“You did the right thing,” Traci said, putting her hand on Blanca’s shoulder. “The police don’t know about this?”
Blanca shook her head.
“Did you look at it?”
“No.”
It took all of Traci’s strength and self-control to keep from ripping the tape from Blanca’s hand, possibly taking the hand with it. Did it show the killer? If so, why would the killer leave it? Maybe the camera was hidden. The killer didn’t know it was there. Maybe the woman didn’t know it was there either. But then how would Blanca know? Or maybe the tape didn’t show the murder at all. Maybe it was just a sex tape. Just? What was she saying, just? A sex tape made on the night of the murders would be just fine. The problem, however, was obvious. Traci knew she couldn’t use the tape without getting into deep shit with LAPD. So how was this going to play out?
As if she was reading Traci’s mind, Blanca said, “You will have to give it to the police, sooner or later.”
“Yeah, I don’t see any way around that,” Traci said, reaching for the tape.
Blanca pulled it out of Traci’s reach and said, “Do you have children?”
“No. And I certainly wouldn’t show this to them if I did,” Traci said, misunderstanding the point of Blanca’s question.
“I have a daughter,” she said. “She starts college next year. She wants to be a TV reporter, and she says you are the best in the market. She wants to go to USC, just like you.”
“Does she?” Traci was beginning to get the drift.
“This morning? I called my daughter and told her what I had found. She told me I could trust you to do the right thing.”
“Well, I’d be happy to write a letter of recommendation for her. I know the dean of the school of cinema and television. It’s a great program.”
“Yes.” Blanca nodded. “And very expensive.”
“Ohhh.” Traci said, “You know, as a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking about funding a scholarship for deserving young women.”
Blanca smiled and handed the tape over. “My daughter said you might want to make a copy of this before we give it to the police.”
Traci took the tape and said, “She’s a smart girl, your daughter. She’ll go a long way in this business.”
Chapter Forty-three
“I said stop, and I mean it,” Agent Parker said.
Klaus stopped. “Okay, relax.”
“I’m as relaxed as I need to be.” Parker gestured with his gun. “Now what’s that in your hands? Pepper or something? What do you think, this is like a Roadrunner cartoon? Just drop whatever it is, so we can get on with this.”
Bob looked at Katy and saw the fear in her eyes. He also saw more eye makeup than he thought she should be wearing, but for now he’d have to let that go. Most teenage girls weren’t equipped to deal with this sort of situation. But Katy wasn’t like her peers and Bob knew it. For all her guhs, duhs, and what-evers, Katy was smart and tough when the situation dictated. She was resourceful and her motor was always running. Bob flattered himself by thinking she got that from him. So he wasn’t surprised to see that, in addition to being frightened, she was also calculating, trying to figure her best response under the circumstances. After their narrow escape from New York, Klaus had drilled the Dillon family in a variety of defensive tactics and escape strategies in case anything ever happened. Bob made eye contact with Mary. She nodded, then looked at Katy.
Klaus could see they were evaluating and considering their options, so he kept his hands up and said, “Think this through, Agent Parker. It will be difficult killing five of us in a confined space like this. One of us is bound to get to you before you have finished. And every one of us, even Katy, knows how to kill bare-handed. I trained them.” He nodded at the gun. “And if you somehow manage to shoot us, without suppression on that .45 someone will hear something. Like the unemployed gun nut two doors down or, even worse, the cops could show up and start shooting. It will be a mess.”
Out of nowhere, Katy let out a blood-curdling scream, shocking everyone in the room.
Agent Parker jerked so violently that he just about fired the gun. “What are you screaming about?”
“Put the gun down,” Katy said, moving to her left. “Or I’ll do it again.”
Mary said, “Somebody’s bound to hear it too.” She began drifting to her right.
Father Paul began moaning and he started to wobble, as if he understood what they were doing. He listed into Agent Parker who pushed him back to an upright position. The priest’s eyelids began to flutter unnaturally. His mouth opened and, in a ghostly voice said, “Isaiah.”
