“My housekeeper knew for weeks that someone was sneaking alcohol to my father.” Margo bared her teeth. “I know you brought your flask to the mansion more than just once—and we both watched you pour the whiskey.”
“And I watched you carry it up the stairs, where anything might have happened to it.” Brand arched a brow. “That was weeks ago, Margo. If some kind of poison really did make its way into that glass, how do I know you didn’t put it there yourself?”
She blinked. “What?”
“If anyone was systematically poisoning your father, you were in a far better position than me to do it,” he went on, “and as the primary beneficiary of his estate, you had an excellent motive. Everyone knows you and Harland fought, that you resented—”
“Fuck you!” Margo shouted again—and in losing her composure, gave Brand his opening. With a series of swift moves, he twisted her hand free from his throat, jolted upright, and shoved her back. Stumbling over the plush carpet, she bumped against a chair, and tumbled into it.
“Now.” Brand smoothed his hair and shot his cuffs. “Let me tell you a thing or two, you spoiled little brat. I know you’re used to throwing your name around in this city, skipping lines and getting free things from brain-dead fashionistas, but the police don’t operate on your say-so.”
“You killed Win, too.” Margo was embarrassed by how close to tears she suddenly was. “And I’m going to find that nurse.”
“I’ll be impressed if you’re able to track down old Nina—and even more so if you can get her to talk. She wasn’t doing so well the last time I saw her.” He flashed a wolfish grin, and Margo felt sick. “In any event, you’ve recently come into a lot of money—”
“I already had a lot of money.”
“When it comes to wealth, there is no such thing as ‘enough.’ And it’s the first trail the police will follow.” Perching on the edge of the desk, he ventured, “On that topic, what do you know about dummy corporations and money laundering?”
Margo went stiff in her chair. “I’m sorry?”
“I’ll give you an example of what I’m talking about. Let’s say you came into a large sum you wanted to hide from the government. You could stash it in an offshore account, maybe a tax haven in the Caribbean, where they keep fewer records and have strict privacy guarantees.” He tilted his head. “By the way, didn’t you go to Saint Thomas last year for some sort of vacation?” Margo was silent, and he continued, “Anyway, the point of money laundering is to take ‘dirty’ cash and make it ‘clean,’ so you can spend it openly. The bank account is registered in the name of a corporation that only exists on paper, whose only asset is a second corporation that also only exists on paper, et cetera.”
“Where are you going with this?” Her voice was hoarse.
“I recently hired a forensic accountant to look into a few things,” the man replied, “and he found a business called the DALM Corporation, registered in the Cayman Islands.” He looked over at Margo, who was cold to the core as her darkest secret was dragged from its hole. “The curious thing is that DALM—which is owned by an entity that’s owned by an entity that’s owned by another entity—only has a handful of employees. And one of them is you, Margo.” She had nothing to say, so he went on, “It also employs an eighteen-year-old drag queen from Boyle Heights named Davon Stokes, a sixteen-year-old ballet student in Santa Monica named Leif Dalby, and your very own neighbor Axel Moreau.”
Margo tried to speak, but nothing came out.
“What a sad story, the Moreaus. Basil was a friend, in passing, and I know the litigation surrounding his case created a great financial hardship for Jacinta and the boys.” Brand fingered his necktie. “Quite a stroke of luck, then, that Axel got this amazing job with DALM. I understand he paid the tuition at Somerville for both him and his brother. And the family’s property taxes, and—”
“Just get to the point,” she whispered.
“When my accountant tracked DALM’s finances to a bank account on Saint Croix, I told him to stop looking. But I preserved all the records, and it would be very easy for me to interest the authorities in picking up where he left off, and following the rest of the trail. Especially if questions arise about Harland’s death, and your defense is that you ‘have plenty of money.’” He sighed. “Poor Jacinta. I can’t imagine how she would deal with her son being arrested so soon after her husband. It might even kill her.”
Margo could barely breathe. “You bastard. You won’t get away with this.”
