by Susan Dunlap
Her car was ten yards away. She fumbled the keys out of her pocket and hit the remote, holding her breath till she heard the buzz. She was into the seat and starting the engine without realizing it. The wheels screeched as she cut into the lane and floored the gas.
For the first time she felt safe.
The back window shattered. The side window crackled like a Fourth of July sparkler. She pulled the wheel hard to the left and hung on. A truck loomed in front, she yanked the wheel to the right, passed it on the wrong side of the street. Her foot was stuck on the accelerator. There was no time to check the rearview mirror. She swung a wide right at the corner; horns blared.
She’d been to the loft on and off for two months, been on every street around here looking for props for the beach-house room. Suddenly nothing was familiar: any street could dead end. She was on a main road, four lanes with parking on both sides. All the stores were chains; she could have been anywhere. Behind her, cars were coming fast, cutting in and out of lanes. The two men could be driving any one of them.
The light ahead was red. With a final look in the rearview, she ran it. Brakes screeched; horns blared. More brakes squealed.
Overhead a sign said 405 West. She hung a right onto the freeway. She was in the fast lane before she could check the rearview for headlights tailing her. She veered onto the 10, driving by rote, checking: rearview, road, speedometer, gas, rearview. Friday night on the 10; no one was going to stand out speeding.
Suddenly the cold hit her. She turned the heat all the way up. She was near the beach, almost home. She could call Jay—
Oh, God, Jay! Jay, bleeding on the cold floor.
She was doing eighty. The car hit the lane bumps as she reached for the cell phone. She only knew one cop but he was the last one she’d call. She had to do something; she just couldn’t leave Jay there on the floor to—And she couldn’t go back, not and stay alive. She swallowed hard, yanked the wheel, and remembered 911. The car hit the lane bumps on the far side. As soon as the dispatcher started, Liza gave the loft address. “A man is dying in number three.”
“Who’s calling? Don’t hang up!”
But she did. She couldn’t make herself say the word dead, not about Jay. She could still see him grinning as he recognized the sofa, the coffee table. She could feel the ghosts of his kisses across her face. There was nothing she could tell the police. She needed to get home.
Going home would be crazy. If the killers found the loft—No one else knew it existed. Jay hadn’t even put in a phone.
And the killers trailed Jay there.
She couldn’t go home, not to the house in Malibu. That was the first place they’d look. They’d come in shooting.
She could call the cops to the house. Some other woman could and they’d protect her. Police cause problems; that she knew.
The exit for the coast road was coming up. She didn’t think of the alternatives anymore. Suddenly the ultimate clarity was: she had to get home before the killers. She shot across three lanes and pulled off the freeway.
No one was on her tail. Slowing down, she navigated the familiar streets. She’d already gotten three “exceeding speed limits” this year; she couldn’t chance being stopped now.
The house was on the beach. Roadside it was no more than a garage door and a six-foot-high wall. Beach-side it was two stories of glass with steps down to the Pacific.
She beamed open the garage, cut a Y and backed in, beaming the door shut so fast it nearly took off the hood.
She hefted the gun—the thing was huge. It almost threw her off-balance as she ran into the house. Squeaks came from behind the downstairs door. She had to get out of here. But she couldn’t keep herself from going into the living room, from stopping in front of the fireplace, from looking at the couch and rug and chairs and coffee table with the fleece slippers she’d given Jay abandoned beneath. Slippers to keep him warm. Oh, God, his poor cold cold feet.
She shivered; her T-shirt stuck to her breast. Blood. Jay’s blood. Or her own? She yanked off the shirt and her blood-caked jeans, threw them in a heap next to the sofa.
Jeans, a jumble of T-shirts, bathing suit lay on the sofa arm, a bright yellow sweater on the seat cushion. Towel draped over a lamp. Three pairs of sandals, running shoes, socks, underwear, jeans. Jeez, she really was a slob. She loved knowing she could be a slob and no landlord could break in and evict her.
