Death Prefers Blondes

by Caleb Roehrig

  At first there was nothing but dead air, quiet stretched to the breaking point; then, just as she was about to disconnect: “Margo?”

  It was a man’s voice, the consonants soft and dull, and she glanced at the display. “Uncle Win?”

  “Margo.” His voice was choked with misery. “Sweet little Margo…”

  “I’m here, Uncle Win. What’s going on?” What the hell was going on? “Are you okay? You sound—”

  “I need to see you.” The words came out as one, rushed with an air of relief. “There’s something … I need to tell you something. It’s important.”

  “All right,” she said reluctantly. He was clearly drunk, and she wasn’t sure she was the best person to handle him in this condition. “What’s on your mind?”

  “No, no, no!” The man’s irritable growl was distorted by the car’s wireless sound system. “Not over the phone. I can’t tell you this over the phone! You have to come here.”

  “Now? Tonight?” Margo gritted her teeth. She was already on Wilshire, past the 405 and headed for the coast, and the attorney lived in the Hollywood Hills near Runyon Canyon. Even with no traffic at all, the drive would take over a half hour. “It’s after eleven, Uncle Win! I won’t get home until the middle of the night, and I haven’t been sleeping—”

  “I haven’t been sleeping, either, Margo,” he slurred morosely. “I haven’t been sleeping at all, and that’s why I’ve got to see you. That’s why it’s got to be tonight. It’s about your father, and…”

  Here he trailed off, mumbling something unintelligible. Margo slowed the car, hating that her curiosity was suddenly worth more to her than a good night’s rest. Hating that any excuse to avoid returning to the vast, climate-controlled emptiness of the mansion was appealing—even in the form of her plastered pseudo-uncle.

  “All right, you win.” She sighed. “Win wins again. I’ll be at your house as soon—”

  “I’m not at home. I’m at the office.”

  “The office?” She squinted at the display as if he could see her. “What—”

  “There’s something I need to show you here. Please hurry.” Then, in a small, sad voice, “Please come before I lose my nerve.”

  * * *

  Clive Winchester Martin kept an office in a narrow, three-story building on Canon Drive in Beverly Hills. It took Margo fifteen minutes to get there, and another fifteen to find a parking space several blocks away. She made the hike back past the bars and restaurants that remained open, conversation carrying to the sidewalk. LA was a city where you were never alone—unless your father had died, and you lived in his massive house all by yourself.

  Sandwiched between a hair salon and an art gallery, Win’s building stood out, a deco structure with Zigzag Moderne flourishes. His office was on the top floor, in the back, and Margo was just reaching for the call box when she realized the door wasn’t completely shut. That same prickling sensation swept up the back of her neck as she tugged it the rest of the way open and let herself into a silent vestibule with tessellated flooring, illuminated by lonely, jaundiced bulbs.

  There was an elevator, but she chose the stairs, some paranoid instinct whispering in her ear, telling her to be as quiet as possible. There was no reason for it, but a sense of uneasiness, of something being off, was caught on her skin like cellophane. When she stepped onto the third floor, a tiled hallway stretched out, light glowing through the pebbled glass of a door at the far end: Win’s. It was so quiet that even her softest step clicked like a castanet as she made her way along the corridor, and a bead of nervous sweat rolled down her sternum.

  The door opened onto a spare front area—a desk with a phone and computer, filing cabinets, a modest seating arrangement—and past it, through an open doorway, was Win’s office. She could see potted plants and dark windows, the glow of a lamp … he hadn’t reacted to the subtle click of the latch, or the hinges’ faint squeak, though. Maybe he was passed out.

  On the balls of her feet, Margo slipped inside, pulse jumping, that same voice telling her not to announce herself by calling out. She edged to the side, peering through the office door, a wide, mahogany desk piled with books and papers coming into view. And then she gasped, her heart catching fast in her throat.

  Win, seated in a high-backed chair, was slumped over the desk; and even from across the room, Margo could see blood pooling on the blotter beneath him.