“What’s wrong with him,” Bob asked, pointing at the priest. “He doesn’t look so good.”
“He’s been fasting,” Mary said. “Hasn’t eaten in three days, I think.” She moved toward the kitchen. “I’ll get him something.”
“No! Don’t worry about him.” Agent Parker waved the gun around while pointing at the couch with his free hand. “Everybody just sit. Klaus, let’s see what you got. Don’t mess with me. I don’t want a bunch of cayenne in my eyes.”
“Bob’s right,” Klaus said, nodding at Father Paul. “The man looks ill.” He wondered who this guy was and what he was up to. Did he know what the rest of them were doing? Was he trying to help? Or was he a killer, like Parker said, trying to get his own advantages?
Katy put her hands on her hips and said, “Isn’t somebody going to do something?” She headed for the phone. “I’ll call 9-1-1.”
“No!” Agent Parker kept the gun on Klaus while stabbing a finger toward the couch. “Everybody just sit!”
Father Paul’s eyelids stopped fluttering and he began to hyperventilate.
“He’s going to faint,” Mary said, now heading for the stairs. “I’ll get a cold compress.”
“Get back here!” Agent Parker sensed he was losing control of the situation, but he didn’t want to fire the gun, let alone shoot anybody since, even in Los Angeles, that would very likely draw attention. He was about to yell something else when he noticed the priest.
Father Paul’s eyes appeared to fix on something floating in the middle of the apartment. He seemed to be reaching for it with his bound hands. He looked like some mad character escaped from a Goya painting as he said, “Son of Amoz.”
“Seriously,” Bob said, “I think there’s something wrong with this guy.” He pointed at the phone. “Katy, 9-1-1.”
“No!”
“I’ll get the compress.”
“Don’t move!”
Father Paul’s eyes rolled up into his head. He began to pitch and jerk as if he’d suddenly contracted a religious fever more befitting a Pentecostal than a Catholic. “Isaiah,” he said, still reaching into space. “Fifty-eight, verse six.”
Agent Parker gave him a bewildered glance. “What?”
“Guh. He’s talking about the Bible,” Katy said, now drifting toward the door.
“I know that!” He waved the gun again. “Now sit!”
Seized by this sudden palsy, Father Paul’s bound hands twitched and quivered in front of him as he said, “Is not this the fast that I have chosen?” He showed the nylon cord tied around his wrists. “To loose the bonds of injustice and to let the oppressed go free?”
Agent Parker turned and said, “You, shut up!”
With his hands already extended, Father Paul struck like a snake, expertly grabbing Agent Parker’s wrist, twisting upward, aiming the gun toward the ceiling. He groaned as he made an effective, if arthritic, move with his right leg, taking Agent Parker to the floor on his back. The .45 landed softly on the carpet a few feet out of reach.
Now, Father Paul thought, if I can just reach the gun…
The sudden, unexpected violence caught Klaus off guard and sent adrenaline pouring
into his system. Who was this old guy in the priest collar? It now appeared he had been feigning his illness to distract Parker long enough to disarm him. This went a long way toward confirming the notion that he was an assassin here to kill them. Klaus figured he had to do something, and fast.
As the older man tried to get past Parker to reach the gun—a series of moves rendered slow and painful by arthritis—Klaus yelled, “Father!”
Father Paul looked automatically when the title was invoked. He saw Klaus throwing something just before he was hit by what felt like two dozen little punches in the face. Father Paul dropped the gun as he put his hands over his cheeks. “Ow! Jesus!”
Agent Parker got a rug burn as he scrambled across the carpet to his gun. Spinning up on one knee, he aimed at Klaus, then Father Paul, then Klaus again. “All right,” he shouted. “That’s it! No more bullshit!”
Everyone froze for a moment, waiting to see what he would do.
Father Paul looked like he had come down with the measles, a pattern of red welts covered his face. “What the hell was that?” he asked, peeking between his fingers.
Klaus shrugged. “Pie weights, I think.”
