Redemption

by Mel Odom

  * * *

  “You know what I think she needs?” Cordelia stood in Whitney Tyler’s portable makeup trailer.

  Whitney and the makeup specialist, a guy named Pete who had so many piercings in his face — and probably other parts of his anatomy, Cordelia thought — that an industrial magnet would have ripped him from his feet.

  Pete shook his peroxide locks, light glinting from all the metal in his face. He held a makeup brush in one hand and a palette in the other. “She doesn’t need anything. She’s perfect.” He pointed with the brush. “That’s gotta be one of the easiest faces to work with I’ve ever seen in this business.”

  Whitney looked at her. Once it had gotten dark, and she’d noticed that Angel wasn’t around, Whitney had gotten clingy, which was grating on Cordelia’s nerves.

  Cordelia really didn’t blame the woman — much. The kind of nervousness Whitney was exhibiting was probably normal except for firefighters, daredevils, policemen, air-traffic controllers, and graduates of Sunnydale High. School at Sunnydale hadn’t been an adventure; it had been a survival course.

  “What do you think?” Whitney asked.

  “I think you need a grr face,” Cordelia said honestly.

  Pete glanced at her in disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

  “She’s a vampire, right?” Cordelia asked. “In her show she doesn’t have a grr face.”

  “And what exactly is a grr face?”

  “It’s how vampires look when they get all worked up,” Cordelia replied. “They get this blend of really ugly creepiness with a lot of stomach churn thrown in.” She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

  Pete just stared at her.

  Someone knocked on the open door of the portable trailer and a young woman stuck her head in. “We need you to be ready on the set in five minutes, Whitney.”

  Seven minutes later Pete deemed Whitney worthy of returning to the set.

  Cordelia walked with the woman. She stared out at the cleared section of the street. The director and his crew had strung the street with cameras that provided a variety of shots and angles where the action would take place. They’d shut down a two-block stretch in front of Hannigan’s. Police officers cordoned off the area at all four intersections. A large crowd had formed on the other side of the police cars and sawhorses; people were still excited about the magic of television and movies.

  “Where’s Angel?” Whitney asked. “I thought he’d be here by now.”

  “Angel’s working for you wherever he is,” Cordelia assured her.

  “Do you think something happened to Angel?” Whitney asked.

  Cordelia frowned. “Well, there is that whole thing about someone trying to kill you, remember? Does ‘dead security guard piÐata’ strike a chord somewhere?”

  “That sounds coldhearted.”

  “Which part?” Cordelia responded. “You asking, or me refusing to tell you what you want to hear, that everything is just hunky-dory? I’m supposed to just deal with the possibility of something happening to Angel all on my own without you claiming any share of it?” She shook her head. “Nope. Not interested.”

  “You’re right,” Whitney said. “I’m sorry.”

  “And if you think copping that poor-me pose and —” Cordelia stopped, open-mouthed. “Did you just apologize?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” Cordelia closed her mouth.

  Despite her tension, Whitney laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you.”

  “Don’t feel badly,” Cordelia said. “No one else has, either.”

  “I just wish he was here,” Whitney said. “I feel safe around him.”

  Cordelia nodded in agreement as they walked toward the middle intersection in the two blocks. Two cars were parked in the center of the intersection.

  “I feel safer, too,” Cordelia admitted. “I’m used to taking care of myself, but sometimes — when things have been a little bit more than I can handle, which by the way, is almost never — it makes me feel good to know he’s there. Granted, most days with too much time spent around him while he’s off on a major brood is no picnic. There are days when he makes Eeyore look like Pollyanna.”

  “Who’s Eeyore?” Whitney asked.

  “Uh-oh,” Cordelia said, “somebody didn’t have a Disney childhood.”

  “I’ve seen Disney,” Whitney said. “I just can’t place Eeyore.”

  “He was a stuffed donkey, kind of like Grumpy in Snow White. Eeyore was one of Winnie the Pooh’s friends in the Big Woods.” Cordelia paused. “Or maybe Laura Ingalls lived there. I get them confused.”