  “Uncle Win!” She rushed forward, into an office full of crowded bookshelves and mismatched chairs, the close air thick with the nauseating reek of copper. Reaching his side, feeling for a pulse, her knees almost gave out when she found he was still warm. “Uncle Win? Uncle Win, are you—please talk to me!”

  Heaving him upright, his body too heavy and too light at once, a distressed sob erupted from her throat when she saw the blood that drenched his white dress shirt—pouring from a wound just above his heart. “Uncle Win…”

  His skin was gray, the muscles in his face slack, but his lips moved. “Margo…”

  “I’m here! I’m here, Uncle Win. Just hang in there, okay? We’re going to get you help!”

  “Margo…” His eyes fluttered open, unfocused. He peered at her, past her. “Margo, please…”

  “Don’t talk. Just save your energy.” Her hands shook as she fumbled with the phone on his desk, the console huge and covered with confusing buttons. “What … how the fuck do I use this?”

  “No, Margo, he…” Win was still trying to talk, his breath rattling, his eyes wider, imploring. “He … he…”

  “Uncle Win, tell it to the police,” she whimpered, a tear slipping down her cheek, time moving too quickly. “Just … how do I use this? How do I get a line out?”

  “He … he…”

  “He what, Uncle Win?” She finally exploded, another sob bursting out. “What?”

  His hand rose, trembling, a finger extended—pointing just over her shoulder. “He’s still here.”

  27

  Margo whirled around just in time to see the closet door—half-hidden behind travel posters and a potted ficus—burst open, and a man lunge out of it. Dressed all in black, his face hidden by a ski mask, a long, deadly knife glinted in his gloved hand. He ran at her from across the room, thrusting with the blade, and she just barely got her retractable baton free in time to parry the blow.

  She retreated a few crooked steps as the man spun around, slashing the knife at her face in a vicious backhand; blocking with the baton a second time, she moved in, hammering his nose with a palm strike and delivering a front kick to his breastbone with everything she had.

  The man hurtled backward, crashing into an antique lectern bearing up a massive legal tome, and blinked at her through the mask. Then he charged again.

  Margo’s blood rose, adrenaline pricking her fingertips as she fell into a ready stance. The man feinted and then attacked. Dodging a round kick and then a spin kick, she blocked another thrust with the knife. He tried to hook her ankle and she deflected, and then he tried to hook her knee. She blocked again and lunged, swiping with the baton—once, twice, the man ducking back clumsily; but with the third blow, he caught her by surprise. Seizing her wrist, he braced her arm and spun, hurling her into Win’s desk.

  She crashed across a pile of paperwork, an inch from the man’s spreading blood, and lost her grip on the baton. The masked man rammed an elbow into her face as she was straightening up, and white lights strobed behind her eyes as she staggered away, pain radiating from the bridge of her nose.

  He spun again, a booted foot flying at her temple, and Margo lurched even farther backward—nearly tripping over a wooden stool and colliding with a bookcase—the kick missing her by inches. The man danced on the balls of his feet, passing the knife between his hands, and then pounced.

  Tucking her foot beneath the stool, Margo kicked it up and snatched it from the air, meeting the knife when it plunged. Darting sideways, she blocked a thrust and a slash, metal thunking against wood. He spun—again—putting force
behind a backhanded swipe with the weapon, and this time the blade sank partway into her makeshift shield. Seeing her opening at last, she slammed a foot into his gut, wrenching the stool and disarming him.

  The knife clattered to the floor as the man reeled away, legs unsteady—and Margo went on the offensive. Tossing the stool aside, she advanced with a series of kicks and punches, driving him across the room until he stumbled into a locked display case full of Win’s prized first editions. With everything she had left, Margo spun backward and slammed her foot into the man’s jaw, driving his skull through the thick glass behind him. The pane exploded with a terrific smash, and the man dropped to the ground, out cold.

  Chest heaving, Margo fell to her knees, fighting air into her lungs. It took her a moment to regroup, sweat dripping off her chin, and then she peeled up the man’s ski mask with trembling fingers. His jaw was red and swollen, his nose bloodied, but he was no one she knew. Dark brows, pale skin, stubble—twenties or early thirties, but who was he to Clive Winchester Martin?

