Nicole headed straight for the short-term rental she’d arranged the day before. She’d looked at some online rental sites, not expecting to find much available for immediate occupancy. But she’d found something right away—a furnished, one-bedroom condo that was attractive and just a few blocks from her office. She’d taken it immediately, paying a week in advance. From the empty state of the closets and dressers, she concluded that no one lived here. Someone had invested in it for the rent it would pull in—$150 a night.
She still hadn’t heard from Josh. It was hard for her to accept the idea that he was finished with her. Or was he was simply doing what she’d asked, thinking things over?
There were moments when she thought about what Steph had said. In a year or two, after the blush of romance had worn off, would she feel trapped in the quiet life Josh wanted? His love and companionship, motherhood, a career doing corporate investigations—would this fulfill her? She had no idea.
Before work, she’d been to the grocery store to stock up. The apartment came with linens, dishes, pots, and pans. Now, it was just past 1:00. All she had to do was unpack and put her clothes away. She could do that later. Instead, she decided, she’d head back to the office for the remainder of the afternoon. She didn’t want to be here with time on her hands to think about her fight with Josh and what it meant for the future.
She arrived at the new rental, parked in front, and got her suitcases out of the trunk. She bumped them up the short flight of steps to the front door, let herself into the lobby, and pressed the button for the elevator. She got off the elevator on the second floor, approached her apartment, and parked the suitcases next to the wall so they wouldn’t topple over. Then she got out her key and unlocked the door. As soon as she stepped inside, she sensed something was off; someone was here. She took several steps back, getting ready to retreat when a man—a very big man— appeared in the kitchen doorway. It wasn’t his size that frightened her as much as the grotesque mask he was wearing. It covered his entire head and looked like a cartoon rendition of Munch’s painting The Scream. She turned and ran.
The man was fast, almost upon her before she’d taken more than half a dozen steps. She grabbed the handles of her suitcases, still standing at attention in the hallway, and thrust them in his path. He hadn’t been expecting this, and he probably couldn’t see much through the eyeholes of the mask. He tripped over the bags and went down with a crash. While he was getting up and shoving the suitcases out of his way, Nicole ran down the hall. Her heart was soon pounding in sync with the heavy footsteps behind her.
Just then a door opened at the other end of the hall. The masked man stopped and looked around. Nicole ran even faster, aiming for the stairwell. She was surprised to find her purse still on her shoulder. She reached in and dug around for her can of pepper spray.
The door down the hall slammed shut. By now Nicole had the spray in her hand. She risked a look behind. Beyond the man, the hallway was empty. Whoever had opened the door must have seen what was happening and decided to retreat.
She started running again, but he was too fast. Only moments passed before he grabbed her by the shoulder. She swung around and squirted the grotesque face with pepper spray. To her dismay, the spray liquefied when it hit the mask and ran down the slick plastic. But some must have made its way through the eye holes, for the man stopped and screamed, putting his hands to his face. Now free, Nicole hurled herself forward. Reaching the stairwell, she bolted down to the lobby and out of the building. She heard sirens as soon as she emerged from the front door. Two police cruisers pulled up. Nicole looked back into the lobby. Her pursuer was nowhere to be seen.
A policeman with a ruddy complexion and a shock of white hair introduced himself as Officer Greg Nielson. Nicole explained that she’d opened the door to her apartment, found a man waiting for her, and had been forced to flee.
“We’ll take a look,” Nielson said. Three of the officers started searching the building while Nielson accompanied Nicole up to her apartment. The suitcases were sprawled in the hallway. “Wait over there,” he said, directing her to a spot about six feet from the door. He pulled out his gun and, holding it up as if to shoot, went inside.
A short time later, he was back. “The place is empty. Whoever it was is gone.”
“When he started chasing me, I heard someone open a door down the hall.” Nicole pointed toward where she’d heard the door open. “The guy in the mask stopped and looked around. I kept running, but I heard the door close again. Maybe whoever lives there saw us and called 911.”