She had to get out of here. She toweled off the dried blood, jammed her legs into fresher black jeans, grabbed a white T-shirt.
The squeaking downstairs was louder. She checked for outside noises, wheels squealing, brakes, the gate banging open.
It was foolhardy to stop in the bedroom, but she couldn’t help herself. Light from an outside lamp threw the room in shadows. It still smelled of liniment from Jay. Her eyes welled up. She stood, planted in the doorway, looking at the bed they lay in last Sunday long into the morning till the fog lifted and the sun striped across Jay’s chest and face, and he lay, head turned toward her, smiling like life, their life, would go on forever.
The gate banged. She hadn’t heard a car. She grabbed Jay’s leather jacket, inhaled his smell from the collar, breathing deep to make it part of her, and ran to open the downstairs door. “Come on, Felton.”
The black and white pot-bellied piglet grunted happily, following her, trotters clip-clopping on the floor. He veered into the living room, snuffled under the coffee table for crumbs.
“Felton! Come on!”
The piglet glanced up and returned to his crumbs.
Footsteps slapped the front walk.
She raced into the living room, bobbled the gun as she grabbed the squirming piglet and ran for the garage. It was ridiculous her attachment to him, this piglet the neighbors threw out. The warmth of his body, his sweet little pink snout burrowing into her chest almost made her bawl.
The front door to the house crashed on its hinges. She moved around the car, eased the driver’s door open, slid in.
Shots cracked the air.
She hit the remote, floored the gas. The garage door banged the roof of the car as she flew out.
Three
LIZA FLICKED A GLANCE in the rearview again. She was clear now. Behind her on the 405, five lanes of headlights did a line dance at 75 mph. She’d hit the freeway fast. Even so, the killers might have followed her. She’d double looped the first exit, shot around the entire clover leaf and back on in the same direction. She was sure she’d lost them. But just in case she’d looped off and on one more time when she veered onto the 405 South. No one followed.
Now it could have been any Friday night, skimming along in lane 3, ready to swing off at LAX and pick up Jay. Any Friday Jay wasn’t dead.
A soulful squeak cut through her attempt at calm. She leaned over to comfort the sleepy piglet before she realized the sound came from her.
“We’re okay,” she said. “No one’s on our tail. No one knows where we are. I’ll just keep driving till I figure out what to do. I’ll—”
The buzz of the phone jolted her halfway to the roof. She’d already said hello before she thought to keep quiet.
“Liza?”
“Who is this?”
“Francis Bentec. Is it true Jay’s been shot?”
“How’d you get—”
“I’m the Assistant to the Commissioner of the Police in this city. The dispatcher got your number when you called. Tell me what happened?”
She didn’t respond. Overhead the sign noted: LAX 3 mi.
“Liza, I’m Jay’s friend. I want to help you. What can I tell you?” There was a different pitch to his voice now.
Liza’d never spoken to him on the phone; she couldn’t judge this tone against his normal. She didn’t trust him, but that was because he knew about her. She’d met him only once. At first he’d stared like men always did. But soon she’d seen the threat in his eyes. After that when Jay’d had him to the house, she’d made a point of being out. What can I tell you? Why Jay bot
hered with you, that’s what.
“Liza, where are you?”
The phone was shaking in her hand. She had to say something. “I don’t know. Driving. Thinking.”
“I’m in headquarters, downtown. You know where that is. How soon can you get here?”
LAX 2½ mi.
“Liza we need to talk to you.”
“Why?”
“To find out who did this to Jay. Who was Jay involved with? Did he have business problems?”
“Business problems solved by two guys bursting in with assault weapons? What the hell kind of business are you talking about?” She was screaming; she who always sensed people’s reaction before they opened their mouths; she who lived by watching for the safety zone. Here she was screaming at the Assistant to the Commissioner of the entire Los Angeles Police Department. She was losing it.
“I’m…asking…you, Liza.”
