by Susan Dunlap
“Shift the perimeter north,” he said, using jargon to calm Potelli. “She’s been on the move for twelve hours, so figure twelve hours out of L.A. Take a couple off for sleep. She’s got to be going north. I’ve hooked up with the Inspection stations at Needles, Blythe, Vidal Junction and Algodones; she hasn’t tried crossing into Arizona. So either she’s running north or she’s holed up off-road somewhere, and if you recall her, Joe, she’s not an off-road type of gal. No, trust me, she’s moving north. We’ve covered every likely road out. I’ve got an A.P.B. to all the bridges and the park police. It’s just a matter of time. So shift the perimeter all the way to Santa Rosa now and we’ll be more than covered.”
“Right, Frank,” Potelli said a little sheepishly.
“ ’S’okay. It’s right to be careful here. We’ve got to be on top of this and make sure we get to her first, you follow me?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Good, Joe. Check back in an hour if we don’t have her before then.” He could hear the fear in Potelli’s voice, like a buzzing wire about to ignite a fire. He’d handled that potential blaze, but he was nowhere near as calm as he sounded.
But by now they should have had Liza Silvestri. She couldn’t drive forever. He could barely keep awake. A civilian like her—with luck she’d drive into a tree. But no, not die. He needed her. She would know the specifics needed for the transfer, the weapons for his six million dollars—his five million plus Silvestri’s one million, which he could “inherit.” Silvestri would have told her.
Even if he hadn’t told her, she’d know. Wives always know where their husbands keep things, documents, addresses, phone numbers. She was headed north, north to the transfer point. If she didn’t know about Richland, Washington, she would have taken the fast way out of California, to Mexico or east to Arizona or Nevada. But she was gutting it out, moving north, heading to Richland because she knew what to do when she got there.
The phone jarred him. “Inspector Bentec.” It took him a moment to sift the accent and decipher the message—from a car-rental clerk. In regard to his request for information, Liza Silvestri had turned in her car at San Francisco.
“Thank you.” Bentec reached for his Rolodex. San Francisco. That was manageable. He’d already alerted a couple guys in the department there. He’d get back to them with this news, get them on the horn to the cab and limo companies. For the first time in twelve hours Frank Bentec smiled. This was the part of the chase he loved. The hounds were closing. The fox had her tail to the wall. Now it was just a matter of getting her before the dogs starting nipping at her flanks.
Twelve
“THIS WHOLE TRIP,” ELLEN Baines grumbled, “it’s like a step into a parallel universe.” As, she realized, things always had been with Liza. She hadn’t been surprised when Liza didn’t show at the airport. She’d even rented not a sensible compact car but a sports car to cheer her up. Now she was beginning to wonder if Liza would ever see it.
Where was Liza? If she was okay, why hadn’t she called? And Harry, did Jay Silvestri suck him into whatever it was that got him killed? Could Harry be in danger? She shook her head against even the possibility, turned on the TV, yanked her suitcase onto the Rosewood Hotel’s rose-print bedspread and started hauling out clothes. In tissue paper laid out in the middle was the chic black dress for Jay Silvestri’s funeral, the one she’d been afraid would be too short and revealing for the opera with Harry. Harry. Was she really just away from him for a couple nights, or was this the end? She tried on the dress again, hoping for a few moments of distraction but even as she eyed herself in the mirror she couldn’t shake the question of Harry. And of Jay Silvestri; he’d been talking to Harry, pumping him…Jay Silvestri—
Suddenly she realized the name was not being pronounced in her mind, but on the TV.
She grabbed the remote and turned up the sound and stared as the picture shifted from newsroom set to field reporter. A brunette with firm chin, sculpted cheekbones and too-bright blue eyes, was saying, “In a bizarre scene, last night the police found the bullet-ridden body of Jay Silvestri, a local venture capitalist, in the old Farley Building. According to police sources, Jay Silvestri was known as an up-and-coming businessman with a home on the beach in Malibu. Sources close to the investigation say Silvestri’s loft space was listed as office space, but was furnished like a vacation house forty years ago. In a note of irony, Silvestri’s body was found beneath a sign saying, ‘Point Pleasant Beach.’ Neighbors in Malibu have no explanation why a respected businessman maintained an apartment in a deserted building.” Her tone said no explanation was necessary.