“The thing about that is, Margo,” Brand said with a pleasant smile, “I already have.” Activating the intercom on his desk, he said, “Donna, Miss Manning is ready to leave, and would like it if two of our largest guards escorted her out.”
Margo had nothing to say—no snappy comeback, no brilliant counterattack, no gotcha loophole. He’d been ready for her. He’d been ready all along.
When the door opened and Donna reappeared with two burly, uniformed men, Brand flashed a broad smile. “Please make sure that Miss Manning leaves the building. Unfortunately, as she has no connection to the company anymore, I’m afraid I’m also going to have to insist that she not be allowed back on the premises again.”
“You’re a monster, Brand,” Margo said, rising to her feet and heading for the door under her own power, wanting to at least claim that much dignity in defeat.
“Of course. Thanks so much for the lovely visit.”
The guards took her by the elbows and led her away like a criminal.
* * *
Back in the car, she cried—out of rage and impotence—until she was exhausted. Until her body wouldn’t do it anymore, and her life kept going, whether or not she cared. Being ejected from a building with her name on it was surreal, but being cornered and taunted by Addison Brand was an ugliness that would never wash clean from her memory.
For a while she listened to the sounds of Los Angeles, just breathing and wondering where she fit into it anymore. Absurdly, it was one of Brand’s least offensive remarks that she couldn’t stop hearing. I know you’re used to throwing your name around in this city. The thing is, she was: Her name opened doors, it got people talking or it shut them up, it made things easier; but in a flash, almost everything she counted on had been taken away, and her future now depended on the mercy of silence from her father’s killer.
A decision was elbowing its way to the front of her mind, and before she could face it, there was someone she wanted to see. She sent him a text, asking where he was, and the answer was cryptic: Heading for the Colorado Street Bridge.
She replied in punctuation:?????
Don’t worry, nothing dire!
I need someone to talk to, she wrote.
Dots bubbled on her phone, disappeared, then reappeared.
Be on Arroyo Blvd just north of the bridge in 45 min. Leave the car running.
32
Built in 1912, the Colorado Street Bridge was a notorious span in Pasadena, stretching across LA’s Arroyo Seco at a length of nearly fifteen hundred feet. It was known for its decorative arches and railings, its pendant-style streetlamps, and for the number of people who had used it as a means by which to end their lives. Margo felt something cold and tight squeezing her innards the entire drive there.
When she arrived, a black Jeep was already idling at the curb. There was nothing legal about stopping on this stretch of the boulevard, and as she opened her door and stepped out, Margo wondered what she’d been invited to attend. A guy with a ponytail, maybe twenty years old, stood by the other vehicle with an apprehensive air. When he saw Margo coming, he did a double take.
“Holy shit!” His eyes widened. “You’re actually Margo fucking Manning!”
“That’s my middle name,” she returned, “don’t wear it out.”
“He said you were coming, but we all thought he was fucking with us,” the guy elaborated, still staring as she approached. “Like, he told us he knew you, and we were—”
“Where is he?”
Margo turned, following the line of his arm, and gazed up at the expanse of the bridge. A barrier had been erected at street level to discourage people from making the fatal leap into the arroyo, but four individuals—two boys, two girls—had somehow made their way through it; and, with packs strapped over their shoulders, they were getting ready to jump. On the far right, Dallas Yang waved down at her.
Her heart lurching, she shouted, “YOU’RE GOING TO DIE!”
“Way to be supportive,” the boy murmured, and she whirled on him.
“What is that, a hundred and fifty feet? He’ll hit the ground in about three seconds!”
“He’ll be fine.” The guy was unconcerned. “It’s a static line. There won’t be any freefall.”
“He could still break an ankle—or a leg, or his spine.”
The guy shrugged. “He’s done it before.”
Anxiously Margo turned back to the bridge, vertigo sweeping over her as she watched the four figures tense; they were close enough to the ground that she could hear them counting down.
And then they jumped.
