Kate unfolded a flyer from her pocket and handed it over. “Her name’s Amber.”
“We’ll keep an eye out,” the driver promised.
“Thanks. One more favor. Could you keep that light on me till I get back up the hill? Just in case that man is still hanging around.”
“You got it.”
She ascended the slope, the beam spotlighting her all the way to the top. When she reached her Jag, the light winked out, and the radio car eased back onto the freeway. Kate slipped behind the wheel, the charm bracelet in her hand.
An hour, she was thinking. Just one hour sooner, and Amber would have been found.
“YOU mean,” Chelsea Brewer said, “you’re working with Swann?”
Farris pushed the gun’s muzzle through the grille, centering it on her chest. “To be accurate, he was working for me. But he didn’t carry out his instructions. So I’m here to get the job done.” He liked the sound of those words and repeated them. “To get the job done.”
It was easier to think of it that way, as simply a job to be carried out. No different from firing an unsatisfactory employee. A different kind of termination, that’s all.
“Because of Mila,” Chelsea said, grasping it at last.
“Of course, because of Mila. Nobody fucks with me and mine.”
He waited for her to whine and plead and say it wasn’t her fault. He would enjoy putting a bullet in her while she said that.
Instead, she simply lifted the poodle off her lap and set it down gently on the floor, taking it out of the line of fire. The dog never stirred. Farris looked closer and saw a gleam of wetness in the fur.
“Is that dog…?”
She nodded. “Dead.” She said it without emotion, but her eyes lowered, the lids fluttering. “Swann shot him.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. He opened the door and grabbed Chanti and…” Her shoulders lifted, fell. “Then he locked me in again. He’s still around. He’ll kill me, if you don’t.”
“Killing you is my job. I’m exchanging your life for Mila’s. You took her away from me, took everything away, destroyed my family, and I hate you for it.”
Now was the time for her to make excuses, but she only said, “I know.”
This wasn’t the answer he wanted. “And you didn’t even come to her funeral.” Distantly, he was surprised to be explaining himself.
“My mother made me stay away. She didn’t want me linked to it.”
“Because it would hurt your career.”
“Yes, I guess that’s right.” She sounded sorry, ashamed.
He felt a touch of sympathy and brushed it aside. “You know what I did after she was buried? I came home and checked the blogs that follow celebrities around town. You were out dancing. I followed your progress all night. You went from club to club.”
“That’s true, I guess.”
“You never gave a damn about Mila.”
“You’re right. I didn’t think about her.”
“I guess you’re proud of that,” he said, though there had been no pride in her voice.
“I’m not proud. I just…put it out of my mind. Like I couldn’t deal with it. I didn’t want to know.”
“Were you with her when she took Ecstasy that night?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.” He wanted her to be lying. It would be easier for him if she’d been with Mila, if she’d supplied the drug herself.
“I wasn’t with her. But if I had been, it wouldn’t have made any difference. I would’ve taken it, too.”
“Then maybe you’d be dead.”
“Maybe I would.”
“You should be dead. You deserve to be.”
“Probably.”
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t pull the trigger.” Still hoping to make her beg or bargain.
“I can’t. Except…I don’t think Mila would want you to.”
“It’s not about what she would want. It’s about what I want. About what you did. You have to pay. You have to.”
“Then do it.”
No challenge. If she had shown even a hint of defiance, he would have fired. But there was only resignation and blank despair.
He had come this far. Just one last step to take. He could do this thing. Of course he could.
It was only—he’d never noticed before—she looked like Mila. Something in the tilt of her head, the set of her mouth. How could he shoot her if she looked like Mila? How could he kill his own daughter?
Crazy thought. His daughter was dead, and this girl, this lying brat, had killed her. It should be easy to hate her. He’d hated her for months.
If only she would flinch or cry. If only she wouldn’t sit there primly, as if posing for a picture, her head tilted in that familiar way…
The decision was reached by his body before his mind had processed it. He saw his hand lower the gun. Saw his finger flick the safety on. Only when the gun was pointed uselessly at the floor did he allow himself to know that it was over, and conscience or cowardice had won.
“You goddamned bitch,” he whispered. “I wish…I wish…”
He stumbled out of the confessional. He looked up at the high stained glass windows, the colorful saints blurring in his tears.
He turned away from the windows, and Swann was there, watching him from yards away, a half smile on his face.
“Not so easy, is it?” Swann said.
Then all his hate found its object, and Farris raised the gun, released the safety, and fired twice at Swann, missing both times, and a purple cloud erupted in the darkness, a muzzle flare from the gun in Swann’s hand, and suddenly, he was weak, confused, and when he looked at his shirt, he saw something black and tacky like tar.
He went down on one knee. He tried to lift his gun again, but his arm wouldn’t operate. Then Swann was beside him, plucking the gun away and pushing him onto his back to stare down in triumph.
“You killed me,” Farris said, amazed.
Swann’s smile bloomed white and cruel. “Not yet.”
KATE called Carson Banning’s home number as she drove. It was a number she’d never dialed before, but she kept it stored in her phone just in case.