“Do the police have any leads, Connie?” the anchor asked. “Any other witnesses?”
“Women’s clothing was found at the scene, but no one has come forward. Police are asking anyone who can shed light on this case, to contact Inspector Frank Bentec at the number on your screen. Silvestri’s wife, Liza, is missing and police are, frankly, concerned.”
“Oh, Jeez, poor Liza.” Ellen grabbed for a pencil and wrote the police number on the hotel pad. Even the police suspected she was in danger. Or dead. Well, at least she could disabuse them of that last suspicion. She reached for the hotel phone guide, dialed 8 for long distance and was about to start the number. No wait! Not dead. And not in danger. “Women’s clothing was found at the scene.” The apartment was a love nest. Oh jeez, they thought Liza’s husband was keeping another woman there. They thought—oh jeez—that Liza was the outraged wife and she shot him in his love nest. No wonder they were looking for her. No wonder…Oh jeez.
The phone was buzzing its demand for more numbers. She punched in Harry Cooper’s. As she listened to the ring, she wondered why she had called; she didn’t expect him to be home. But he was.
“Cooper here.”
“Harry—”
“El! Where are you?”
“San Francisco.”
“Honey, what’re you doing out there? You ticked off with me? I know I’ve been working a lot—”
Did he really know she was leaving? At the least he suspected. Should she just make the break now and save—
“This work thing, El, it’ll pass. It’s just heavy right now. Once I get…”
She let him talk, taking in not his words but the soft, sad voice. She could picture him, fuzzy-haired, rumply-skinned, rubbing his fingers against his cheek and pulling the flesh as if he were a soft clay sculpture not quite set. He was soft all over, a man she could lean into on a cold night, like tonight was going to be. Why was he carrying on about his job now, with Liza’s husband dead in his Point Pleasant Beach room? With a start she remembered that she had been annoyed about Harry’s work and the opera tickets he’d been too busy to use. It all seemed so far away. “Harry, I’m not mad at you. Listen, huh?”
“You sure you’re not mad?”
“Not if you listen! Harry, I’m out here to help Liza Silvestri. I just turned on the TV and saw her husband was shot in L.A.” She couldn’t bring herself to tell him about the love-nest room. Harry was not a man made for that. Whatever Harry had been discussing with Jay Silvestri in Portland it sure wasn’t this.
A surge of relief swept through her; it shocked her how concerned she was about Harry. Of course Harry wasn’t the type of man to abet a love nest. Harry would never be involved in a seedy apartment for seedy affairs. Whatever got Jay Silvestri killed had nothing to do with Harry. She wished he were here so she could hug him. She could barely keep the unseemly relief from her voice as she said, “It looks as if he kept an apartment for affairs, you know, with other women.” Remembering the import of the newscast, she added, “Harry, I think the police think Liza shot him.”
She expected the comforting rumble of Harry’s voice, the cadence that said, “No need to worry,” the low, easy tone that assured, “It’ll all work out.” But there was a whine of panic in his voice as he asked, “Did she?”
Of course not! was almost out of her mouth when she caught herself. “I don’t know,
Harry.”
“Where is she?”
“She was supposed to meet me at the airport. She didn’t show. Maybe—”
“Ellen, throw your stuff in a suitcase and check out.”
She stared at the receiver as if the holes would mimic Harry’s suddenly decisive expression. “Harry, I hate to leave her to deal with all of this on her own.”
“She’s not eighteen anymore.”
“Still, I can’t abandon her.”
“Go. Right now!” She’d never heard him like that, even through all the hassles moving from Portland. “Jay Silvestri is quicksand. You could get pulled into worse than you think.”
“Why, Harry? Pulled into what? I asked you and you wouldn’t tell me. Harry, what was it Jay Silvestri said to you in Portland?”