Nielson went down the hall, knocking on doors and shouting, “Open up! Police!” Before he got to the last door, it opened, and an elderly woman appeared.
“Oh, officer, I’m so glad you’re here.” She was breathless, as if she’d been the one running. “I’m Eleanor Poole. I saw this young woman being chased by a madman wearing one of those hideous Scream masks, as if the painting isn’t frightening enough. I went right back inside and called 911.” She turned to Nicole. “Are you all right, dear?”
“Thanks to you, I am. I think you just saved my life.”
“Did you see anything else?” Nielson asked.
“I did,” Eleanor said. “Just after I heard your sirens, I went to look out the window. I’m on the side of the building, you know, so that’s the view I get. I preferred a place that isn’t on the street. So much noise!” She paused, as if she’d forgotten where the conversation was headed.
“What did you see out the window?” Nielson prompted.
“Oh, yes. The man in the mask ran by, heading for the back alley. He turned left.”
Nielson pulled a communications device with an antenna off his belt. He radioed his teammates to tell them which way the man had gone. He thanked Eleanor and accompanied Nicole back into her apartment.
Neilson closed the door and gestured toward the couch. They both sat down. “Do you have any idea who the intruder might be or why he might want to harm you?” he said.
Nicole explained about the trial, her role as a witness, and what she’d found out about Andrew Drummond. “You can see he wouldn’t want me to testify. If he’s the one who killed Mary Ellen Barnes, he’d want to shut me up. Obviously, I couldn’t see his face. But he was really tall and muscular like a football player, which is what Drummond is.”
“When are you going to testify?”
“In two days.”
“We need to make sure you have protection,” he said. “I’m going to call the station and alert them.”
He made his call and gave a very brief description of Nicole, just her name, and the trial she was part of. After that, his side of the conversation became “Uh-hum” and “Yes, sir.”
After Nielson hung up, he said, “You can’t stay here. We’ll put you up in a hotel or motel, depending, and you’ll have to stay off the grid. You’ll have an officer with you at all times until after your court appearance. You have a smart phone? Turn it off. Otherwise someone could use your GPS to track your movements.”
Nicole pulled her phone out of her purse and looked at it. “First I have to tell the lawyer who’s handling the case that I’m being intimidated as a witness.”
Nielson nodded his head in agreement. “Go ahead. I have to make a call myself. Nicole went into the bedroom, closed the door, and dialed Sperantza. To her surprise, she got through right away. She told him about the man in the mask and the policeman’s offer of protection.
“Tell him ‘no.’ We have our own security service. Nicer accommodations, better trained personnel for this sort of thing. But the police are right. You can’t stay in that apartment, and you do have to turn off your phone and stay off the grid until after your testimony.”
“What then?”
“Once you’ve testified, I can’t see this guy as a threat to you. We’ll wait and see what develops. If it is Drummond, he may very well be in custody by then. I’ll call the security service right away. They should have someone there within th
e hour. Give me your address.”
“I don’t want to turn off my phone. What about my sister? What about work? What about my fiancé?”
“Call them now and explain. Leave a message if you must. Then turn your phone completely off and leave it that way. Oh,” he added, “and make sure the police stay with you until our security arrives.”
Nicole told Officer Nielson that she’d decided to use the security the attorney was willing to provide.
“Your choice,” he shrugged. “When will he be here?”
“In about an hour. The lawyer wanted you or another officer to wait with me.”
He glanced at his watch. She could see his hesitation. “It would be easier if you came with me. I’ll drop you at the station. You’ll be safe, and your bodyguard can pick you up there.
