by Marcus Sakey
“What question?”
“Do you think I had something to do with this?”
It was her turn to stare. Her fingers knotted one over the other. He realized that he was hanging on her answer. This woman, this friend, knew him in a way he didn’t know himself anymore. If she thought he had done it . . .
“I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what you meant with that phone call. I don’t know who this guy is, or why he’s after you, or what the necklace he was asking about has to do with anything,” she said.
“I don’t—”
“Hold on. The police believe you did it. And there’s more. Someone was killed in your office.”
“What?”
“A security guard. The cops think you did that too.”
“When was this?”
“Night before last.”
“It wasn’t me. That much I can remember.”
“Okay, good. But the other questions, I don’t know the answer to them. Do you?”
“No. But that’s not what I’m asking.”
“You’re asking if I think you killed Laney. Or wanted her dead.”
“Do you?”
“Not in a million years.”
Daniel chest swelled, and his eyes were wet. He put a hand to his mouth, breathed into it. It was as though a giant hand had been pushing him down. At her words, it vanished. He inhaled deep, exhaled slow. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. You’re still screwed.”
Despite himself, he laughed. “Like a Texas cheerleader.”
“Do you trust me?”
“You’re the only person I know,” he said. “If I don’t trust you, I may as well throw myself back in the ocean.”
“Good. Because here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to turn yourself in.”
“What?”
“Your turn to shut up, kiddo.” She pointed at him, mock stern. “You’re going to get a lawyer. A criminal lawyer. I’ll call my friend Jen Forbus. She makes Johnnie Cochran look like Mr. Bean.”
“Soph, I know you’re trying to help, but—”
“Shut up. Jen will call the sheriff, and she’ll broker the deal. You’ll turn yourself in on our terms. No media circus, no questioning without her. Plus we’ll explain your condition, and make sure that access to medical care is part of the deal.”
“I don’t need a doctor, I had an MRI—”
“Shut up. We don’t know what caused your memory loss. Maybe you were drugged. Maybe you have a rare disease. We need to know.”
“What do you—”
“Shut up. A specialist—a team of them, probably—will be crucial to your defense. Right now, the only evidence they have linking you to either murder is circumstantial. Hell, I could get it knocked down. But you resisted arrest in Maine, and again back here. They’ll use that. The medical diagnosis is going to help us there.”
“Soph—”
“I’m not going to lie. It’s going to cost a lot. And you might have to do a little prison time. But don’t worry, it’ll be minimum security, you won’t need to explore alternative lifestyles while you’re there. Probably won’t be more than a couple of months. Meanwhile, once you turn yourself in, I’ll go to work with the press, get them applying pressure to the sheriff’s department, see if Waters wouldn’t maybe like to get off his ass and find the man who killed my friend’s wife.”
Daniel stared at her, smiling from the inside out. What a woman. Whoever Daniel had been before, whatever character flaws he may have had, he had been a man Sophie Zeigler had found worthy of friendship. “Can I talk now?”
“Who said you couldn’t talk? You wanna talk, talk.” 5
While Sophie called her lawyer friend, Daniel wandered. Coffee cup in one hand, at a friend’s house, he felt whole in a way he hadn’t before. Just a guy. With some problems, yeah, but with a plan to fix them.
Her house had a long hallway from the entrance to the kitchen, and the run of it was decorated with neatly framed photographs hung in a perfect horizontal, like a museum. Her life in snapshots. A twenty-something version of her at an outdoor concert, wearing a flowered dress and holding a Bob Marley joint, eyes closed as she danced. Her with a handsome Mafioso type, his hair slicked back and a lazy smile, his arm draped proprietarily over her shoulders. Photos of her with actors and musicians. Halfway down the row there was a black-and-white shot of a long banquet table, a dozen smiling people surrounding it. The guy second from the end was him, in a badly fitting blazer, raising a turkey drumstick in a toast. He looked himself in the eye.