  His black sweater had ridden up, revealing a thick rectangle of folded pages pinned by his waistband, puckered by heat, sweat, and combat. She was just reaching for them when she heard a distant door banging open, and then the clamor of footsteps in the hall—multiple sets.

  On autopilot, obeying her instincts, Margo darted across the office, retrieving her baton. No matter who was on the way, police or more assassins, she didn’t want to deal with them; but there were only two ways out of the office—the door to the hallway, or …

  A damp breeze rushed in when Margo shoved open the window behind the desk, looking down into the service alley along the backside of the building. Three floors up, it was like the LAMFA job all over again, except without the safety of a zip line. There were no fire escapes or footholds—just a sheer drop, with a landing choice of either hard pavement or an open dumpster that could contain anything from down pillows to broken computer parts.

  And then the door crashed open, men trampling inside, and Margo’s decision was made for her. Rolling forward off the windowsill, her stomach lifted and her head swam when nothing reached up to greet her. There was a shout from behind, air whistling past her ears as she twisted her body and prayed she wasn’t about to land on a pile of glass and metal and diseased rats.

  The dumpster expelled a great whumpf when she crashed down, bags of cardboard, paper, and rotting food compressing beneath her weight. Her hip bounced off something hard, and a sharp object stabbed painfully into her shoulder, but she was already kicking free, already dragging herself out of the foul-smelling bin when the first of her pursuers reached the open window.

  There was another shout as she tumbled to the pavement, and then a sharp thwack just before something smashed into the asphalt beside her; Margo’s eyes widened at the sight of fragmented plastic, spreading liquid, and a feathered plume—and then she was on her feet, streaking for the mouth of the alley. Her hip ached and her chest burned, but a second later she was on the sidewalk, racing full tilt for her car.

  Her composure slipped as she ran, Win’s death sinking its claws back into her consciousness. A sob pulled air from her lungs and she fought it down, stumbling around a corner onto Dayton and limping for her BMW. In her mind, she kept seeing the red plume on the pavement, the shattered plastic … it was a tranquilizer dart. But why?

  Twenty paces from her car, she froze, something wrong in the air; and then a man—loosely speaking—stepped in front of her from behind a parked SUV. He had to be at least six foot seven, taller than Davon in heels, with a face like the front end of a battleship. Rangy and knotted with muscle, his eyes the frigid blue of glacial ice, he exposed a mouth of sharp, broken teeth when he spoke. “Miss Manning?”

  She had the retractable baton free in a second, but her hand shook, her energy at a perilous low. Using all her willpower to keep her voice steady, Margo snarled, “Step the fuck back, Lurch. I may look short to you, but that just means I’m closer to busting your kneecaps.”

  “It wouldn’t be smart of you to try.” He said it tonelessly, matter-of-fact, and a shiver ran up Margo’s spine when he showed her the handgun he gripped in one massive paw.

  “I’ve faced worse odds.” He was tall, sure, but that didn’t mean he could run. All she had to do was zigzag a bit and beat him to that twenty-four-hour café she’d passed. “Besides,” she added casually, because it couldn’t hurt to try, “your fly is open.”

  He looked down at his crotch and Margo spun on her heel, ready to sprint—and crashed directly into a second man she hadn’t even heard approach. This one’s eyes were dull and bored, and he was saying something, but she couldn’t understand him. Her ears were filled with static as the metal teeth of a stun gun bit into her neck.

  Her nerve endings screamed, her eyes rolled, and the night faded to black.

  28

  She had a dream that she was Ophelia, recently harvested from the brook, with flowers braided through her hair. A cart pulled her through town, her body resting on fine cushions, people watching as she struggled to wake. When the wagon stopped, she was lifted from her casket, and a group of veiled men gently lowered her back into the water. This time she sank, light fading as she touched the silt, content that at least it was all over.

  But somehow it wasn’t over. There was a sound—the quiet rumble of air through a vent—and a glimmer of pain snaked along her spine and into her limbs. With regret, Margo realized she was awake.