She made another call to Sperantza to rearrange the pickup. On their way out, Neilson picked up the suitcases, still sprawled in the hallway. He took charge of them until they reached the patrol car, when he put them in the trunk. Neilson’s fellow officers had disappeared in pursuit of Drummond, so it was just Nicole and Neilson on the ride to the station. She took advantage of the time to call her office, then her sister, to explain why she’d be out of touch for a few days. She couldn’t bring herself to call Josh’s cell. Part of her feared he wouldn’t pick up when he saw her caller ID. Or maybe he’d answer, listen to her story, and say, “I told you so.” There was also the possibility that he didn’t care that she was unreachable because he had no intention of calling her.
After some thought, she called their home phone and left a message on the answering machine. She simply said she’d be out of touch for a few days without explaining why. She managed what she hoped was a cheerful tone, as if she were looking forward to the next few days and wasn’t upset that he hadn’t called her.
By now, the squad car had pulled up in front of the Wilshire Division station, an undistinguished building of red-and-beige bricks. Nielson pulled the suitcases out of the trunk. Nicole wheeled them up to the station while Nielson waited in his squad car. She opened the front door and turned to wave at him. He waved back and sped away, lights flashing.
Inside she found people waiting—some standing against the wall, some seated on crowded benches, and a few sitting on the floor. Most of them looked poor and unhappy, here for reasons every bit as fraught as her own. One of them, a Latino in a straw hat and sweat-stained T-shirt, got up from a bench and offered Nicole his seat. She thanked him but refused, pushing her suitcases against the wall so she could half-perch, half-lean against them. She kept her eye on the front door, watching for the man who would whisk her away from this corner of purgatory.
Thirteen
Nicole waited the better part of an hour. Occasionally someone would walk past to be admitted through a gate that led into the police station proper. This, she imagined, contained offices, interrogation rooms, and perhaps a lockup. Those gaining admission were generally cops, uniformed and plainclothes, sometimes accompanied by a “civilian” in handcuffs. None of them glanced at the waiting crowd. No one at the desk called a name, nor did any of those waiting approach the gate. Occasionally one of them would go up to the desk and ask a question, but they were soon back waiting.
At last a man who stood out from the law-enforcement types walked in. He was tall and nice-looking with bright blue eyes, close-cropped dark hair, and designer stubble. He was wearing a navy sportscoat, tan slacks, and a pale blue shirt. His brown, oxford shoes were shined to a high gloss, and the bulge under his jacket was unmistakably a gun.
He stopped in the middle of the room and scanned the assembled crowd until his eyes rested on Nicole. “Ms. Graves?” he said.
Nicole got up, grabbed the handles of her suitcases, and headed toward him. He pulled out a card, which read, “Timothy Harris, Innovative Solutions Security,” and handed it to her. While she was examining it, he reached for her bags and picked them up. “I’ll be looking after you the next few days,” he said in a low voice. “The car is in front.” With that, he turned and headed for the front door, expecting Nicole to follow. The car was a generic gray sedan. It looked new. He opened the passenger door and waited for her to get in before putting the bags in the trunk and settling into the driver’s seat. He was silent as he turned south on Fairfax and eventually joined the flow of traffic heading east on the Santa Monica freeway.
“Where are we going?” she said.
He looked around as if he’d forgotten she was there. “The Omni Hotel. It’s near the criminal courts building.” He fell silent again, concentrating on his driving. Nicole kept a firm grip on the armrests while he darted in and out of traffic lanes, cutting in on other drivers who honked in protest.
At last they exited the freeway and, barely slowing, screeched around a couple of corners until they came in view of a large L-shaped high-rise. Except for the rounded canopy over the entrance, the hotel’s exterior was unadorned. Timothy drove into the crescent driveway, pulled Nicole’s suitcases from the trunk, and left the car with the valet. The two of them walked into the hotel.
Inside, the Omni’s decor was a far cry from the casual vibe of the Windward, where Nicole had stayed with Mary Ellen. The front door led to a giant reception hall with a cathedral ceiling. The room had no reception desk or seating for guests, just a gigantic arrangement of exotic flowers on a large glass table. On either side was a column flanked by a potted palm and a brass-railed staircase leading to an upper floor. Nicole paused to take it in, then rushed to catch up with Timothy, who was pulling her suitcases through a doorway to the next room. Here a wood-paneled reception room featured a check-in counter, concierge desk, and bellmen.
