A nurse came, then a doctor, and after some consultation, the endotracheal tube was removed. Chelsea coughed hard for thirty seconds, then motioned for a glass of water.
“Kate,” she said when she could speak.
She approached the bed and leaned in, avoiding the IV lines and the ECG leads, and gave Chelsea a quick, fierce hug.
“They said”—the girl’s voice was rough as sandpaper—“you rescued me. They said Swann came after you with a gun…”
“Don’t worry about Swann. He’s in custody.”
“I know. Mom told me.” Chelsea frowned. “I wish he’d been killed.”
“He’ll be locked up for life.”
“You never know. This is California.” She took a closer look at the people around her. “Do I know you?” she asked Skip.
“I was just…um…freelancing for Kate tonight.”
“Skip was very helpful,” Kate said. “He supplied some major technical expertise.”
“Atoning for past sins,” Skip said uncomfortably.
Chelsea giggled, a pleasingly girlish sound. “What sins?”
“Exploitation of my fellow humans for fun and profit.”
“That’s not a sin. That’s just, you know, the business. So I guess the TV assholes are all over this, huh?”
“Like stink on a monkey,” Skip said.
“Well, fuck ’em.” Chelsea sounded cheerful. “I don’t care.”
“You’ll have to make a statement,” Victoria said cautiously. “They’ll be expecting it.”
“Fuck ’em. That’s my statement.”
Victoria folded her hands. “I’ll come up with something more appropriate.”
“Whatever. Hey, did Gabrielle get out of Panic Room all right?”
“I saw her,” Kate said, pleased that Chelsea would ask about her friend. “She was fine. Worried about you, though.”
“Yeah, when she sees this on the news, she’ll freak.” Chelsea seemed to enjoy the prospect, but then her face turned serious. “You’re sure he can’t get out?”
“He’ll never get out,” Kate said. “He’ll never hurt you again.”
She nodded, not quite believing it. “How long was I unconscious, anyway?”
Victoria estimated six hours or longer.
“He gave me way too much of that stuff. I had the funkiest dreams. Really vivid.” Chelsea stared at the ceiling. “About him, of course. Who else, right?”
“It’s best not to think about him now,” Victoria said.
“Yeah, okay. But…it was weird. I mean, I could swear I was really there with him. Singing that stupid song.”
Kate let a moment pass. “What song?”
“It’s from Shakespeare. An audition piece I learned a million years ago. Swann made me act it out for him. I was Desdemona, and I sang about the willow tree…”
“This was your dream?”
“No, that part really happened. In that old church where he was holding me. Where he killed Mr. Farris. You know about that, right?”
Kate nodded.
“And Chanticleer. He got killed, too.” Moisture glimmered in her eyes, but she went on resolutely. “The dream was different. I was singing, but he couldn’t see me, which was weird ’cause I was right there. And it was driving him crazy. He was looking for me everywhere and calling for me and then…then he started shooting at me. But I wasn’t scared. I knew he couldn’t hurt me. I thought it was funny. I was laughing at him.”
“You dreamed all that?” Kate asked quietly.
“Yeah.” Chelsea closed her eyes. “Really vivid. Trippy, you know?”
“It was only a dream,” Victoria said.
Maybe it was, Kate thought. But Victoria hadn’t been there. Hadn’t seen how Swann had looked, his eyes wild, his head darting, as if seeking the source of an elusive, maddening sound. Calling Chelsea’s name. Chasing her—chasing something—on the stairs. Firing into the darkness.
And all the while, Chelsea had been unconscious in this hospital, near death, and dreaming her dream.
Coincidence, possibly. But in a night with so much suffering and loss, could there have been a miracle—just one small miracle—to help balance the scales?
And did that mean God was watching, after all?
She didn’t know. Her uncertainty was new and unfamiliar. Frightening, almost, because she didn’t know what it meant or where it might lead.
“You should rest now,” Victoria told her daughter. “You don’t want to wear yourself out.”
“Yeah, okay.” She was already drifting off.