But he wasn’t listening. He was talking. “—so trust me, sweetie. Take your suitcase, get a cab to some hotel across town. Don’t even stop to check out. Call me when you get there. Go!” He hung up.
“Whew!” That was so unlike Harry. She pressed 8 and his number. “Harry, Jay Silvestri was killed in a love nest. That was nothing to do with you. So tell me…” He was still talking, or rather his message was still talking. Okay, she’d go ahead and change hotels and call him from the new one.
Her head was spinning; there was no solid ground at all. She was a practical woman, but her feet were slipping out from under her.
A knock on the door shocked her. Before she thought to ask who was there she’d opened it.
Liza was standing in the doorway.
Liza Silvestri smiled. For the first time in what seemed an eternity, she felt safe. Just like she had walking into Mrs. Baines’s parlor, like she had climbing in through Ellen’s dorm window. With Ellen here, things would be all right. She looked at Ellen, noted her reliable square face creased with worry, the suitcase she’d been too worried to unpack, and burst into tears.
Ellen Baines had not been looking at her luggage until Liza noticed it. Now Liza spotted the unpacked bags. What must she think? “Oh, Liza!” She wrapped her arms around her and that touch triggered an avalanche of sobs. She held Liza, murmuring syllables for their soft sound. She’d never been this close to Liza, hadn’t realized how small Liza was, or maybe how tall she herself was. But Liza felt like a child in her arms, and when she swallowed hard and took a step back she looked like a red-faced little girl in her jeans and T-shirt and too big leather jacket.
“I thought…that was a…buzzer show.” Liza nodded toward the television.
“Oh no.” Ellen jumped to turn the set off before another report of Jay Silvestri’s death appeared.
“You know, Ellen, like your mom and you watched.” Liza swallowed.
She was trying too hard. Ellen wanted desperately to jump in and help but she couldn’t figure what she meant. “Liza, what the hell are you talking about?”
Liza smiled, a real but wobbly smile. “A quiz show like you and your mom watched. You two loved them. And I was so jealous.”
“Jealous? Liza, you were no slouch. You could have called out the answers as fast as I did.”
“But your mom loved seeing you get them first. It was so sweet, her almost answering then catching herself so she could let you go first. She’s so great.”
Ellen forced a nod. Her mother knew the answers first? How could she have missed that all those years? How slow, how dense was she? Mom had let her win? How could…
Liza sank down on the bed next to her. “Ellen, I really hated to ask you to come out here. But, I have to tell you, now that you’re here I am so so glad.”
Ellen focused back on Liza, Liza who needed her now. “Me, too.”
She let a beat pass, but they couldn’t put reality off any longer. “Liza, the police want you to call them.”
Liza felt like she’d been smacked. How could the police know she was here? She’d been so careful. How did they know about Ellen? “The police?”
“It was on the news,” Liza heard her say. “On television. I wrote down the police number. I knew you’d want to call and give them whatever they need to find out, uh, what they need.”
“They’ve got a lead on the killers?” Liza asked with desperate hope.
Ellen shook her head. “They’re looking for you.”
“For me! What about the men who shot him? Don’t they even care about them?” If they were only after her, then Bentec was running things, hell-bent to find her, and no one gave a shit about the men who shot Jay. Her stomach clenched, and suddenly all she could see was the loft in L.A. at the moment Jay’s fingers touched her skin. She felt the heat of him, smelled the sharp scent of him, heard the doorbell ring. “Oh God!” She sank back against the corner of a desk, using the pain to forestall the next moment—when the door opened, the gun fired. To keep the bullets from smashing into him.
Something pressed into her palm. She screamed.
“Liza, Liza, it’s okay.” Ellen’s hand was on her hand and she looked down at the object in it—a tissue. Ellen was giving her a tissue.
“Here’s the number. The police.” Ellen held out a piece of paper.
She stared at it; the sheet with lines too wavy to read. “I can’t call the police.” She couldn’t believe she’d said that out loud.
“What do you mean ‘can’t’?”