Four rings, five, and Banning’s voice came over her earpiece. “Yes?”
He sounded groggy, a man dragged out of sleep.
“Carson, I’m sorry to wake you, but I’d like to stop by.”
“Stop by?”
“Something’s come up.”
“Is it Amber?”
She caught the flash of panic in his voice. “Nothing’s happened. It’s not bad news. It’s just…I found something that might belong to her, and I need you to look at it.”
“Oh. Okay. You know where I live?”
“Yes. Ten minutes.”
She arrived at the house in Bel Air at three a.m. Though she had never been there, she knew the address. She didn’t even need to call Alan and have him look it up.
The house was gated, the upstairs dark, the ground floor glimmering with a few lights in the front windows. She was about to buzz the intercom when the gate retracted with a whir of gears.
He’d been watching for her. She wondered if he was nervous about having her there. Going to his home, after all, was a violation of their arrangement’s unspoken rules.
She had been seeing Banning on the down low for the past six weeks. She’d met him at a private gun range, where he had been learning to shoot an Uzi for an upcoming action picture that later fell through when the studio opted for a younger, up-and-coming star. The issue of protecting him had never come up. She tried not to mix business with her personal life.
Banning’s career might be headed in the wrong direction, but his face remained one of the most recognizable in America. And that made him a prime target of the paps. Their obsessive stalking had broken up his last two romances. He’d vowed to keep this relationship secret. It meant impromptu liaisons in slightly sordid places like the Century City garage. That was
okay with Kate. There was something appealing about a clandestine affair.
He was standing on the front steps when she got out of her car. He wore a blue terry cloth robe and slippers. This was the first time she’d ever seen him in something other than a sport jacket.
She reached him and felt suddenly unsure how they should greet each other, with a kiss or a hug or nothing at all. He solved the problem by pulling her toward him and giving her a light kiss on her cheek. “Come on in.”
He led her into his living room, more spacious than the Brewers’ and more tastefully decorated. No framed magazine covers on the walls, no ostentatious tributes to success. Instead, there were model ships with elaborate rigging, a photo of a World War II rifle company posing indifferently—the caption read 101st Airborne—and another photo, autographed, of Mickey Mantle and Ted Williams. She hadn’t known he was a baseball fan. There was so much she didn’t know.
“I got a tip to her possible whereabouts,” Kate said. “When I got there, the place was deserted. But I found this.” She showed him the charm bracelet.
Banning’s eyes gave her the answer. They were suddenly too wide and too clear, his gaze fixed on the bracelet.
“Oh,” he said, and nothing more, but there was a lifetime of heartbreak in that single syllable.
He reached for the bracelet, the gesture disarmingly tentative, as if he were afraid it would evanesce into thin air at the first contact. She handed it over and he let it lie lightly on his palm, turning his wrist slightly from side to side, watching the metal charms catch the light.
“This is a good thing, Carson. It means we’re close.”
“Or it could mean…”
“What?”
His voice was husky, hollow. “It could mean she’s dead.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because she always wears this. Never takes it off. So why isn’t she wearing it now?”
She explained about the cops, how they’d rousted the runaways from their hiding place. “The kids all ran. She probably lost it in the scramble.”
He raised his eyes to her face. There was a different light in them now, a cold gleam of purpose. “Where?” he asked simply.
“I don’t think I should tell you that.”
“I’m not going to go looking. I just need to know where it was. Where she was.”
“Hollywood. Beneath an overpass. That’s all I’m going to say.”
“How the hell did you trace her there?”
“She was spotted earlier tonight at a place called Teen Alliance. A volunteer there set me on her trail.”
“An overpass.” He shut his eyes. “Living under a goddamned bridge.”
“With other kids. There’s safety in numbers.” This, she knew, was not always true. A gang of runaways could turn on each other or single out one member for abuse. There was a practice called hunching—the boys encircled a lone female and forced her to submit to each of them in turn.
She wondered how much Banning knew about life on the streets. In his gated enclave, sheltered from the rawness of the city, he could have no clear idea of what life for a runaway was like. Amber hadn’t known, either. Probably, she’d imagined something glamorous and free, and now she was scrounging for meals, cadging change, shoplifting, and squatting, a hunted thing.
The girl wouldn’t survive for long on her own. She was too innocent and ill-equipped. The city would consume her. Only in promotional brochures was Los Angeles the City of Angels. To those who knew it, really knew it, it was not a city, but a vast, open grave swallowing up young lives.
Banning stared past her, out the window into the dark. “I can’t stand knowing she’s out there and I’m not doing anything.”
“There’s nothing you can do.”
“If this were a movie, I’d track her down myself.”
“If you tried, you’d just scare her off. She’d run farther.”
“Run from me,” he whispered. Moisture glimmered in his eyes. “My little girl.”
Kate touched his arm. “We’ll get her back, Carson.”
“You keep saying that, but there’s no way to know.”
She remembered Georgia’s words and tried them here. “You just have to have faith.”
He managed a smile. “Easy for you to say.”
She wished it were.