  “Laura Ingalls is the name of a donkey too?”

  “No. Laura Ingalls of Little House on the Prairie.”

  “Sorry. Don’t know that one, either.”

  “How did you ever make it into television if you don’t know these things?”

  Whitney laughed. “I never planned on starring in television when I grew up.”

  A well-built guy in a blue fire-retardant jump-suit turned toward Whitney with a clipboard in his hands. He kept his head shaved and wore a short beard. “Hey, Whitney, how are you doing?”

  “I’m fine, Mike.” Whitney made introductions quickly. “Mike Zohn, meet Cordelia Chase. Cordelia, this is Mike, our stunt coordinator for the series.”

  They shook hands and Zohn turned toward Whitney, his face somber. “What happened last night, kid, it’s all over the news. I’m sorry.”

  Whitney nodded. “Thanks.”

  Zohn gave Whitney all his attention. “I don’t know why Schend wants you here for this shoot, kid. We could have ran this with a stand-in in a wig.”

  Whitney pointed at a sign over a nearby building. In the afternoon it had been a shoe store. Now, with the false front bolted into place, it passed as a Hollings Computer Solutions business office.

  “Because Hollings was promised my face in front of that,” Whitney said.

  Zohn shrugged. “Could have blue screened it in. Nobody would have known.”

  “Hollings would have known.”

  “He’s got those deep pockets.”

  “I know, and Gunnar’s trying to get his arm in them up to the elbow.”

  Zohn nodded. “It’s just the biz, kid. We’ll go over your marks, get you through this gag and out safely.”

  “Okay.”

  Cordelia watched as Zohn led Whitney down the street. As she watched the actress, Cordelia was surprised to find that she felt a little sorry for her. Until Whitney had mentioned never knowing Winnie the Pooh and Eeyore — never big stars in Cordelia’s life, although she could remember an extravagance of attention from her parents during that time — Cordelia hadn’t really thought about all the things the woman had missed out on.

  So where had Whitney Tyler’s childhood gone?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “I need a favor,” Angel said. They sat in Kate Lockley’s car at the side of the street in front of Angel’s offices. He felt bad about asking. Bad twice, actually, because what Kate was going to do could potentially hurt someone he was trying to protect.

  “What’s the favor?” she asked

  “I need to know what the background check on Whitney turns up.”

  “You don’t do that?” Kate flashed him a surprised look.

  “I’ve got a computer and access to the archived news services, but I don’t have resources into the government databases that you do,” Angel admitted. “Usually I can make do with that. And if I felt I had more time, I wouldn’t ask because I can get what I need eventually. But I want this done in-depth and quickly. And without a lot of other people knowing. I trust you.”

  Kate flipped up the sun visor with the mirror and turned to look at him. “Okay. You’ve got my attention, but someday we’re going to have to talk about what it is you do and who it is you help.”

  “The people I help,” Angel replied, “generally don’t have problems coming out of the past. They’re just trying to live through today to g
et to tomorrow.”

  Kate studied him with her gaze. “You’re hooked, aren’t you?” she asked softly. “On Whitney Tyler?”

  “I like her,” Angel answered simply. “She doesn’t deserve to be treated the way she is. There’s something vulnerable about her.”

  “You wouldn’t know it the way she kicks the major bad guy’s butt every week on the show.”

  Angel smiled. “Probably not.”

  “What do you need me to dig into exactly?” Kate asked.

  Angel hesitated for a moment. “I don’t know.”

  Surprise lifted Kate’s eyebrows. “Maybe you’re not as hooked on her as I thought.”

  Angel made no reply.

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” Kate asked.

  “I’m sure I don’t want to do that,” Angel told her honestly. “But I’m also sure it’s what I have to do.”

  Doyle sat in the little antechamber in the back of the Chinese laundry and tried not to move too much. Moving meant calling attention from the huge Mongol warrior that guarded the door to Yuan’s private chambers. And it looked like Mama Ntombi’s suggestion that he set up the meeting so he could find out more information was a total bust. There were no big arrows, no big signs. No clues.