The police are crooks! I don’t know what they’d do to me. She couldn’t say that; Ellen would think she was crazy. Frantically she hunted for a story that would make Ellen stay—she’d always been able to come up with a story—but for once nothing surfaced but the truth. “I’ve got a juvenile record in L.A. The cop in charge remembers me. I can’t trust him, believe me. Just take my word, Ellen.”
“Liza, this is the police we’re talking about. They’re looking for you. You better call them before they find you.”
“Why—”
“Because, Liza, they figure you walked into that love nest.
They figure you saw your husband with another woman and you shot him.”
“They said that?”
“The television reporter intimated that. But she had to get her information somewhere.”
Liza stared. As shocked as she was, she could tell Ellen was more so. She swallowed, stared Ellen straight in the face—a challenge she never, never made—and said, “And what do you think? Do you think I killed him?”
“Of course not. I mean not unless you were…well, you had to or…”
Pain cut behind Liza’s eyes, radiated out. She felt like her head was exploding. It was the same old thing, people finding out about her, cutting her loose. “Ellen, I thought you were my friend—Is this your idea of friendship?” Her voice was so low, sodden, it didn’t even sound real. “Now you’re saying I killed Jay—”
“I’m not saying that. Reporters, on television, are hinting at it. They’re running the story here in San Francisco, hundreds of miles away from L.A. Maybe it’s a slow news day or something, but this is a lot of press attention for a shooting. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound so distant, but that’s what you wanted me for, isn’t it, to be logical. I thought you’d want me to handle the paperwork and things like that. Maybe help you close up the house. I never imagined…”
“No, of course not.” Liza felt like she was in the eye of a hurricane now, cooler, a hundred times more logical than Ellen would ever be. The television report chilled her to the bone. Ellen thought it signified a racy story. Maybe so. Maybe her life was racy. But there was nothing in the loft to suggest that; nothing in a police call that would draw reporters running. The impetus here had to be Frank Bentec. Frank Bentec wasn’t looking for the killers; he was looking for her. Frank Bentec had tendrils all over the state. He was everywhere. Maybe she should go back and face—No. Not that. Definitely, not that.
She needed time to think. And to sleep. And, oh God, she needed to get Ellen out of here before she got her caught in Frank Bentec’s tendrils. She could see Mrs. Baines, dear Mrs. Baines putting an extra helping of chocolate c
ake on her plate because “a wiry little girl like you needs her sweets.” Her stomach churned at the thought of what it would do to Mrs. Baines if anything happened to Ellen. She stared not at Ellen but the wall behind her, trying to blank out fear and longing, everything but what she had to do. “Ellen, I can’t thank you enough for coming.” Her voice sounded calm now. She kept staring at the wall. “Of course you’re right. I’ll call the police. But I’ve been driving all night. I need to get my head clear before I call them. You know the best thing you could do for me? Give me your room here. I need to sleep. Then I’ll call the police. By tonight I’ll be on a plane back home. Listen, I’m sorry to drag you out here, but maybe you can get a flight—”
“Liza, I’m not leaving you alone to—”
“I’m okay now, Ellen. There’s nothing more you can do.”
“Liza, what’s going on here? I called Harry Cooper and when I told him I was with you he just about panicked. He wanted me to race out of here and go to another hotel. He has to know something about your husband, from their talk in Portland, something to make him react like that.”
It was too much. Liza counted on instinct, on being able to react when she had to, but this double whammy when she was so exhausted flattened her. “I don’t know.”
“Why was he even in Portland?”
“Gun show. He went to a gun show.” It was the truth. If she hadn’t blurted it out she would never have realized that. She’d thought the gun show had been an addendum to Jay’s real focus in Portland. Just like the reunion. Now she saw what she’d known but not admitted: Jay Silvestri didn’t choose “campy” things like rural gun shows and school reunions for amusements. If he’d had business in Portland and wanted to add on a vacation, he’d have booked the best hotel in town, found the best fish house and the hottest club. If Jay opted for a gun show and the reunion, there had to be a reason. And the picnic at the Richland grade? She was so startled her exhaustion vanished.
