The police arrive silently, the whisper of engines and the soft fall of feet barely reaching me through the shroud of fear and regret that cloak me along with the soft blanket.
A woman crouches in front of me, bringing her dark eyes in line with mine. "Miss?"
I raise my gaze to her. She has an unlined face, almond-shaped eyes, and skin the same camel and gold as Jack's marble entry way. Her thick, black hair is parted in the middle and pulled back, simple and elegant, almost severe. However, there is a softness to her, sympathy in her gaze, as if she's been where I am. Or seen it enough to know the trap I've fallen into…there is no good way out of this one.
The pit I sit in is deep but also provides a kind of safety. What can happen to me now?
"Miss," she says again. I blink and give a small nod that I heard her. "My name is Maria. What's your name?"
"Which one?" My voice comes out gruff, as if there is sandpaper in my throat. As if I've been screaming for days. But the loudest sound was my heartbeat. Jack doesn't have a heartbeat anymore...
Maria cocks her head slightly. "Your real name."
"Stacy Melon is what my mother named me. Angela Daniels is my stage name."
She nods and looks down at Archie in my lap then over at the Oscar still gripped in my hand. A flash of light behind Maria draws my attention. There is a photographer standing over Jack, capturing him in death. The flash goes again, burning the image into my mind anew. The pale glow of his backside in the dark is joined by this new, stark image of bloodless skin under bright lights. I came here to be under the lights.
Now I'm deep in a pit. I shake my head and swallow. I don't want to be in a pit. I climbed out of one to get here and fell right back in. You're a slut. Grandma's voice seethes in my mind.
I'm a killer.
The truth vibrates through me, seeming to change my very cellular structure and reassemble me in some new way.
I return my attention to Maria. Is this the first time she's been called out to Jack’s house? Couldn’t be the first time she's seen this scene. It's a cliché. Not Jack's death, but the hungry starlet getting more than she bargained for…
There is a twitch of humor in my gut. This time the director got more than he bargained for. He thought I'd lie there and take it.
"He drugged me,” I say.
A man behind Maria answers me. “You sure you didn't just have too much to drink?"
Maria shifts, looking over her shoulder at the guy who spoke, a deep scowl darkening her face. The man is wearing a long overcoat—another cliché in a room filled with death. He's even got a fedora in his meaty fists. Where's his cigarette? Oh right—wrong era.
I meet his gaze. Smug assurance infuses him. He is a white man in a world controlled by men just like him. He is the law, the judge, and the jury. He is the ruler of this society, and I am a naked, beaten woman—hardly more than a girl. He knows me. He knows everything.
"I can handle my liquor," I say, swallowing away the gravel in my throat to speak clearly—to speak like a queen, a priestess—the only feminine energy in the world that can control men like him. "I drank one glass of wine. And I blacked out. Woke up with him on top of me. I fought him off. I didn't mean to kill him."
He sneers, this man who thinks he knows so much. "Pretty brutal."
"Yes," I agree, my voice strong now, accented with something almost English, certainly not a whisper of Southern or Western, which would hint at my true nature. "It is a brutal thing, trying to rape me like that." I hold his gaze, prepared to force him to look away.
I just killed one of you; I’m not going to back down from another.
Time ticks by. Maria looks between the two of us, and out of the corner of my eye I can see her lips twitching into a smile. Archie stirs in my lap, spinning once before resettling himself.
"Detective." A uniformed officer comes into the room, addressing my staring contest partner. His jaw clenches. I raise my brows and let the barest hint of a smile tug at my lips, which are still swollen from the rough kisses Jack forced upon them.
"You've got a call." The uniformed officer holds out a phone. The detective takes it and brings it to his ear, keeping his eyes locked onto mine.
We stand on our citadels, neither willing to climb down and fight in the mud.
"This is Jacobs." It's when he gets a response that the detective’s eyes blink and flick away, and he turns to step outside.