  It took several tries to force her eyes open, and a room swam into partial focus around her. With colossal effort she rolled onto her side. Her surroundings were austere and angular, and a wall of French windows offered her a view of a pool filled with black water. Beyond it, past the spiky heads of pine and scrub, the city flickered, a rolling pile of lights. A clock on the wall told her it was one in the morning—but where was she?

  With tremendous effort, Margo heaved her feet to the floor and stood. The room pitched like the deck of a ship as she crossed to the glass doors, and she braced herself against the panes. From the way Los Angeles spread below the terrace, and from the grand homes climbing the opposing ridge, she knew she was somewhere in the hills—and for just a moment, she let herself believe she was at Win’s house. But it didn’t last; she’d been to Win’s house, and it looked nothing like this. The view was all wrong.

  And Win was surely dead by now.

  A groggy but methodical search of the room revealed a door, an en suite bathroom, and a walk-in closet, but nothing resembling a weapon. The French windows, though locked, would be easy enough to shatter; when she recouped some of her strength, the nightstand would do the job nicely. But then … what? Roll down the hillside, screaming for help? Fall into a stranger’s backyard and pray she didn’t break her neck or get shot?

  She crossed to the door, wondering who had put her here—wondering what they wanted. Just for shits and giggles, she tried the knob, and was shocked to find she wasn’t locked in. Stepping cautiously into a dark and empty hallway, she followed haunting strains of classical music to a staircase and the lights of an upper floor.

  At the top of the steps, she passed slowly and quietly through a modern kitchen—empty; a dining room crowded with African art—also empty; and a vast living room where two wingback chairs faced a crackling fire in a stone hearth. Margo did a double take when she realized that, seated in one of the two chairs, was Reginald Castor.

  For a long moment she just stared, thinking she might be hallucinating, but then he looked up and noticed her. Inclining his head, he gestured to the other chair. “Margo, you’re awake. Please have a seat.”

  “Where’s my baton?”

  The man started in his chair. “That’s your first question?”

  “I don’t like when people take my things without asking.” She folded her arms.

  “It will be returned to you, I promise,” the man said. “You were quite agitated when you encountered James by your car, and it seemed … wise to disarm you until
we could talk.”

  “I don’t need a weapon to do damage, Mr. Castor,” Margo answered serenely. “They’re just more fun.”

  “No doubt.” He almost smiled. “James carries his gun because it intimidates people, but he, too, prefers to work without it. Isn’t that so, James?”

  “Yes,” came a soft voice from directly behind her, and Margo nearly jumped out of her skin. Whirling, she found herself face-to-face with the broken-toothed giant from earlier in the night. He was watching her like he hoped she’d try something. “That’s so.”

  “Please,” Castor repeated, “have a seat.”

  This time Margo took him up on the offer. Not just because of James, but because her head was still spinning. “What did you give me?”

  “A mild sedative. Nothing harmful.” A tray sat between them, bearing two glasses and a bottle of tawny liquid. He poured some for himself and took a sip. “I wanted to make sure that you didn’t wake up in the car and do something foolish that might put lives at risk. It’s very important that you and I have this conversation.”

  Margo was silent for a moment, and when Castor made to speak again, she held up a hand to silence him. “Hold on. I know a million ways I could tell you to go fuck yourself, and I’m trying to pick my favorite.”

  “Margo.” He set his drink down. “I realize you’re upset, but some very bad things are happening, and I—”

  “‘Very bad things’?” She cut him off with a mirthless bark of laughter. “That’s one way of putting it. Those were your men up in—” Her voice caught, embarrassingly. “Up in Win’s office?”

  “No.” His eyes never left hers. “They weren’t.”

  “I don’t…” Margo stared. “They were shooting tranq darts, and then you zapped me and drugged me. You want me to think that’s a coincidence?”

  “There were three visits to Winchester’s office tonight.” Castor produced a small notepad from a pocket in his blazer and began to read aloud from it. “At eleven thirty-four, a man dressed in black, approximately six feet, one-hundred-sixty pounds, bypassed the lock on the front door of Winchester’s building and let himself inside. At eleven thirty-six, before my men could decide if they should involve the authorities, a blond girl—identified by sight as Margo Manning—entered the building through the same entrance.”