After Timothy checked in, he led Nicole to the elevators and up to the twelfth floor; he used his key card to open the door to a suite. Nicole looked around. The living room was furnished in expensive-looking, dark-wood furniture. Deciding to explore, she opened a door that led to a large bedroom. It featured a king-sized bed, a flat-screen TV, and a corner fireplace, not that she was likely to use it when the temperature outside was eighty degrees.
She was looking out the window when Timothy tapped on the open door and rolled in her suitcases. Without a word, he parked them by the closet and left, closing the door behind him. Nicole turned back to the window. It furnished an aerial view of downtown L.A.’s four-level freeway interchange, nicknamed “the stack.” It was 5:00, and rush hour was well underway. Cars were crawling along, bumper-to-bumper in both directions.
She peeked into the room’s white marble bathroom, then made her way down the hall to a second bedroom. Was this where Timothy would sleep? It was considerably smaller than her room, and there was no sign of occupancy. Thinking back, she remembered he hadn’t brought in any luggage but her own.
She ended up in the living room where Timothy was perched on a chair next to the front door. She felt his eyes on her as she returned to her room, but neither of them spoke.
Nicole closed her bedroom door, turned the TV on to a mindless comedy, and lay down on the bed. She dozed off almost instantly. A knock at the door woke her. She got up and opened it, still a little groggy. Timothy handed her a menu. “It’s almost 8:00,” he said. “You might want to order dinner.” He went back to his chair, and she closed the door.
After a quick look at the menu, she called room service and ordered a club sandwich, a green salad, and half a carafe of Chardonnay. Then she turned on the TV. By the time her meal arrived, she’d watched the news and channel hopped until she came across a Seinfeld marathon, which she settled in to watch.
She was thinking of getting ready for bed when she heard the doorbell. She peeked out of her room. Timothy had opened the front door and was admitting a man with the same security-detail vibe. Spotting Nicole, Timothy said, “I’m leaving for the night. This is Henry Wynn. He’s taking over. I’ll be back in the morning.” Henry nodded in Nicole’s direction, and she nodded back before closing her door.
§
Her eyes popped open at 6:00 a.m., and she couldn’t go back to sleep. She was depressed by the prospect of a full day stuck in the hotel room until her court appearance on Thursday. She couldn’t use her cell phone; she had no Internet access and nothing to read. She couldn’t imagine spending the entire day watching TV.. Around 10:00 a.m., she changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt. Passing through the living room, she told Timothy, “I’m going down to the hotel gym for a run.”
“You’re what?” he said with some annoyance. “You’re supposed to stay in this suite where you’re safe.”
“I’m going crazy in here,” she insisted. “I need a run.”
“Alright,” he said grudgingly. “Hang on a minute.” He muttered to himself as he grabbed his coat from the closet and put it on to cover his gun holster. He waited outside the gym while she spent forty-five minutes running on one of the treadmills.
Back in her room, she lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. She was still upset about Josh. Had he gotten her message? Was he trying to reach her? With her phone turned off, she had no way of knowing.
She forced herself to stop obsessing about Josh and let her mind wander. One of the questions that still bothered her was why Don Slater, Sperantza’s investigator, had bailed on this case. She’d suggested things he should have looked into, but he hadn’t. He’d been so disinterested that he hadn’t even bothered to interview her. She didn’t imagine he could possibly have a connection with Andrew Drummond. That would be too wild a coincidence. Yet something was definitely “off” about Slater and his attitude toward this case.
If she had access to a computer, she could log into her company’s database and take a look at his background. That might shed some light on his behavior. It occurred to her that the hotel must have a business center with computers for the use of guests. She didn’t want Timothy to go with her, not after he’d been so unpleasant about her visit to the gym.
Liar Liar Page 17