Hello, self. Guess what? You have no idea what’s ahead of you. The thought made him grin. He took another sip of coffee, then turned at the sound of her bare feet on the hardwood floor. “When was this?”
She glanced at it. “Nineteen ninety . . . six? Around there. Hollywood Orphans.”
“Huh?”
“I keep forgetting that you don’t remember. Every Thanksgiving I host dinner for Hollywood Orphans. Friends who don’t go home for the holiday.”
“Where is home?”
“You were born in Little Rock. But home was always here.”
“I don’t have family?”
“Depends what you mean.”
He nodded. “So I’ve lived here a long time.”
“You used to say that one of the things you loved about Los Angeles was that it had no memory. Kind of ironic now, huh?”
“Yeah.” He leaned in. “So’s that haircut.”
“Not your finest hour, on a fashion level. But then, like you always say. Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.”
“I say that?”
“All the time, sweetie. That and ‘It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission.’ The twin pillars of the Daniel Hayes Philosophy of Life.” Sophie straightened and said, “I got hold of Jen. She was going into a deposition, only had a minute. But she’s in. She says that from what I told her, you’ll be fine.”
“Really?”
“Her exact words were ‘By the time I’m done, that sheriff will be wondering if there’s a god in heaven.’ ”
He shook his head. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“It’s what we do. Anyway, Jen is going to come over as soon as she’s out of court. Probably won’t be until six or so. She said that meanwhile you should just stay put.”
“Not a chance.”
“Huh?”
He turned to her, put his hands on her arms. “I was thinking about it while you were on the phone. You’re a lawyer.”
“This took thinking?”
“What I mean is, I can’t stay here. I’m a fugitive. You’re harboring a fugitive. I didn’t go to law school, but I’m guessing that won’t go over so well.”
“It’s not—”
“You’ve already given me more than I ever dreamed. I’m not going to do anything that could get you in trouble. Hell, you could probably get disbarred for this.”
She hesitated.
“Right?”
“I doubt it. Besides, no one needs to know.”
“I’m not going to risk your career over this. I’m just not.”
“So what—”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going all Charles Bronson. I’ve got a room at a shithole hotel downtown. I’ll pick up some Thai takeout, lock the door, and wait for your call.”
She paused, that professional mask back up, the one that meant she was weighing the arguments. Finally, she said, “You’ll stay there?”
“Cross my heart.” He smiled at her. “Anyway, I’ve got the laptop, there’s a lot still to go through. Maybe I’ll find something that can help us.”
She nodded slowly. “All right. That makes sense. I’ve got work to do anyway.”
“A studio to squeeze?”
“A party to manage. Too G.”
“Huh?”
“The rap star, Too G. The premiere of his movie is tomorrow night, and he’s throwing a big press party at a club called Lux. It’s a pain in
the ass. He’s ‘gangsta,’ ” making air quotes, “so the whole thing has to look tough. We’re hiring security, setting up metal detectors at the door, hiring limos with bulletproof glass, all to maintain the illusion that Tudy Wadell is a dangerous man.”
“Gotta love Los Angeles.”
“It’s a company town, what can you do. Anyway, how do I reach you?”
“I bought a cell phone last night.” He gave her the number. “One more thing.” He bit his lip.
“What?”
“I—this sounds weird, but would you mind. Could I—would you—”
“Spit it out, kiddo.”
“Could I hug you again?” He shrugged, embarrassed. “It’s just, it’s been.”
To his relief, she didn’t say anything. She just smiled up at him and opened her arms. He stepped into the warmth and safety of them, squeezed her hard. God, but it felt good to have someone love him.
When he stepped back a moment later, he said, “You be careful.”
“You’re the fugitive.”
“Yeah, but. Just do, okay?” He opened the door, stepped out, then turned. “And thanks again. For everything. Most people would have let me hang.”
“Hey,” she said. “Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.”
Daniel smiled at her, then stepped outside, walked to his car. As he cranked it up, he glanced back, saw her framed in the door. The expression on her face was hard to read, a complicated blend of emotions, happy and sad all mixed together.
