Tess opened her mouth to protest.
But Bonny closed it for her with his next words: “I know about Pat’s dyslexia, or whatever it is, and I know it’s getting worse. It’s nice of you to cover up for him but it isn’t a help. Pat’s making noises about going to live with his daughter and I’m not going to discourage that. What do you say?”
“He’s not going to like it.”
“He doesn’t have a choice. I’ve made my decision. I hire you on to ‘learn the ropes’ with him, or I start looking for someone else, and Pat will be out sooner rather than later.”
There was nothing else Tess could say. She had always seen herself as a detective, had been one for four years before she had to leave Albuquerque. And she was good. A part of her wanted to show just how good.
Bonny said, “Besides, you remember everyone you meet and you can tell them what they ate and prob’ly even when they had their last poop. So congratulations, go out and paint the town.”
Tess permitted herself a tiny smile.
Until she realized she would have to be the one to handle Pat.
Chapter Twenty-Three
TALIA L’APEL POKED her head into Jerry’s study.
“I’m busy here!” Jerry Gold shouted. “I don’t need any distractions right now, especially since I’m trying to clean up your mess.”
Talia’s lips pressed together in a tight line. Talia, Queen of the Silent Treatment. Jerry could hear her moping from all the way across the room.
“Dylan’s here.”
“Oh, great. The one day he shows up on time. All right, I suppose I’d better see him. Give me a minute.”
“Fine. He’s in the foyer.”
“He didn’t see you, did he?”
“No, he didn’t see me.”
“Well, for God’s sake, have Delilah offer him something to drink and take him out by the pool.”
He had to tell her every little thing. For a girl with such sharp instincts for garnering publicity, Talia could be awfully obtuse about some things.
Like thinking.
She had people for that.
Had people. This week, Talia was flying solo.
The last couple of weeks she’d been hiding out here whenever she could slip the paparazzi. This essentially meant she’d left behind her stylist, her publicist, her hangers-on—all of them. She’d let it be known through her publicist that she had “gone into seclusion,” to prepare for her trip to Africa and her husband’s homecoming. Talia had used the “I’m a private person and need my space,” line, and surprisingly, people had believed it. She’d always been a convincing actress.
Everyone knew what a bad boy Max Conroy could be. Talia deserved all the sympathy in the world for helping to turn him around, and the public believed his domestication was almost complete. All he needed was the clean bill of health from the Desert Oasis Healing Center and a few happy photo ops with his loving wife and new baby.
Unfortunately for Max, that happy domestic scene would never take place.
Jerry wished he’d told Talia to stay away. Not only did they risk being caught out, but it played havoc with this thinking process. He didn’t want anyone around while he was in the planning stages. Talia was a distraction. But she’d worked so hard at dodging the paparazzi, he felt he really couldn’t say no.
Jerry needed more than a minute to get his mind out of the world he’d created in his storyboard.
He was serious when he told Gordon he wanted to do it his way. The other idea was too clunky, with too many moving parts—there was much more of a chance for something to go wrong. Gordon had done a beautiful job, sure—the scenario had a certain elegance. It was like a motion picture in miniature. But he didn’t quite trust Gordon’s ability to brainwash Max the right way. In fact, he didn’t know if brainwashing worked at all.
Jerry’s plan, on the other hand, was simple.
The kidnappers could go ahead and kill Max—as long as they didn’t do it on camera—but the body could never be found. That would add a new twist to the story. It would only enhance Max’s legend.
Max would join the disappeared. Like Amelia Earhart. You could always count on her to make money, even though her plane disappeared over Howland Island in 1937. Sometimes ambiguity was good—look at all the Elvis sightings.
They’d have to recover his body, though, with no one in the press being the wiser. And, they’d have to dissolve him in acid.
He could never be found.
There were problems with this scenario, of course. How would they recover the body before anyone else did?
Fortunately, Gordon’s go-to killer, Shaun, was in Paradox.
If Shaun could find the kidnappers—or at least find Max’s body—they could deep-six him in acid.
There would be problems with the estate, but in the long run, Talia would prevail. Especially if the paparazzi pushed the story of Max’s kidnapping. Fortunately, Jerry had made it his business to cultivate a few of the paps; he knew several who would do anything for an exclusive. He could leak that he was worried about Max, that Max hadn’t been seen, that he’d left the Desert Oasis Healing Center and walked right off the edge of the earth.
Both scenarios had their strong points, but right now, they didn’t have Max.
Jerry realized that they would have to come to a solid decision about this, sooner rather than later.
In the meantime, he needed to lay the groundwork for his new star.
“DYLAN!” JERRY BELLOWED, striding out from under the ramada. “So good to see you.”
Dylan Harris sat up on the diving board, looking sleepy. The young man looked like an ad in Esquire or GQ, stretched out and glistening on a white towel over chlorinated blue water.
Dylan Harris was ready for leading man status, yet still young enough to drive the tweens wild. Jerry had been cultivating him, a meeting or a lunch at a time, until Dylan began to see himself more as Jerry’s adopted son than just a client.