As Kate was leaving the room with the others, Chelsea surprised her by saying, “Tell Mr. Grange I’m sorry I treated him so, you know, shabbily. I was pretty much a bitch.”
“I’ll tell him,” Kate said firmly.
She meant it, too. Later, with eyes closed and hands folded, she would tell Grange.
And maybe, somehow, he would hear.
SWANN lounged for six days in the Men’s Central Jail in a single-man cell in the High Power block, the ward reserved for the most serious offenders. That was the theory, anyway. In practice, High Power was reserved for the offenders who’d garnered the most media attention. In LA, you really weren’t anybody unless you’d been on TV.
He had been all over TV. He knew it, even though there was no TV in his cell. He knew it from the mob of reporters stationed outside the courthouse on the day of his arraignment, and the standing-room-only status of the courtroom. He knew it because the camera people tailed him back to jail, shooting video of the sheriff’s department van. He knew it because one of the deputies in the jail surreptitiously asked for his autograph.
His autograph. Swann could hardly believe it. Fucking thing would probably wind up on eBay. But he signed. He signed with a goddamned flourish and handed back his signature with a smile.
So far he had met no other cons. He was isolated from the general population and even from the other heavy hitters in the High Power wing. But he hadn’t been lonely. Some DEA narcs dropped by to talk to him about his activities in Miami some years ago. LAPD detectives asked him to clarify some details in the Brewer case, and they inquired about Bob Ellis, recently deceased, and his old pal Giovanni, who had gone missing.
To all questions, Swann had one response, and only one.
“After I talk to the nun.”
At first they told him it was impossible. Then they told him it would be too difficult to arrange. Then they told him it might be doable, if he gave them some preliminary cooperation.
He didn’t cooperate. He didn’t give them anything. He had time, nothing but time, and he was a patient man. Once he talked to the nun, in person, in the same room, not on a video hookup, not through a sheet of glass…once he sat down with her, face-to-face, and they had their little chat, then and only then would he talk to the DEA and the LAPD and, hell, the YMCA, if necessary. Until then, he would say nothing to anybody.
He waited.
And finally they came for him.
They took him out of the cell, his wrists cuffed to a chain around his waist, his legs shackled. They marched him through the labyrinth of long white hallways, into an elevator that went down three floors, then through more corridors, and into a small, windowless room with a big metal table and two chairs. They sat him in one of the chairs and cuffed his hands to the table. One of the deputies stayed behind, standing against the wall and eyeballing him, while the other went to fetch someone.
They provided no explanation, but he knew. He’d broken them. They had brought him the one he wanted. They’d brought the nun.
He glanced around the room, noting a glint of light in an upper corner near the ceiling, which was probably a miniature camera. He had no doubt his conversation would be recorded. That was fine. He’d already waived his right to an attorney. At the arraignment, he’d pled guilty, sparing himself the inconvenience of a trial. All that was left was his formal sentencing, sometime next week.
The door opened, and she ca
me in. She wore a black shirt and matching slacks, an outfit severe as a habit. Her hair was pinned back, bringing out the strong lines of her cheeks and jaw.
“Hey, Sister Kate,” Swann said amiably.
She took the chair on the opposite side of the table. The deputy at the wall didn’t move. They weren’t leaving him alone with her, even when he was cuffed to the table, immobilized. They respected him, and he was pleased about that.
“I’m told you want to speak to me,” Kate Malick said.
“How’s Chelsea?”
“She’ll be fine.”
“Tell her I said hi.”
“Chelsea will never know I was here.”
“You’re awfully serious, Sister Kate. You got a crucifix up your ass or something? Or maybe you keep it in a different hidey-hole.”
The deputy snapped, “Watch it.”
“The gentleman’s defending your honor,” Swann remarked. “Your girlish virtue.”
Kate Malick just stared at him. He found her gaze somehow unsettling. It was the same gaze he’d faced in the stairwell.