Father Paul looked at Bob and, in a tone that seemed to call into question Bob’s masculinity, said, “You have pie weights?”
“I bake sometimes,” he said. “It keeps the crust from—”
“Enough!” Agent Parker grabbed Mary by the hair and put the gun to her head. “If every one of you doesn’t sit down right fucking now, I might actually have to kill somebody!”
Chapter Forty-four
The television announcer slipped into his tabloid voice and said, “The entertainment industry was stunned when Academy Award-nominated director Peter Innish was found dead in his Hollywood Hills pleasure palace with actress Ashley Novak. But is there more to the story? Did Innish and Novak have something in common with Rob Lowe, Pamela Anderson, and Paris Hilton? Find out tonight on Eyewitness Action News at Ten when Traci Taylor files her exclusive report with shocking new developments in the case.”
The promo was a sleazy montage of shamed celebrities inter-cut with shots of Traci Taylor posing at unnatural angles while projecting authoritative disapproval. As the urgent soundtrack faded, they cut to Todd Herrera at the anchor desk, nodding seriously at the monitor where he’d just seen what his viewers had. After the moment that was the traditional compromise between showing adequate respect for the deaths of two human beings on the one hand and the needs of television news on the other—about a second and a half—Todd turned to camera three and broke into a bright smile. “But right now, let’s go to the Beverly Wilshire Hotel where our own Dan Butler was on hand to see the unveiling of the Academy Award swag bags. Dan?”
They cut to Dan, a short bug-eyed sycophant, standing in front of a backdrop featuring the repeated D/S logo of Distinguished Selections, a marketing outfit specializing in entertainment marketing and corporate gifting. They were most famous for assembling the swag bags for the entertainment industry’s major award events. With their specialized knowledge of celebrity needs and their access to cutting-edge products and services, Distinguished Selections got away with charging firms upwards of thirty thousand dollars to have their products or services included in their gift baskets to the stars.
Dan Butler grinned at the camera and said, “Thanks Todd, we’re here in the grand ballroom, where just moments ago, the best kept secret in Hollywood was finally revealed.” Dan cast his glance down and to the side, inviting viewers to join him in watching what had happened five minutes earlier.
They cut to footage of a man on a stage in front of the same D/S backdrop. He was standing behind an extravagant table covered by a billowing silk tablecloth, flanked by a pair of security guards. Centered on the table was a large glossy pink bag with silk rope handles and the D/S logo on the front. Spread across the table, a hundred thousand dollars worth of products the man had pulled from the bag so far, items ranging from a Rolex Oyster and grand suites for a world cruise on the QMII, to a designer suede-lined leather clutch, matching suede sandals, a cashmere throw, a bottle of Krug Clos du Mesnil, a Baccarat crystal lighter, and a full line of exclusive skin products for men and women, including a lip gloss containing ground diamonds.
Finally there was only a single item left in the bag. The man suddenly assumed the expression of someone about to award the Nobel Peace Prize. He paused to heighten the tension before he reached into the bag and said, “And now the moment you’ve been waiting for. This year’s fragrance is…” He pulled out an elegant jeweled bottle of satin-finished crystal capped by a stylish metered pump of white gold. Holding it aloft like the Holy Grail, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, Rapture by François!”
The flashing cameras exploded like fireworks on the Fourth. The half-blinded crowd ooohed and aaahhhed and pressed in toward the stage. Others turned to look toward the back of the ballroom where, in a scene that made Zoolander seem understated, oddly angular models came streaming through the doors spritzing themselves with the fragrance before mingling with the crowd while making their necks, wrists, and cleavage available for the sniffing.
Returning to live coverage, Dan Butler stared in wonder at the camera and gushed, “What a moment that was! And with me now, the man who made it all happen, the president of Distinguished Selections, Mr. Charles Browning.”