Maria is shaking her head, a smile on her lips. "You've got balls," she says.
"I'm an actor," I answer, letting honey coat my voice, making it thick and sweet and pretty. "I've got to have balls. And a lot more."
"You ask me, this is obvious self-defense." She says it low, like the truth might get us into trouble.
"Thank you," I say, allowing some of Stacy to slip into my voice, letting Maria know we are on the same side. I see her: we battle on the same field.
“Our photographer needs to take some pictures of you,” Maria says, her voice professional, the moment of intimacy gone.
I nod, and Maria waves the photographer over. The camera flashes; I don't meet the lens with my gaze. It cannot have me now. Take my body, take my wounds…but I will stay here at the top of my citadel. I may be covered in mud, but I am a priestess and a queen. A conqueror.
Pride flickers in my chest. I killed him. He tried to take me, and instead I took him.
I won.
Chapter Three
They don't give me my clothing back. Instead, Maria brings me a pair of what look like doctor’s scrubs. They won’t let me take a shower, either—just escort me down the hall into the kitchen.
Nancy makes coffee before retiring to her room, and Maria pours me a cup, adding cream and sugar.
The kitchen is large but clearly built for staff—this is not the casual dining space of a warm and loving home. The only table is small and pushed into a corner, out of the way, with only two chairs.
It's Nancy's hideaway. There are gossip magazines on a shelf under where her apron hangs. A flash of Nancy sitting where I sit now, leafing through those rags as she hides from the horror of her boss's proclivities, comes to me. How many cups of tea has she drunk while a woman fought in the other room? Or just laid there…asleep…while he…
My jaw clenches as anger cuts through me.
The door swings open, and that smug detective, Jacobs, comes in with another man. Tall and broad, with dark brown skin, closely shorn hair, and a walk that oozes confidence and power, his eyes land on me. This man is a knight, perhaps even a king.
I lift my chin and release the cup warming my hands, placing them on the table.
"Hello," the knight says, offering me a smile of greeting. "May I sit?" He gestures to the chair across from me.
I nod, and he pulls it away from the table to allow room for his long legs. "My name is Temperance Johnson."
"Temperance," I roll the word around in my mouth.
He gives me a half smile. "My mother was religious."
"Do you live up to your name?"
He gives me a shrug. "I do my best."
"All any of us can do," I say, just to keep the cliché theme of the evening rolling.
"You did pretty well out there." He nods his head toward the living room…toward the dead body.
Detective Jacobs waves for Maria, who’s leaning on the counter near me, to follow him. She glances back at me, giving me a look. I'll be right outside.
I nod back. I’ve got this, but thanks.
Temperance shifts in his chair to watch them go then returns his attention to me. He is relaxed and in no rush to get to his point. I sip my coffee, letting the sweet, milky brew soothe me.
"You've had some martial arts training for your most recent role, is that right?"
"Yes."
Temperance sits back in his chair, his broad shoulders eclipsing it. He's assessing me—I’ve seen it a thousand times. The way a man sits there and looks at me. Am I right for the role? But that doesn't really make sense h
ere. He must be wondering if I'm guilty or dangerous.
Temperance shifts slightly, his shirt moving with him. It's crisp and white—someone ironed it this morning. Was it him or a girlfriend…or a boyfriend?
“You’re special,” Temperance says, and my eyebrows raise.
“Special?” I ask, the word curling around my tongue.
“I'd like to work with you,” he says, leaning forward.
“Are you a director?” I ask, confused.
“No. I work for the government.” He says it quietly, almost like it's a secret.
“The government,” I mimic back. I’m a parrot on its perch, articulate yet senseless. Temperance nods, a small, quiet admission.
An air of secrecy floats around us. My gaze drops to where Archie lays curled up on my lap. There's blood under the nail of my pointer finger. They took the Oscar and put it in an evidence bag.
“What do you want me to do for you?” I ask, staring at my nails, those long talons of mine, painted a sweet violet to match my character. They are all rimmed with blood.