Four cords, clipped securely to the antisuicide barrier, went taut instantly, ripping the deployment bags clean from the jumpers’ packs. Their chutes unfurled almost instantly, spreading like wings against the bright winter sky, but the fall was shockingly fast anyway, and the landing rough; Dallas hit the ground feetfirst and then rolled across the pavement.
A car sped under the bridge and came to a screeching halt as it encountered the group, horn blaring, and Dallas scrambled upright. Gathering his chute and taking off at a sprint, he shouted, “Go, go, go!”
The blond boy leaped into the Jeep, and Margo reacted instinctively, diving behind the wheel of the Mini. Dallas barely made it into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut as she pulled away from the curb and gunned the engine. “Where am I going? What the hell is happening?”
“Head for Eagle Rock,” he said breathlessly. “There’s an army reserve base just south of here, and they’ve reported us before. We have to ghost before the cops show up.” She stepped on the gas, the tiny car showing amazing pickup, and as she made a sharp U-turn he added, “Thanks for the getaway.”
“You know,” Margo said, racing back south, “most times, when a girl texts a boy and says ‘I need someone to talk to,’ she doesn’t mean ‘please embroil me in a high-speed escape from the police.’”
“Lucky for me, I’m cute?” He turned a toothy grin her way, and Margo rolled her eyes with a smile. Dividing her attention between the road and the rearview, she slalomed through traffic and negotiated the looping turns onto the 134, grateful for the distraction.
* * *
The address he gave led to an apartment building off York Boulevard, two stories of bleached stucco and red tile, with a fat palm tree dying in the front yard. Dallas guided Margo to the second floor, where they walked into an apartment that smelled of pot smoke and stale pizza. A deflated blow-up doll—tacked to a cardboard cutout of Han Solo—greeted them just inside the door.
“I … didn’t know that was going to be here, I swear,” Dallas said.
Margo looked around. “I’m glad I never tried to picture where you live, because I couldn’t have done this place justice.”
“Oh, this isn’t my apartment,” he said hastily. “My place is way more disgusting than this. A couple of my buddies live here, but when I told them Margo Manning wanted an audience with me…”
“I guess my name still opens doors in this town after all.” She meant it to be a joke, but it didn’t come out right.
“You look, um…” Dallas stopped and then laughed a little. “I don’t really know what to say. I’m not sure where we left things, and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“It’s okay. There’s a lot of stuff I’m not really sure of right now, either.” She kept her eyes on the floor. “I’m sorry about Win. I should have called or something, but…”
“No.” His affable expression fell. “I should have called. First your father, and then this?” Dallas shook his head. “Things have just been so intense lately—the cops asking me all these questions because I was his intern, my mom grieving for her mentor—and I guess it hit me kinda hard, too. I mean, I just jumped off a bridge, right? How Psych 101 is that?”
“Flirting with death?”
“Feeling alive.” He crossed into the narrow kitchen, opening the fridge and pulling out a bottle of beer. “You want?”
“Is there anything stronger?”
He poured them shots from a plastic jug he found in the freezer, and she shuddered when it went down. Taking the glass from her, their fingertips touching, Dallas set it in the sink. Softly, he asked, “Was that what you wanted to talk to me about? Win?”
“Yes,” she said. “But there’s more.” Margo twisted her hands together, not wanting to say the words aloud. “Dallas … I’m leaving.”
“Don’t go yet. I know this place is a dump, but you—”
“Not the apartment. Los Angeles. And I’m not sure how long I’ll be away. Maybe … maybe a really long time.”
“Oh.” His eyes fell away from her face, and he reached back into the sink, setting the shot glasses on the counter again.
“I’m going to Italy, to stay with my mom,” Margo went on, babbling about the decision she’d come to in the car, while he retrieved the vodka from the freezer and poured them another round. “She probably won’t be wild about the idea, but we’re good at avoiding unpleasant subjects.”