  The Mongol yawned but didn’t look tired. It was boredom setting in.

  Comes from not lopping off toes today, right? Doyle hoped that was true. He kept checking the painted cement floor for bloodstains. Shoes weren’t exactly designed to hold in body fluids, and blood had a tendency to run everywhere.

  He’d been sitting there for more than an hour, his mind inanely and incessantly chanting lines from the original Snow White. In that version the evil stepsisters had chopped up their feet to fit into the glass slipper the Prince’s men brought around.

  One of them had cut off her big toe, hoping for a shot at being princess. Only the sparrows had warned the Prince as he’d ridden off with his bride-to-be. Prithee, prithee, look back, look back! There’s blood on the track! And sure enough, there had been. The two stepsisters had been delivered back to their mom, a couple shoe sizes smaller and no crown in sight.

  Doyle looked at the Mongol. The man looked almost six and a half feet tall and nearly half as wide. He wore his hair long, his chin decorated with a Fu Manchu mustache and little sprig of a beard. The Sheryl Crow concert T-shirt looked stretched to the ripping point. Black, gathered ankle commando pants and Doc Martens completed his wardrobe. The massive hand cannon parked under his left arm was obviously more than an accessory.

  Three people had come out of the room since Doyle had been waiting. Only one of them had been limping, but Doyle couldn’t rightly remember if the man had been limping when he arrived, so he still didn’t know how things were going.

  Yuan called out on the other side of the door, speaking Cantonese.

  The Mongol curled a finger at Doyle. “Let’s go.”

  Doyle stood and submitted to the frisk the big warrior put him through, then followed the door into Yuan’s private office. The smell of cherry-blend incense immediately cloyed his nose and reminded him of the grocery store.

  The small desk, executive chair, and straight-backed chair in front of it nearly filled the tiny room. Yuan sat behind the desk, a gray-haired man with stylish glasses dressed in a neatly pressed white shirt and black tie. The beads on the abacus he used for calculations clacked rapidly as he moved them. Besides the clack of the abacus beads, only the laundry’s day-to-day clank and grind sounded in the room, muted by the concrete block walls.

  Yuan glanced up unexpectedly. Surprisingly, the old man smiled. “Mr. Doyle.”

  “Yeah,” Doyle said, wishing afterward he could have just kept his big mouth closed. “That’s me.”

  Yuan consulted a small leather-bound notebook in front of him. “It appears you owe me money.”

  Always owing somebody, Doyle thought with self-disgust. And we all know the chorus on that one. “Yeah, guess I do.”

  “And quite a tidy sum, it appears.” Yuan glanced up. “Do you have the money?”

  “Not all of it,” Doyle replied. There’d been Madame Ntombi’s fee, plus the couple stiff drinks he’d had next door to get the courage to come here. Plus, he hadn’t had all that much to begin with. “You will get your money. I guarantee that. I’ve never welched on a bet in my life.”

  Yuan consulted his small book again. “Actually, Mr. Doyle, it appears that you’ve neglected to pay a few of your gambling debts. I could make most of the money back that I cannot get from you by simply holding you here for other entrepreneurs such as myself. There are several that appear simply willing to make an example of you at this juncture.”

  Cold fear closed in on Doyle, but it came with a taste of anger. “You just found all that out?”

  “On the contrary,” Yuan replied, “I’ve known for weeks. I also know that you occasionally frequented the tavern next door.” The bookie steepled his hands. “I have been waiting for you.”

  “Man, now that sounds completely foolhardy on your part.” Doyle grinned, then noticed that Yuan wasn’t smiling and dropped the humor. “I mean, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “It was a plan,” Yuan replied, “and a hope that the gods of chance would favor me.”

  “To place a bet with me?” Doyle couldn’t believe it.

  “To place a bet with you that you would lose,” Yuan replied. “And hope that you were not able to pay it off.”

  “I’m telling you, that’s just not good business.” Doyle figured things were so weird that he might as well say what he wanted to say.