“You have access,” Temperance tells me, “and you can act.” He pauses so long that I look up. He holds my gaze. There are specks of green and gold in the brown depths of his eyes. “And you can kill.” A shudder passes over me, but I don't break eye contact.
“I’m not a killer,” I say, the defense sounding weak and strange. Why? I hadn’t made it believable yet. But I would. I'm an actor.
Temperance sits back, licking his full lips, and gives me that slow, secretive nod. “You killed in self-defense here.”
“Yes, of course it was self-defense. You think I planned this?”
He shakes his head. “No.” His voice is so deep, so brassy. He should be an actor. “But I think you could do it again under different circumstances.”
A harsh laugh escapes me. “Do it again? You want me to kill someone for you? I'm not an assassin. I just play one in the movies.” I quirk my lip into an ironic smile and raise my brows—trying to make this into a joke instead of a sick proposition.
“You're an actor. You're beautiful, and you have unique skills and access. I need people like you. Your country needs you.”
The laugh that comes out this time is almost hysterical. “Oh really, Uncle Sam?” I say. Archie pops his head up and looks across the table at Temperance. The small dog cocks his head, and the big man smiles at him.
“Cute puppy.”
I shake my head. “I want a lawyer.” For some reason that comes out shaky, like I'm some scared woman who needs protection. And I guess I do—from this man across from me and the system that empowers men like Jack Axelrod.
Temperance shifts again. He has the smooth, assured grace of a predator: fearless, capable, and deadly. “I work with a number of people in your field,” he tells me, his voice a deep resonance that touches something in my chest and vibrates there. “Your celebrity status and skills have great potential to enhance the safety of this country. We've worked with Hollywood for a long time.”
“Are you serious?” I ask, suddenly realizing this conversation isn't some joke or dream.
“Hollywood assets have a great history.” One side of his mouth twitches up. “We couldn't have won World War II without them. The assets who've worked with us are heroes.”
I'm speechless, shocked by his admission and invitation.
“We make all this go away”—he tilts his head slightly toward the mess in the living room—“and you continue your life.” He shrugs slightly. “Just helping me out every now and then.”
I stare at him for a beat. “How do you make this go away? How do you disappear a famous man’s death?” Temperance gives me a smile, a clandestine knowledge lurking behind it.
“You don’t need to worry about that. The less you know about it the better, really. You came here. You had drinks. Ate a nice dinner. Talked about the movie. And went home. And tomorrow on set you'll find out that he died. A tragic loss.” Temperance leans back in his chair, assessing me again. Am I right for the role? “I’m sure you can act that part, can't you?”
My head is nodding almost without my permission. The consequences of this evening had barely begun to penetrate, and now the idea that there could be none…
I can almost taste it on my tongue—the freedom this man is offering—but it has a metallic tang to it. The metal oil lingers in the air, as if with this freedom comes a set of chains.
“What do I have to do for you?” I ask. He gives another one of those slight shrugs. “I’m not an assassin,” I tell him.
His eyes flash green. “Not yet, anyway.”
A chill runs over me, raising goosebumps. I hug Archie closer, feeling the small warmth of him, the steadiness of his little heart behind his chest wall. “I’m not an assassin,” I say again, my voice strong.
Temperance shakes his head and sits forward as if I have misunderstood. “It would be unusual—very rare—for me to ask something like that of you. It's more about going to parties and telling me what you see.”
“You want me to be a spy?”
“A spy,” he says, rolling the word around in his mouth. He likes the taste. A smile blooms across his face—one that looks incredibly genuine. But I live in Hollywood. I work with the best. And I know that anything can be faked. “An asset,” he says. “Though”—another shrug—“we can call you a spy if you like the sound of that better.”
“I don't like the sound of any of it,” I say, sitting back into the chair, feeling the hard lines of it pressing against the raw burns from the rug. “How do I explain this?” I wave a hand up and down my body to the blooming bruises and the cuts and scrapes.