Jerry’s team had gotten Dylan some good parts, and Jerry made sure that the career arc made sense. Second to the lead, but enough breadth in some of the parts where you could begin to see Dylan taking on something weightier, like the character of Starker in V.A.M.Pyre. It would be a gamble, sure, but that was all part of the game—and Jerry loved the game.
Now, Jerry said, “Dyl, I’m glad you came by. I could use a sympathetic ear right now.”
“Hey, anything I can do. You’ve been so good to me.”
Jerry sat down on the end of the diving board. “It’s kind of…difficult. You can’t tell anyone.”
“Oh, no, I won’t.”
Jerry sighed and stared out at the Pacific, framed by the deep pink bougainvillea on the wrought-iron railing. “Things aren’t going well with V.A.M.Pyre: The Target. We haven’t even started production yet, and I’m worried that Max won’t be ready.”
Dylan stared at him. His eyes reminded Jerry of a wolf’s eyes, only sexier.
“I wouldn’t say this to anybody else. But I need to confide in someone, and you’re like a son to me.”
“I’ll help if I can.”
“I know that. Here’s the thing, Dyl: Max isn’t doing very well in rehab. I’m worried he’ll relapse the minute he gets out.”
“That’s too bad, sir.”
Sir. Dylan had been raised far from Hollywood, somewhere in the south. The kid didn’t even drink.
After dealing with Max’s issues, Dylan Harris was manna from heaven. “Frankly, I don’t think Max is up to it. All the pressure. I can’t help but feel he’s not going to be there on the fifteenth, when it’s time to plan the production.”
“Not be there? But he’s under contract!”
Gee whiz.
Jerry shook his head. “Contracts are meant to be broken, and this isn’t Max’s first rodeo.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Hope for the best, I guess.”
“Yeah.”
“There are morality clauses in the contr
act. Terrapin Productions could let him go. But the problem is, who’d replace him? I just can’t see a way out. I think of all those people, what would happen if we didn’t start on time. Of course, he might be OK, but it’s not like I have a Plan B.”
“That’s not fair,” Dylan said.
“No.” Jerry sighed. “Life is just not fair.”
He left it there.
He figured two or three more conversations and Dylan would be envisioning himself as the new Starker.
And as Dylan’s manager, Jerry would still be on top—the trifecta of the century. He’d have Max’s wife, Max’s estate, and manage the business affairs of the hottest new star in the business.
They just had to find Max, and make sure they buried him deep.
AFTER DYLAN LEFT, Jerry called Gordon for a briefing. Gordon told him just about what he’d expected: there was no word from the kidnappers. And no word from Shaun.
“What do you think is happening, Gord?”
“I have no idea.”
Jerry could see everything going up in smoke. “You never should have trusted that crazy bitch. Anyone with half a brain can see she’s stark raving nuts. How many women do you know wear a fricking fade?”
“She’s done good work before. She saved my life not too long ago.”
“She did? When was that?”
“Long story. A guy from the Russian Mafia was after me.”
“And she killed him?”
“You don’t want to know, Jer. All I can say is, the Russian Mafia left me alone after that.”
Jerry absorbed this. She must be good. “But you said she has a kid with her.”
“He’s twelve, Jer. Not exactly a kid.”
“Not exactly a kid? I’d say that’s a kid. What’s the story there?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I think she adopted him.”
“Adopted him. A lesbo killer like that? Can you see her going to an adoption agency and copping herself a twelve-year-old kid? What did she do? Steal him from someone?”
“Does it matter? She’s good, Jerry. You don’t have to worry about that.”
But Jerry worried. That was what Jerry did.
Chapter Twenty-Four
MAX MADE IT over the scrubby hill and out of sight of the house, leaning against a boulder in the sketchy shade of a mesquite tree. He thought about Corey again. Corey was wounded and had lost some blood. Maybe a lot of blood. What if the woman and the boy found the bomb shelter? He could see Corey shooting off his mouth, maybe even trying to overpower them, and that would end badly for Corey. Not to mention Luther and Sam P.
What did he care about them? They were kidnappers.
He should put as much distance between himself and the woman and boy as possible.
Had Gordon sent the woman and the boy to get him?
That made no sense. The woman and the boy had shown up within a half hour of Max’s last call to Gordon.
No way they could have made it down from Sedona.
Unless…
Unless they were already here. Unless they were already looking for him.
But who sent them?
That was easy. Gordon or Jerry or both. First, they’d sent the two guys in the limo, the ones the deputy routed.
But why that strange-looking woman? Why a boy?
Max knew he was overthinking this. Go by your instincts.
His instincts told him that the woman and the boy were looking for him, and that they were far more dangerous than the guys in the limo.
His instincts told him that the woman and the boy were killers. And he knew, if the woman and the boy encountered Corey, Luther, and Sam P., there would be a firefight.
And he knew who would lose that fight.
Max took one of the prepaid phones out of its cardboard box, found the number of the Bajada County Sheriff’s Office by scrolling through Luther’s smartphone, and punched it into the prepaid mobile.