  “But your needs are not mine.” Yuan pushed the pile of crumpled bills Doyle had placed on the desk at the end of his story toward the half-demon. “In fact, I would prefer if you kept the whole amount.”

  Stunned, Doyle dropped into the chair in front of the desk. “If you don’t mind me asking, what do you get out of this deal?”

  Yuan reached into the desk drawer and brought out one of the Angel Investigations cards. He flipped it in his manicured fingers. “You are with the detective, yes? The one who stalks the shadows of this city?”

  Doyle thought the description sounded moxie. “Angel? Yeah, I’m kind of partnered up with him.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Yuan took out a pen and quickly wrote on the back. “This is my personal phone number. I can be reached here at any time. I would like your partner to call me at his earliest convenience on a matter of some urgency.”

  “You want Angel to do a job for you?” Doyle asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Angel isn’t the one who owes you money,” Doyle said. “And if you read the card closely, you’ll see that we help the helpless. Says so down at the bottom. Angel’s not really going to like the idea of toe collecting from some poor guy who doesn’t have the money to pay you.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “You mean you really do collect toes?” Even though he’d been told that and after all the other weirdness he’d seen — and lived through — Doyle still struggled to believe that.

  Yuan reached beneath the desk and brought out a gallon jar.

  Doyle tried hard not to look too closely at the spherical shapes that bobbed in the heavy liquid. “I can’t believe you do that.”

  Yuan shrugged. “They are only toes. Not much use except as reminders that promises made are promises that should be kept.” He put the gallon jar back out of sight. “And in this matter where I need Angel’s services, I am helpless.”

  “Maybe I can try to help you,” Doyle suggested. “After all, the debt is mine.”

  “If I had to rely only on your help,” Yuan stated, “I’d rather have my money. Perhaps a toe.”

  “Okay.” Doyle nodded agreeably. “Angel usually sees things my way. With a little help. Tell me what you need, and I’ll see if I can convince him.”

  “I will talk to Angel when I see him.”

  Doyle saw from the bookie’s steely gaze that the only deal h
e was going to get was on the table. “All right, I’m good with that. You need me to run messages, I’m a hell of a message runner.”

  “When can I see Angel?” Yuan pressed.

  “I’ll have to get with him,” Doyle said. “Find out what his schedule is. That sort of thing.”

  Yuan was silent for a moment. “I’ll see him tomorrow. In the evening. I understand he doesn’t much care for business during the day.”

  “Not much,” Doyle agreed.

  Yuan stood behind the desk and bowed. “Then our business this night has been concluded satisfactorily by both of us.”

  Doyle stood as well, then turned to the door and knocked. The Mongol warrior opened the door to let him out. He glanced at the other man sitting in the chair he’d left only minutes ago, feeling sorry for the poor slob.

  Then he realized the poor slob was Gunnar Schend.

  Schend looked totally blown away. “Hey,” he croaked. “Fancy meeting you here.” His unctuous smile didn’t quite come off and looked like it would be more at home on someone having terrible gas pains.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at the evening shoot?” Doyle asked.

  Schend hooked a thumb at Yuan’s door. “I’ve got to see Mr. Yuan about . . . an on-site location he owns.” The television producer got up from the chair and walked to the door when the Mongol warrior motioned him inside.

  “Yeah,” Doyle said. “I had to talk to him myself. They’re putting too much starch in the collars again.”

  Schend waved and disappeared inside the room.

  Doyle looked at the bodyguard. “He’s not here about an on-site location, is he?”

  The big man shook his head.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “Mr. Yuan wanted you to know,” the Mongol warrior stated. “He scheduled the man here so you would see him because he knew your friend was working on the case with the actress.”

  “How did Yuan know?” Doyle asked.

  “Mr. Yuan makes it his business to know things. For this thing, Mr. Yuan needed to know about your friend. So he learned. And in doing so, he learned about you. Letting you know about this man’s gambling habits is a favor in advance for the favor you are going to do him.”