“We can make up a fender bender.” He nods, almost to himself. “That offers you an iron-clad alibi, too.” My eyes widen, and he goes on. “No one will suspect what happened. Why would you kill Jack Axelrod? The man offered you a bright future.” He says it like he's now the man offering me the bright future. I'm cold all of a sudden—so cold.
I killed him.
I killed the director of my freaking starring role. I mean, I had to. No, I didn’t—it was an accident. I try to think back to the moment when I grabbed that statue. I wasn't thinking of killing him; I just wanted to get him off me. I just wanted Jack to stop.
Some strange humor comes over me and a laugh tickles my gut, working its way up my throat until a strange and distorted sound escapes me…a sob? A guffaw?
Temperance cocks a brow.
My gaze drops to his chest—rising and falling the way chests do when a person is alive. I close my eyes as that strange laughter rises in me again. What is so funny about life and death?
The hysteria passes, and my eyes, damp with tears, open. Temperance is still there. I’m still in this kitchen meant for staff. A kitchen should be for family. There should be comfort here, but it’s all bright lights and hard stone, with a stove big enough to feed a soup kitchen but largely used for just one man.
The man I killed.
"Angela?" Temperance’s voice thrums low. "Can I drive you home?"
My leased Lexus, dark blue with tan leather seats, is parked out front. The payments, which six months ago felt like a burden, are now such a small portion of my pay that it's a miracle.
Mary Genovese is going to be upset if the truth of this evening comes out—dramatically so. Her tear-filled green eyes, thick mascara running down her cheeks, flash before my mind's eye.
The thudding of my heartbeat is suddenly loud. Am I going to accept Temperance's offer?
"What?" I'm not even sure what to ask. This feels like the wrong time to make a decision which will affect the rest of my life.
"I can answer any questions you have on the drive," Temperance says, standing. I stare up at him. He's tall and strong, his muscles moving smoothly under his suit jacket. Is he a spy? Of course he is—what a dumb thought.
"But, which agency do you even work for?” I ask, grasping the question out of the air, just one of many that float by me.
I nod, as if I can handle that. Which I so can't. I am the person who tells the waitress when she forgets to charge me for a glass of wine. I'm not a thief…or a killer. Certainly not a spy.
Temperance stands next to the table, waiting, as if my decision has been made. But I never said yes. That thought firms my will. "Just wait a second now," I say, pulling out an old character, a sassy hairdresser I played in high school. "You can't just say I'm going to work for you. I have to agree.” I meet his eyes. They grow shadowed and deeply, terrifyingly knowing.
"Say yes," he commands in a voice that brokers no argument. Not from me. But I’m not me right now. I'm a character who is brash and brave and takes no crap from anyone.
I stand, holding Archie tight to my borrowed scrubs. Reaching my full height, which without my heels is just barely to Temperance's chest—which is still doing that rising and falling thing—I stare up into his dark, knowing eyes.
"I just killed someone by accident. In self-defense. The fact is I've got nothing to be ashamed of. I don't have any reason to lie. I should tell the world what happened here. You have to know I’m not his first victim."
Temperance does not respond—not a twitch of a facial muscle. Not a hint of anything. He is a statue, as solid as the Oscar I used to bludgeon Jack to death.
"You can't make me." It comes out petulant, but I'm not backing down. I'm not walking off with this man—walking away from the truth and into the dark without a fight, without a decision on my part. I won't be walked into my future with a hand at my lower back.
"I can.” Temperance says it low, so low. "I can do anything I want."
I clench my jaw to keep it from trembling, seeking to cloak my shaking consciousness with sass. "I'll call the press."
He smiles, a glorious flash of white in a face so hard its relation to stone could be verified in a lab. "You’re stubborn. That's good. And..." He takes a moment to think, and I watch his eyes, hoping to catch some hint at his next words. "And brave. You're going to do well."
A Spy Is Born Page 3