The camera pulled back to introduce the man who had presided over the event. In his mid-fifties, Charles Browning had artificially whitened teeth, weirdly rosy cheeks for a man his age, and the severely disciplined hair and dark suit of a senator or a television packaging agent. Something about him gave the impression that if he hadn’t yet sold his soul to the devil, he’d certainly worked out a good deal on a lease.
Dan Butler made a sweeping gesture around the ballroom and said, “What an incredible scene this is,” he said. “A galaxy of stars from the world of film, television, hip hop, and rap. You must be very pleased with the turnout.” He thrust the mike at Charles Browning.
Mr. Browning broke into a dazzling smile. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? We’re truly blessed and very excited about this year’s gift bag. We think it’s our best ever.”
“Now, I’ve got to ask,” Dan said. “Four straight years of celebrity fragrances, and now this. What made you go with a concept fragrance instead of a celebrity scent?”
“We just felt the timing was right,” Mr. Browning said. “As you know, we do a lot of market research and what we found was that a progressive, tolerant fragrance like Rapture was the perfect match for this year’s event.”
“Absolutely,” bug-eyed Dan gushed. “Now, I’ve heard the scent described as having an open-minded spiciness with notes of sage and leather. While others are saying it’s more of an appeasing blend of evergreen, Moroccan Tangerine, and a hint of gay naughtiness.”
“Well, François is the world’s leading perfumer, and we asked him to create a scent that satisfied the most rugged libertarian leading men while still luring the free-thinking ingénue. And I think everyone agrees, he captured it.”
Dan was nodding like a bobble-head doll. “Mr. Browning, thanks for talking with us. We’re already looking forward to next year’s gift bags as much as we’re looking forward to the Awards.”
Mr. Browning leaned in with a wink and said, “Tell you the truth, Dan, I’m looking forward to the after parties. I hear just about anything can happen.”
Chapter Forty-five
Agent Parker was the first guy to put a gun to Mary’s head in six years. Last time was when that cowboy caught her at the house in Queens, trying to retrieve that piece of her mother’s jewelry. Now, with Parker holding not only the gun, but a good shock of her hair, she was unable to turn around when she said, “What do you mean, actually kill somebody? That’s what you said you were going to do.”
Agent Parker shoved Mary to
ward the couch where the others were already sitting. He looked at Bob. “Is she always this literal?”
Bob shrugged. “It’s one of her charms.”
“Wait,” Mary said as she rubbed her head. “What do you mean, literal?”
All of the sudden and—to everyone’s surprise—Klaus sat back on the couch and laughed as if he suddenly knew everything was going to work out all right.
Mary shot him a stern look. “What is so damn funny?”
Klaus gave a wise squint and a tilt of the head, “Perhaps Agent Parker was being more figurative when he spoke of killing us.”
Parker bowed slightly and said, “Thank you.” He holstered his gun and took a seat opposite the couch. “And why not? It worked once, right?”
Bob was the next one to get it. “Ohhhh.”
“Ohhh, what?” Mary said.
“Duh.” Katy rolled her eyes the way she did. “He wants to con that drug lord guy again.”
Mary said, “Ohhh.” She paused for a moment. “Why didn’t you just say so from the beginning?”
“Couldn’t take the chance,” Parker said. “First of all, you’d have no reason to believe me, right? I mean, I tell you my idea, you tell Bob and Klaus that some guy claiming to be CIA has a proposal. They’d have to be suspicious. Be crazy not to. They’d have to assume I was just some guy out to collect the original bounty, so you’d all disappear. I couldn’t take that chance. I needed you to bring me to them. And now, here we are. None the worse for wear.”
Father Paul made a grunting sound. His wrists hurt from the nylon cord. His hip ached and his face was covered by red welts.
Mary was still rubbing her head where Agent Parker had grabbed her. She ran her fingers over her scalp and was shocked by how much hair came out in her hand. She leaned over to Bob and said, “Do I have bald spot?”
“Look, it’s very simple,” Agent Parker said. “I can either kill you and collect all twenty million or I can take the low-risk approach and learn to live on ten. The only difference is a little belt tightening.” He smiled. “It’s up to you.”
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