“Lady Madonna” piped in the room, the cheerful tune inappropriate, laughter at a funeral. Kate turned away and took the call, hearing Skip Slater’s voice.
“Okay, I did it.”
It took her a moment to realize he’d traced Swann’s call. “You located him?”
“I located where he was when he called you. Can’t say if he’s still there now. He was using Skype. I got into their system and checked their logs. IP address belongs to a coffee shop in Koreatown. According to their website, they’re open all night and they’re a Wi-Fi hotspot.”
Kate kept her voice low so Banning wouldn’t hear. “He couldn’t have called from a public place.”
“He was probably piggybacking off the signal from nearby. Someplace close, say within a three-hundred-foot radius.”
“Give me the coffee shop’s address.”
Skip recited it. “You shouldn’t go there alone.”
“This can’t wait. And I’m not far.” From Bel Air to Koreatown was a short trip at this hour, with no traffic on the streets. “But you’d better send Di Milo to back me up. And hey, Skip—good job. Really good.”
“Starting to warm up to me, aren’t you?”
“Not as much as you think.” She clicked off and turned back to Banning. He was watching her with open curiosity.
“Something big going on?” he asked. “Sounded serious, from your tone of voice.”
“It is.”
“You’ll handle it. You always do.”
She hoped he was right about that.
KATE reached the Buzz Café at Seventh and Berendo ten minutes later, after a fast ride during which she violated all speed limits and blew through several red lights. The café had a small parking lot off the side, mostly empty at this hour. She parked and went in, carrying the Glock in its pocket holster.
It was a small, homey place with dim lighting and a pervasive odor of cigarette smoke. The windows were open and a fan was blowing, but the smoky aroma hung in the air, a permanent feature. A pockmarked kid with a laptop sat in a corner with his knees braced against the table, and a woman who looked lost sat at the window sipping green tea and staring into the night. Everyone in the place was Korean.
She approached a waitress, showed her the cell phone photo. “Have you seen this man?”
The waitress shook her head. “No English.”
Kate tried the man behind the counter, who was removing stale pastries from a display case.
“I not see him,” the man said in answer to her question.
She hadn’t really expected Swann to come in here. Before leaving, she asked the counterman, “Has anything unusual happened in the neighborhood tonight?”
It was a stab in the dark, but the man took the inquiry seriously. He put down his pastries and scratched his chin. “Noises. Bangs.”
“Like gunshots?”
“Could be. Or car backfire.”
“When?”
“Half hour, maybe.”
“Where?”
“Couldn’t tell. The bangs were, um, muzzled.”
“Muffled?”
He nodded. “Could be alley. Or down street. Or inside building. Maybe church.”
Kate had noticed the condemned church next door, fenced off, dark. A place for Swann to hide, perhaps.
“You didn’t call the police?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Just bangs.”
Gunfire in this neighborhood probably wasn’t out of the ordinary. Locals preferred to mind their own business.
She thanked him. As she moved away, she noticed the waitress eyeing her with hostility. Because she was white? Because she drove a Jag? Because she
asked too many questions?
All of the above, Kate decided.
“Someone just left.”
The words came from the woman at the window. She wasn’t looking at Kate, might have been talking to herself, but Kate stopped anyway. “Excuse me?”
“From behind the church. A car came out right before you got here.” Her English was better than the counterman’s.
“Did you see the driver?”
“A man with no hair.”
“This man?” Showing the phone again.
“Could be,” the woman said after a brief but studious look.
“Do you know what kind of car it was?”
“Lincoln Town Car. Big and old. From the eighties.” The woman showed a shy smile. “I worked in a dealership. I know cars.”
“Color?”
“Dark.”
“Which way was it headed?”
“That way.”
East on Seventh. Kate ran to the Jag.
Normally there would be no hope of catching up, but at this time of night traffic was minimal, and if the Lincoln stayed on Seventh and got caught by a few lights…
She might have a chance.
NOTHING could be this bad. There had never been anything like this anywhere, ever in the universe. She’d thought she knew terror, knew craziness, but everything she knew was crap. She’d never been afraid in her life before now. Whatever she’d thought of as fear was something different, something trivial. This, right here, right now, this was fear, and it was nothing she’d ever felt before.
Chelsea tasted the sour tang of vomit in her mouth and choked it down. If she threw up in Swann’s car, he would probably kill her. Not that he wouldn’t kill her anyway. Killing was what he did.
You could ask Mr. Farris about that. Except you couldn’t because he was dead, and not from the gunshot. Oh, the gunshot might have killed him eventually, but Swann didn’t let him die that way. Swann wanted to inflict more pain. And he was good at it. She listened from the confessional, unable to see what was happening, and not wanting to see, but hearing the long, drawn-out groans from Mr. Farris as Swann asked him the same question over and over. How’d you find me? It took Mr. Farris a long time to answer him. Chelsea didn’t think he was being stubborn or heroic. He just couldn’t force out the words past the pain. If anything, Swann was making it harder for him to speak. But then maybe Swann didn’t know what mattered to him more—to make Mr. Farris talk or to make him hurt.
Grave of Angels Page 14