It was a gift.
He waved to her, then pulled away. The sun poured down, and Daniel rolled the windows open and turned on the radio. He hadn’t had much use for it in the past few days, but now he wanted music, loud rock and roll filled with joy. He flipped around until he found something with a pounding guitar and crisp snare, a singer yelling about being only seventeen and holding back his screams, about him and his girlfriend burning the sheets down to the seams. He cranked the volume, banged out the beat on the steering wheel as he merged onto the 10.
For the first time he could remember, he felt okay. Better than. The questions that had been clawing at his brain would have answers. No more running. No more fear. He would finally be able to face things. The relief was tremendous. All that sprinting and hiding and shadowy panic, it had been like a straitjacket that tightened every time he squirmed. He glanced in the rearview—traffic light behind him, a couple of imports, a big white van—and pressed down on the accelerator. The road open before him, a good song, and a plan. He sang along, surprised to find that he knew the lyrics: Your memory bla-zes through me, burning everything, like gasoline, like gasoline, like gasoline.
The song ended, and a DJ came on. Daniel turned the volume down, then realized he was doing almost ninety. Whoa there. He braked to a steady sixty.
Okay. So.
Back to the Ambassador. Get settled. Take a shower, make sure he looked sane for Sophie’s lawyer. Then spend the afternoon reviewing the laptop. He’d barely scratched the surface. There might be some sort of clue, an e-mail from Laney maybe, that would help them figure out what the deal was. Whatever had happened, it had the elements of a classic conspiracy plot—shadowy men with guns, a missing diamond necklace worth more than a house—and as a storyteller, he knew those things came with a backstory.
The radio settled on an old Cracker tune, Being with you girl, like being low, hey hey hey like being stoned. He turned the volume back up, but watched his speed this time, glanced in the mirror as he signaled.
It was only after he had moved into the next lane that he realized the white van was still behind him.
So what? Where else would it be?
But then, he’d been going pretty fast for a couple of minutes. The van had kept pace. And when he had slowed down, so had it. Daniel kept his eyes flickering between the road in front and the mirror. Couldn’t make out much; it was a big panel van, the kind landscapers and cleaning crews favored, not unlike a million others. There was a long and vicious dent in the side, evidence of some past collision. The distance kept him from making out the driver’s features, but he wore a baseball cap and sunglasses.
Let’s see. Daniel signaled right again, then took the next exit, north on Fairfax. The van followed. Daniel snapped the radio off, turned right on Venice. The van stayed with him.
His happy mood vanished like fog. Someone was following him. Not the police. Even if the van was the world’s lousiest undercover vehicle, they would have had plenty of time to box him with squad cars. Who, then?
He was so calm. That was the worst part. I think he could have done anything to me, and then gone on about his day. Not felt a thing about it.
Daniel’s fingers clenched the wheel, his palms wet. The man who had broken into Sophie’s house and held her at gunpoint. The one who had been searching for him, asking about a diamond necklace.
The man who had killed his wife.
The light at Hauser was red, and he slowed, then pulled into the left turn lane. Again, the van followed.
Okay. Simple. Wait for a break in traffic, then instead of going left, floor it. Race across the intersection. Other cars will block the van in. By the time the light changes, you’ll be long gone.
How could the guy have found him? Los Angeles was huge. The chances that they’d randomly bumped into one another were incalculably small. Daniel’s spine felt like an ice cube had been run down it. This asshole must have picked him up at Sophie’s. Which meant he’d go back there if Daniel lost him. And this time, he wouldn’t just scare her.
I think he could have done anything to me, and then gone on about his day. Not felt a thing about it.
No. No chance.
The light turned green, and Daniel moved forward. Two cars between him and the van. You need a plan. You can not, can not, let any harm come to Sophie. Besides, this man murdered your wife. Wouldn’t you rather chase him than run from him? So think. You’re the writer.