He handed her the shot with a sad smile. “Well, salute. Italy sounds … great.” They drank, and he took the glass again, their hands lingering together this time. “I’m probably an asshole for thinking of myself at a time like this, but I wish you weren’t going.”
“I wish I wasn’t going, too.” And Margo burst into tears. “It’s just … too much. There’s just too much! My dad is gone, I can’t go home, my life is crashing and burning and it feels like every choice I make blows up in my face—”
“Hey.” Dallas put his arms around her, letting her cry against his chest, her head tucked beneath his chin. “Maybe getting away for a while isn’t such a bad idea. They say that when you lose someone special, you need to rearrange the furniture. Makes things ‘new’ again, and gives you kind of a fresh start. Keeps you from being weighed down by sad memories. Maybe that’s what you need—some time away to get your heart back together.”
“Maybe,” she mumbled, unable to explain even a tenth of what lurked behind her outburst. Unable to explain that this flight was as much to outrun Petrenko as it was to outrun grief and shame. Instead, she pressed her cheek against Dallas’s chest, feeling his solid warmth, breathing him in as she regained her composure. Margo let her arms find their way around his waist, and she felt him still. Tilting her face up, she murmured, “Do you remember what I said the other night? About knowing what I want, but not thinking it was such a good idea?”
“Yeah.” His eyes were soft and warm. “I remember it pretty well.”
“I’ve had time to think, and I’ve changed my mind.” She moved closer, her hands climbing his back. “I’d really like you to kiss me.”
Dallas emitted a nervous chuckle. “Oh boy, I, uh … I want to. In fact, I want to so much that I kind of need to, um—” He offered an apologetic wince, shifting his hips a little while discreetly adjusting himself. “But I think we shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I remember all the other things you said, too,” he answered. “Because right now, neither of us is making the best decisions. In case you forgot, I literally just jumped off a bridge.”
“And if your chute hadn’t opened, you’d be dead,” Margo added. “And if you’d jumped a second later, that car might have hit you. If these past weeks have taught me anything, it’s that sooner or later we all run out of time.” She stepped back, untucking her blouse. “Safe choices are fine, but if m
y clock hits zero tomorrow, I don’t want any regrets. I don’t know how long I’ll be in Italy, or what the world will look like when I come back; all I know is that we’re here now, and there’s no reason why we shouldn’t have what we want.”
“Okay, your argument is persuasive.” Dallas cleared his throat as she unbuttoned her top. “Very, very persuasive.”
“I like you a lot, Dallas. And if right now is all we ever get, I want to make the most of it.” She slipped her blouse off her shoulders, and stood before him in her bra, pulling the pins out of her hair and letting it fall. “Are you in or are you out?”
“Fuck it,” he said, yanking his shirt off over his head and flinging it into the dining nook, where it took out a pyramid of beer cans. “I’m in.”
He was on her in a heartbeat, their mouths colliding, his lips plush as ripe fruit; his touch sent goose bumps racing over her arms, and one of his hands—those hands—slid up her neck, his fingers finding pathways through her hair. In her head, she’d imagined this scene as a sweet and romantic goodbye; but instead her heart raced, filling her with hunger for more of him, and she dug her teeth into his flesh.
They kissed in a frenzy, backing into the counter and sending the shot glasses clattering into the sink, and he managed to unclasp her bra with one hand. She pulled it off as he shoved his shorts to the floor, and then her pencil skirt tore halfway up its seams as he lifted her off her feet.
* * *
The kitchen had been a disaster when they’d arrived, but was in even worse shape when they finally left. Her face was flushed, and his hair was damp at the temples with sweat; her skirt was ruined, and he’d been unable to find his underwear. He declined the offer of a ride home. It felt like the right time and place for farewell.
“No regrets?” Evening was coming down on LA, the sky hazy and pink behind him as he peered at her with an earnest expression.
“No.”
“I’m going to miss you.” He glanced back at the apartment building, his cheeks the same rose gold as the sunset. “I wish we’d recorded that. I think I peaked in there!”
Death Prefers Blondes Page 27