“You know, you’re supposed to be all about redemption. But be honest—you don’t want redemption for a man like me. You want me burning in that lake of fire.”
She said nothing.
“When it comes down to it, you’re all about revenge, not redemption. And so’s your God. He’s licking his chops waiting to get hold of me.”
“You don’t believe in God.”
“Neither do you.”
“You don’t know what I believe.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I don’t know, either.”
Swann frowned. “So you’re coming home to Jesus, are you? Too bad. Last thing the world needs is another deluded true believer.”
“Is this why you asked for me? To have a theological discussion?”
“I asked for you because you earned it. Why should some lazy-ass cops get all the glory? You took me down. And you were nice enough not to pull the trigger when you had the chance.”
“I’m surprised I didn’t have to. Sam told me you’d never let yourself be taken alive.”
“Sam didn’t know me as well as he thought.”
“Why did you surrender?”
“Simple. Something beats nothing.”
“Meaning?”
“Life in a cell isn’t much, but it beats no life at all. Dead is dead, and I’m not inclined to be dead just yet.”
“And maybe you hope you’ll break out of here?”
Swann shook his head. “I’m a realist. This is it for me. Before long, they’ll ship me upstate to Corcoran or Pelican Bay. A different set of walls. And that’s where I’ll stay. Twenty-three-hour lockdown. Zero contact with the other inmates. Two showers a week. A toilet in my cell that I have to scrub myself. Corn flakes for breakfast, turkey bologna for lunch, beef stew for dinner. Lights out at ten thirty. Wake up at five and do it all over again. Every day for the rest of my life. I’ll get old and I’ll die.”
He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, a hard staccato sound.
“But until I’m dead, I’ll have food in my belly and a blanket at night. Maybe I’ll smile now and then. Maybe I’ll even get some sun in the exercise yard, eventually, when I’m old enough to pose no threat, or when everyone’s forgotten who I was. I’ll have breath in my lungs, going in and out.”
“It’s not a lot.”
“No, it isn’t. But it beats what Sam’s got, doesn’t it? And Banning.”
“Let’s talk about Banning.”
“How he fits into all this? Sure. Must’ve been a real kick in the privates to find out he was working with me, huh? I mean, considering your special relationship.”
“It was a betrayal. I’ll get over it.”
“Never trust anybody, Sister Kate. Then you’ll never be disappointed.”
“Tell me about Banning.”
“His career was on the skids. Nothing but flops lately. Lots of expenses, red ink. His finances were shot to hell—he told me so. Took a major hit when the stock market tumbled. Had his money tied up with some fancy-ass wheeler-dealer who lost it all. He was strapped for cash in a big way, and he wasn’t the sort of guy who would cut back on his lifestyle. That’s why he started banging Mrs. Brewer. It wasn’t love. It was a business move.”
“How did you come into the picture?”
“I found out somebody was talking about me out of school. It had to be Sam or Giovanni. So I came out here and had a talk with Giovanni. Ruled him out. That left Sam. I was watching his house when the black Lexus left. I knew it was his vehicle, and I assumed he was driving, so I followed. But that day, Victoria took the Lexus. Maybe she didn’t like using her own car when she went on a booty run.”
“She visited Banning?”
“Right. I watched him meet her at the motel. Recognized him right off. Guy was a fucking movie star, after all. Even with a hat on and wraparound shades, he couldn’t hide his famous face. They were in his room about an hour. After she left, I knocked on the door. Introduced myself. We had a chat. At first he thought I wanted to blackmail him. But I’ve never been into blackmail. Too complicated. I just wanted to know if he was interested in having Sam Brewer out of the picture. I said I could arrange it, for a fee. I knew I was going to do the job anyway, and I didn’t mind making some money on it, as a sort of fringe benefit.”
“And?”
“Banning said he couldn’t get involved in anything like that. Not directly. But he knew a guy who might be able to make use of my services.”
“Daniel Farris,” she said.