She took a breath, forcing her throat to unclench. She had to get control of herself. Still, she could hear the hysteria in her voice as she said, “I don’t know. Jay’s business is his business.” Bentec wouldn’t believe that; no one ever did. But she was hardly going to tell him about their agreement to enjoy their life together and leave the unspoken unspoken. Jay hadn’t asked about her past, even when Bentec just about threw it in his face. Jay was the only man who ever took her at face value, the only man who didn’t find out more and cut her loose. She saw him again, grinning at the beach-house room—he must have had that same grin when he was five. She felt him again, crumbling against her, sliding on his blood.
Her eyes clouded with tears. She swiped them with the back of her hand. Bentec was hollering but his words were spewing out at the windshield now as she tried to clear her eyes. Felton was squealing. A sports utility cut in front of her nearly taking off her fender.
“Liza!”
“There’s nothing I know. My husband is dead! Leave me alone. Go find the two gunmen.”
“Can you identify them?”
“No.”
“You must have seen them. You must remember something.”
She saw the hall doorway; Jay stumbling back, grasping helplessly at the archway. She remembered too much. Her shoulders clamped in from the sides; her neck felt like she was being choked. “No,” she forced out, “I can’t identify them. They could be anyone.”
“Liza, you need to get down here. We’ve got to find out how Jay got himself in this mess.”
Got himself in this mess!
“Where are you going?”
Got himself in this mess! She smacked her fist so hard into the steering wheel the car jolted.
“Liza?”
“Mexico; that’s where I’m going. I’m driving to Mexico. You want to talk to me, plan to speak Spanish.” God, she was turning back into Liza Cummings, provoking the Assistant to the Police Commissioner.
“Liza, Liza, we don’t suspect you of killing Jay.”
“What?” She jerked the wheel right. A horn blared. She pulled back into her lane.
“You are not a suspect. We’re just asking for your help. Jay was my friend, Liza.”
LAX—next exit.
A suspect? What was the man talking about? The whole world was going crazy.
“Liza!”
She threw the phone behind the seat. The car veered across the lane marker; a horn blared; she yanked the wheel back. She’d only gone off like that once before and that time it was disastrous. But this, hanging up on a cop, an Assistant to the Commissioner, oh God. The phone rang. She was glad it was out of reach. Glad, like she’d be as soon as she was on a flight headed anywhere. She swung over three lanes into the LAX exit.
Four
INSPECTOR FRANCIS BENTEC SMACKED the receiver onto the cradle. She had hung up on him! Francis Bentec was not someone men dared hang up on, not even once. Even cons knew better. In his nineteen years on the Force he’d sent out tendrils to every station house, to snitches all over the city. No one twitched without his knowing. He’d worked damned hard creating his network. He’d played out favors carefully, left the debts outstanding and collected just enough interest on them to remind a lieutenant in Simi Valley, a detective in West L.A., that they owed him. Sworn officers all over the city understood the value of being Frank Bentec’s friend. Cons all over the city got out of his way.
But Liza Silvestri had hung up on him. Fury colored Bentec’s face and he was glad there was no one in his office to see him lose his cool. Where the hell was she? And what was this Mexico crap? He’d raised eyebrows insinuating himself in this investigation that should be no concern of the Assistant to the Commissioner. No one would question him, of course, but still he needed to get in and out quick. He needed her to tell him where things were, needed—
The phone rang. “Bentec.”
“This is me, Heron.” Heron, one of the thugs who screwed up.
“Where are you?”
“On the four-oh-five. We lost her.”
Bentec felt his face flush again. He took a breath before speaking. “Heron, what kind of morons are you two? What the hell made you kill Silvestri? You were supposed to remind him to play nice, not shoot the bastard.”
“He pulled a gun. We had no choice.”
Bentec nodded. Heron was no fool. He wouldn’t have used Heron if he were. “Right, but that still means instead of a simple work-over I’ve got a corpse on my hands and detective division looking for the killer. Unless we get Liza Silvestri the search is going to spread, the search for the killer. Do I make myself clear, Heron?”
