at home.
We couldn’t talk about our future—I still doubted we’d have one. Instead, we talked about Splendid’s case and the attempted hit on me. She waved around an almond croissant as she said, “Do you think they’re connected? Your attackers could have just as easily been Russian hitmen. The bratva don’t like either one of us.”
An image of the shooter’s blank, unemotional face filled my mind. “I could hear a subwoofer pounding from the music they were playing. It wasn’t Tchaikovsky. The thug was straight outta some slum.”
She ate in silence for a moment. “All right, let’s think this through. The other organized crime figures you told me about were Chinese. Do Chinese people live in black slums?”
I had to laugh. “Don’t think so.”
“Based on your in-depth understanding of the African-American urban experience?”
She had a point. I barely knew any more about the people who lived in slums than she did. “Touché. I’m praying the people who run Camden Waterfront Productions know more than we do and are willing to talk.”
Room service had brought us a complimentary copy of the LA Times, and the front page was filled with stories commemorating the 9-11 attacks on New York and Washington. My mood had already begun to darken as I mentally prepared for interviewing Tyrone, and my memories of that terrible day back in 2001 reinforced my determination to find whoever had killed Splendiferous Wang. I had something to prove to Jenkins and my folks, and my work wasn’t getting done while I was messing around with a sexy French ballerina.
Chapter 11
Before my appointment with Tyrone, Willow drove me by the motel I’d planned to stay at. My rental car was still there, and even better, it remained in one piece. I followed her Mercedes to the office for Camden Waterfront Productions in Century City.
Then I tried to get her to go back to her hotel, but she wasn’t any better at following orders than she was at answering questions. Time to make a virtue out of necessity, as my mom used to say. I pretended to Sharlene that Willow was my assistant.
Sharlene was a heavyset, middle-aged black woman with a deep gravelly voice. “You right on time, but like I said, Tyrone ain’t. Actually, he must wanna meet you real bad ‘cause he’s gonna be here in fifteen. Get comfy. We got coffee and donuts.”
Willow and I poured ourselves cups of coffee and waited while Sharlene answered a steady stream of phone calls for her boss. The guy could be a hustler, but whoever he was, his business seemed to be booming.
A tall, powerfully built black man about forty-five strode into the office. He wore a shimmering white silk shirt and shiny black pants. The guy had enough gold hanging around his neck and diamonds on his fingers to open his own jewelry store. His smile was blazing white, except for one gold tooth.
Behind him, a tall, thin black woman dressed in a conservative business suit walked toward us with the bearing of a queen. Her appearance was as understated as his was flashy.
He stuck out a huge hand toward me. I shook it and introduced Willow as my assistant. He gave her a kiss on the cheek like the Europeans do, and she reciprocated. The woman with him turned out to be Naomi Williams, an assistant production chief with MTV.
We engaged in a little small talk while getting the feel of each other until I was about to begin. But when Tyrone said first, “Hank, I hope you don’t mind that Naomi asked to join us. She represents the money, and us creative types, we love the money.”
“No problem for me,” I said. “For starters, we really appreciate you taking the time to meet with us. A terrible injustice has been done to Splendiferous Wang and his family. We’re determined to find his killer. You can help us by explaining what kind of program you were planning while you visited Aspen last June.”
Before he spoke, Naomi said, “Of course, we’ll be happy to explain everything you want to know. We will bend over backwards to assist you.”
That was refreshing to hear after so many potential witnesses had shut me down.
“Absolutely,” Tyrone said. “Total cooperation.”
I nodded my thanks.
“As for the show,” he said, “think about it like American Idol meets Dr. Dre at the Kardashians. We’ll put our rappers on stage and let them sing their hearts out for America. And we plan to show them living together for a month, isolated from the world. Cameras will follow our future stars day and night.”
“Do you happen to have video of Wang in Aspen?” I asked. “Anything that shows his interactions with others would be most helpful, particularly any disagreements.”
Tyrone beamed. “We’ve already got over two hundred hours from the time in Aspen. You can have a copy of all of it.”
Better and better. “What was your impression of him?”
“I knew from the minute I met Splendiferous that he was a superstar,” he said. “We focused on him from the beginning because our first programming agreement was with a large Chinese network. A thirty-million-dollar contract. Before he turned eighteen, he was a huge star in Asia. Such a tremendous loss to that part of the world. Three hundred million songs downloaded already.”
His Song Silenced Page 8