Write something.
5
Belinda was smiling.
Staking out Sophie’s house had been a calculated guess. The lawyer had sent Daniel a pile of messages, telling him to come see her, to do it soon. But even Belinda hadn’t imagined it would happen that fast. Hell, she and Daniel Hayes might both have been reading his e-mail at the same time.
She stayed a few cars behind Daniel’s BMW, kept her speed steady as he wound up Hauser, then turned left on Third. He signaled again almost immediately, then pulled into the parking lot of the old Farmers Market. Against the blue of the sky, the white clapboard clock tower looked ridiculously picturesque, more appropriate for rural Maine than the outskirts of Beverly Hills. It was early yet, and the parking lot was only half-full. She let Hayes get ahead of her, chose a spot near the entrance. She took the gun from behind her back, set it on her lap. Through the windshield, she saw Daniel get out of his car and saunter toward the entrance, bright Hawaiian shirt easy to track. He moved like a man without a care.
Go after him here? Not ideal. There were too many people about, too many prying eyes. Probably some security cameras inside too. Belinda killed the engine and leaned back. Daniel wasn’t going anywhere without his car. She’d wait, then follow him somewhere she could approach him alone. She eyed the people walking in and out: a mother with a kid, a couple of teenage girls, a well-dressed man moving lightly. Belinda squinted. Was that—
She snatched up the gun and threw open the door of the van.
5
Bennett walked quickly, but not so quickly anyone noticed. The gate to the Farmers Market was open, throngs of people inside, and Daniel Hayes had strolled in like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Asshole. Every cop in the state looking for him, and here he was in a populated place. If someone recognized him, it was game over.
Ah well. The soul of tactics was flexibility in your approach to a goal. The best chess players saw the whole board fresh every move, and reacted accordingly. Which was why he’d figured that even if Sophie wasn’t
lying to him, she was still worth watching, and that had paid out. He’d just have to adapt again. Follow the guy, lure him out of sight—the man didn’t know what he looked like, after all—and take him.
Then go somewhere quiet and convince Daniel to give him what he wanted.
He stepped inside, past a toy store, a T-shirt place, a churrascaría. Bennett slipped through the crowd, looking for his man.
5
Daniel’s palms were wet, but he made himself move slowly, not turn around. This would only work if the guy didn’t think he’d been spotted. Daniel was willing to bet that he wouldn’t last long in a fair fight.
So don’t fight fair.
He took a quick lap around the market. Rich smells came from every direction, dizzying in their variety, salsa verde overlapping chocolate; caramel corn battling roasting beef. The sun slipped through gaps in the canvas tents. At a nearby bar, a group of men exploded in laughter.
There was a place that sold sunglasses and jewelry, and he stopped, pulled a pair of shades off a display, tipped them way down his nose and looked in the tiny mirror. Over his shoulder, men and women of all ages moved through the aisles. A lot of them wore baseball hats. Damn. He put the sunglasses back on the rack, kept moving. He needed a quiet place, somewhere away from all these crowds.
He started working his way to the outskirts. Glancing at every man he passed, wondering which one was the killer. The Mexican with the tattoos? The dude in the suit? A short, ripped guy wearing a Dodgers cap? It could be any of them. Be cool. He won’t make a move on you in this crowd.
He hoped that was true.
5
Belinda had sprinted across the parking lot, going for a gate a little farther down. No point coming in right behind Bennett. “Excuse me,” she said, nearly knocking over an aproned man with pork- chop jowls. She stopped at the corner of a barbeque place on the east patio. Plastic tables and chairs, the sweet smell of garbage, the closed-in feeling of tent shadows. No sign of Daniel, but she saw Bennett moving west, and mirrored him one aisle over. The gun tucked in the belt of her jeans chafed her belly.
A deli, a candle store, an aromatherapy place. It was crowded, and she couldn’t see Bennett. Was she reading him wrong? Maybe he was just following Daniel, making sure the man didn’t vanish.