“We’ll find her. Listen, he said something to her. He was on the floor slipping down in his blood—”
“What? What’d he say?”
“ ‘Run’ and ‘Go,’ and then something else.”
“Something else? What the hell else?”
“Couldn’t tell. Guy was choking on all the blood. Like he had a mouth fulla candies.”
“Heron, you—”
“But she heard him, and she lit out of there. Look, Bentec—”
“Inspector,” he said automatically.
“Inspector,” Heron repeated as if he knew better than to not. “She’s driving an old Mustang. We’ll spot her. Don’t worry about that…Inspector.”
“I’m not worrying; you’re the one who needs to worry, you understand that, Heron? Where are you, where on the four-oh-five?”
“This side of the airport.”
“Well, where do you think she’s headed then? Get to the airport, find her, and call me. Don’t let her see you. Just keep her where we can find her. You understand?”
“Yeah, man, we’ll get our eyes on her.”
“Don’t let her talk to anyone, and don’t let her get away again.”
Johnny Heron clicked off the phone and glared over at the driver. “Slow down, asshole, we don’t need to get hauled in for speeding. If anything happens to us Bentec’s not going to bother hauling our asses out of the fire.”
Eddie slowed the Grand Am to 80. “Where we going?”
“Airport.”
“We gonna watch the broad?”
“Not hardly.”
“That’s what Bentec said to do.” There was a pronounced whine to Eddie’s voice.
“Well, I got a better plan. We—”
“Count me out of your better plan, man. I seen what happens to guys who cross Bentec. You spit on Bentec, and the next day you end up with your head in the toilet hoping you can hold your breath long enough to come up for air and say you’re sorry. And, man, you don’t even know who’s holding your head down or how that guy’s into Bentec.”
“Eddie, calm down. Listen to me. We got insurance. In the airport we got a woman who heard something that Bentec’s hot to find out. We squeeze her, then we got the hot topic, you understand? We eliminate her, then we’re the only ones with the hot topic and our price goes up, way up. When you got what a guy wants, got it in your head, then you’re in control, even when you’re dealing with Frank Bentec.”
“Then we better find Silvestri, get the hot topic off her, and move fast.”
Five
SHORT TERM PARKING.
Liza Silvestri pulled up near the elevator vestibule. Why “short term,” Jay always kidded her. “What? The owner of a house in Malibu can’t afford valet parking?” Whatever her reasons were normally, tonight she’d turned in there from habit alone. Now she wished she’d chosen a spot closer than Saudi Arabia. She didn’t want to leave the restored ’65 Mustang—the car Jay gave her. “Pull yourself together! Do it, or you will die! You knew how to survive before Jay; do it!” The thrust of her words pushed her out of the car. She stuck the gun in the glove compartment—all she’d need would be to be caught in the metal detector—lifted Felton into his pig carrier, and ran for the elevator.
The vestibule was empty. Wind poured through the open doors on both sides. Her steps echoed off the cement. Elevator doors parted. She darted in. Safe. For two levels. The elevator lurched, hummed, stopped. She raced out, her shoes clacking as she ran through the empty tunnel. The killers could be waiting behind any display, behind potted plants, in alcoves, or around the corner of the escalator. This was the perfect place to pick her off. I lost them on the freeway. They don’t know where I am. I’m safe. But she didn’t believe that.
Arty neon lights changed color, painting Felton’s carrier red, purple, blue, green. He smacked against the side, squealing miserably. She longed to stop and cuddle him till the fear faded.
She jumped on the escalator. Her stomach lurched as the stairs jerked up. In a minute she would be stepping off, walking to the counter, and buying a ticket to safety. She’d be choosing between window and aisle seats, and swearing that no one asked her to carry any packages on the flight, that her luggage had never been out of her sight. Her biggest problem would be convincing the clerk to let Felton ride on her lap.