A dispatcher answered. “Bajada Sheriff’s Office, may I help you?”
“There are two people trying to break into a house on Ocotillo Road. It’s the last house on the left.”
“Can you describe the two people?”
“No, I’m kind of far away.”
“Do they have a vehicle?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Your name, sir?”
He disconnected.
“I hope they don’t shoot you guys,” he muttered as he started down the hill toward another settlement of houses.
They were small plots of houses, on a few acres, little ranchettes.
Everything was still and quiet.
Max knew how to hot-wire a car, but first, he looked for keys in the ignition. He knew from living in the sticks when he was a kid and, more recently, on his ranch in Montana, that people who owned ranch trucks often left them unlocked with the windows rolled down.
He got lucky on the second try. The key was in the ignition, and no one was around. It was an old Ford F-250. He put it in gear and drove onto the dirt road. Knew the neighbors would recognize the truck, but in this heat, everyone was probably indoors, sitting under the fans and hoping for a breath of air from their swamp box coolers.
As he reached the highway, he saw a sheriff’s vehicle pull off onto Sam P.’s road ahead of him. A male deputy, not the woman who had arrested him—the woman with the memory like a steel trap.
Max turned the other way.
THE SOUND OF the bullet smashing bone ricocheted in the bomb shelter like an echo chamber.
Sam P. dropped like a sack of grain, his right eye gone and the other one staring up at them in glassy dismay.
But Shaun saw Luther behind him, flailing on the floor, shrieking like a banshee.
Half his jaw was blown off. The bullet must have gone through Sam P. and hit Luther as well.
Jimmy looked down in wonder at the .45. “Cool,” he said in awe.
Shaun saw Luther enmeshed in his own gore, trying to pick up the part of his jaw he’d lost, blood pouring out of him like a leaky spring.
Shaun took the .45 from Jimmy and put one through the center of Luther’s forehead.
Corey was half yelling, half screaming—a string of profanities came from his filthy mouth.
Shaun aimed and shot, but there was distance and the angle—he was below them—and she missed. She shot again, hit his good shoulder, and it spun him around.
She shot him three more times, center mass. He fell forward, dead.
The stink was terrible.
Jimmy looked at her. “I thought you said just one.”
She shrugged. “I changed my mind.”
MAX DROVE OVER a low hill and saw a crossroad ahead. A car was parked about twenty feet back from the stop sign. He saw a woman and a girl standing on the far side of the car—they must be having car trouble.
“Freeze!”
Max sat bolt upright, his muscles locking, foot mashing down on the accelerator. The truck he was driving shot through the intersection.
He hit the brakes. Skidded to a halt, tires smoking.
Shaking, Max looked at the crossroad, now in his rearview mirror.
There was no car.
He leaned his body over the steering wheel. His mouth was dry and sweat poured down his face.
Gordon.
Gordon had done this to him.
Why, though? Because he could? Max had always thought Gordon was a pompous ass. A sociopathic pompous ass.
Max tried to picture the car he’d thought he’d seen, but couldn’t.
He sat in the truck, letting his heart rate drop back to normal, and then he started up the truck and pressed on the accelerator.
But the truck didn’t respond right away. There was a catch in the engine. The farm truck coughed and slowed. Max pushed the pedal to the metal, but it sank uselessly to the floor.
Out of gas.
Now what?
He was out of gas and hallucinating: just anot
her day in the life of Max Conroy.
He checked back in the rearview mirror—no car, just empty road.
He got out and started in the direction of town. He reckoned it would be three or four miles. He listened for the sound of a truck behind him—a new Chevy truck with a big engine. He didn’t know what he’d do if he heard it. There wasn’t much in the way of cover here. Just the empty road and some creosote bushes and a stunted mesquite or two. He scanned the roadside, back and forth, looking for cover, just in case. He’d have a little time. There were hills here, so he might not be in their line of sight.
He didn’t want to run into the woman and the boy.
After ten minutes of walking, he heard engines stressed to the breaking point.
Two sheriff’s cars shot over the rise, their wigwag lights blinking back and forth.
They blasted past him. He thought he saw the deputy, Tess, driving one of the cars, but wasn’t sure.
He watched them disappear over the rise. Two cars, added to the one that had driven by earlier. In a county this sparse, that could be the whole fleet. Where were they going in such a hurry?
But he knew. Something had happened back at the house. The deputy, the first one, must have encountered the woman and the boy. Maybe they’d shot him.
Whatever the cops found at the house, they would remember him walking along the shoulder of the road. She would remember him.
The deputy with the photographic memory would have him etched in her mind.
She would see the abandoned ranch truck too. She would wonder why the guys in the limo were after him. She would wonder what he was doing walking along the shoulder of the road in the middle of July with the sun beating down on his head, his shirt blotted with sweat and—yes—blood. She would wonder what was in the duffel he carried slung over his shoulder. The female deputy with the photographic memory would know the neighbor who owned the missing truck. The old brown Ford F-250. Of course she would.
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