“Give the lady a prize. Yeah, Banning had bought a plane from Farris, and they’d gotten pretty tight. Especially after Farris’s kid died. Farris leaned on Banning for support. Confessed all kinds of shit to him. That’s how Banning knew about Farris’s betting problem. Farris fessed up, told him how he was putting down money on the next celeb to die. And then he started making these jokes. Only, they weren’t jokes. You know, how if he had Chelsea killed, he could avenge his little girl and win back some of his losses at the same time. A twofer. Laughing it up. But you can’t lie to an actor, I guess. Banning knew Farris meant it. And when Banning met me, he saw a way to work things so Sam Brewer would be out of the way, with no risk of implicating himself.”
“Why did he care so much about Victoria? Carson Banning could have had lots of women. Pretty much any woman he wanted.”
“Including you, Sister Kate. But I guess that part of the story hasn’t gotten out. Don’t worry, it’ll be our little secret, unless some lowlife from the DA’s office spills the beans. Anyway, Banning didn’t want just any woman. He wanted a woman who was rich and in the media spotlight and in tight with every producer and studio exec in town. He wanted Victoria Brewer. But he knew she’d never marry him as long as her ex was in the picture. She didn’t love Sam, but she was, you know, dependent on him. Mentally, emotionally. Whatever—I’m not really up on that psychological crap. Bottom line, Banning wanted Sam out of the way.”
“How about Chelsea? Did Banning care about her?”
“Not a bit. I’m the one who cared. I really did save her. She’s alive because of me.”
Kate said nothing, just waited for him to go on.
“Banning set up a meet for the three of us. By then him and me were pretty close. I took a room in the same motel he used for his extracurricular activities. There was a billboard right across the street with Chelsea’s picture on it. I could see it from my room. Just a coincidence, but it felt like fate. At the meeting, Farris paid me half the money up front. For a hit on Chelsea, to avenge his dead daughter. But all along, Banning and I planned to screw him over. I was going to kidnap Chelsea and kill Sam. And instead of the balloon payment on my fee, I would get two million dollars in Victoria’s jewels.”
“Whose idea was it to go for the jewelry?”
“Banning’s. Victoria talked up her jewelry collection to him. He had no problem with Victoria
being ripped off. The jewels were insured, so it wasn’t like she’d lose any of her money—money being the principal reason he was involved with her in the first place. By the way, Banning told me about the paintings, too. Victoria liked to brag about her art.”
“And once Sam was dead…”
“Banning would marry Victoria, and she could keep him in the lifestyle he was accustomed to. Private planes don’t come cheap, you know. If Chelsea was dead, he’d share in the public sympathy. If she was alive, he’d be the stepdaddy of Hollywood’s biggest star. Either way, he’d be back on top, which was just where he wanted to be.”
“Wasn’t Banning worried there would be blowback from Farris after you double-crossed him?”
“What could Farris do? He wouldn’t blame Banning. All the heat would be on me.”
“Not all of it. You implicated Farris when you called in the anonymous tip to my office.”
“Yeah, that’s true. But Banning didn’t know about that part of it.”
“So it was a double double cross? Betray both of them?”
Swann shrugged. “Sure.”
“And through all this, Banning trusted you? I didn’t think he was that naive.”
“These Hollywood types always think they’re smarter than they are. But I don’t think he trusted me entirely. He picked up an extra bodyguard after we started working together. I’m pretty sure the additional protection was on my account.”
Kate remembered Sal French, in the restaurant on the night of Chelsea’s abduction, complaining about Banning’s two security escorts. “Did you have any plans to kill him?”
“Nah. I liked his movies—well, some of them.”
“Yet you shot him in the towers.”
“He was getting on my nerves. All that crybaby crap about his kid.”
“Did you know Amber was his daughter?”
“Not a clue, till I showed up and found him there.” Swann smiled. “Small world, huh?”
“Did you kill Giovanni?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Did you kill him?”
“I can’t see any advantage to answering that question.”
“How about Bob Ellis?”
“Bob who?”
“Don’t play games, Jack.”
Grave of Angels Page 26
