by Susan Dunlap
He was a head taller. She stared him in the eye. “Then call my bluff, Larry.” He wanted to, she knew that, but there was a wild quality about her at the best of times and when she was enraged even she didn’t know whether she could control it. He was nearly snorting in her face. But across the room it was so quiet she couldn’t read his clients at all. And she didn’t dare take her eyes off Larry Best. She could feel the heat of him, of his overwhelming need to smack her. “I’m already news. You touch me and you and your business in this room will be, too. It’ll be news all the way to Cincinnati, Tuscaloosa or El Centro, wherever these Johns are from.”
Nothing moved, no eyes, no breath. She didn’t dare break her gaze. Larry Best couldn’t afford to blink.
He was saved by one of the other guys. “Forget her! She’s just another cunt.”
Larry shrugged in agreement. “Okay, we’re out of here.”
Liza didn’t budge. “No, not you. Ellen. Ellen, get up, and get your things. Now!”
Ellen moved like a zombie, so slow Liza could hear the walls breathe. She looked like a piece of cardboard before there were any creases for joints. What all had Larry Best poured down her? She was trying to steer a path well clear of any of the men, as if any one of them might snap a hand out and grab her. Liza could sense her terror; she had to keep herself from leaping across the room, wrapping her own safe arm around Ellen and pulling her out. She stayed put, froze her face and her stance. Ellen was almost staggering, looking around blankly. Forget the suitcase, the purse, whatever, she wanted to tell her, but she couldn’t chance confusing her. Nor could she make a sweep of the place for Ellen’s things. Once she stepped inside the circle of men the rules would shift and all the power would be theirs. She was running on automatic now, barking directions. “Get your purse, Ellen.”
“Did you have a coat?”
Ellen nodded toward a chair in which one of the men sat. He was leaning back against it and the look on his round face said: You want me to move, make me.
Liza eyed Larry. “Bring me her coat and suitcase.”
“Hey, I don’t have—”
“Yes, you do have to and you have to do it right now.”
Again his clients saved him. The coat and suitcase arrived at the door simultaneously with Ellen. Liza checked Ellen only out of the side of her gaze; she focused on the suitcase, coat and purse, lifted them through the door and shut it. Larry et al. could open the door and hassle them down the hall, but she was betting not one of them would make the move. They had face-saving and financial renegotiations to occupy them. Liza hoisted Ellen’s belongings and headed to the lobby.
It wasn’t till she had the car headed onto the street that Ellen spoke. “Thanks.” The word was barely audible. A small word, but Liza knew it encompassed everything she couldn’t say.
“Yeah.”
Silence settled like mud around them. Liza started to pull up to the curb, ready to wrap her arms around Ellen and let her cry or scream or whatever, like her mother did when Liza got the door shut against the neighbors or the cops. But Ellen shrieked, “No!”
She pulled back into traffic. “Do you need a doctor, Ellen?”
“No. Just a brain.”
“So they didn’t—”
“No—no thanks to me. I knew it was too good to be true. Jeez, how could I have been such a fool? If it hadn’t been for you…Jeez, Liza, you were incredible. How did you ever get to be so brave? You were amazing.”
“Hey, Ellen, don’t blame yourself. Blame Larry Best, the fucking asshole predator. Slimy bastard.”
“But I should have known.”
“Listen, you don’t run in this kind of circle, but I’ve seen guys like Larry and I didn’t think pimp either. It’s their trustworthy aura that makes the whole thing work for them. If Larry Best came over like a pimp he’d be working the Tenderloin. Feel stupid if you must. But it’s over. You’re safe now.”
The car topped a hill and roared across the intersection against the light. Brakes squealed. A male voice yelled. She ignored it. “It’s okay. Trust me. In a few minutes we’ll be out of San Francisco entirely. When we cross the Golden Gate look back and see that you are okay and you are leaving it all behind you.”
As they crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, Felton grunted from the back seat, settled and snored. Once again Liza thanked the gods of planning that there were no toll booths for those leaving the city.
“Ellen, we’re out of San Francisco. We are safe now. No one knows where we are.” She leaned across the seat and hugged Ellen. “We are two free women and pig!”
Eighteen
ASSISTANT TO THE COMMISSIONER Francis Bentec eyed the phone on his desk but did not lift the receiver. He had called SFPD as soon as he hung up with the hotel clerk in San Francisco, the kid who didn’t have the sense to look out the window and see where Liza Silvestri was headed. But common sense said she’d go north over the Golden Gate Bridge and on to Richland.
He had prodded Chan at SFPD to put a car on the entrance to the Golden Gate Bridge, and then he’d waited. Chan had called back every half hour to report no sighting till a stolen Jeep raced onto the bridge at ninety miles per hour and pulled the patrol car with it and Chan’s man forgot about Liza Silvestri.
Two hours and no sighting of her. Either Chan’s man had missed her before the ninety-mile-an-hour chase, or she hadn’t headed straight north.
She could be trying to out-fox him by doubling back and going to ground in the Santa Cruz mountains with the other loonies, but boxing herself in like that would be a high-stakes chance to take, and he doubted she’d try. With most women he’d say a flat out No. But he’d pulled the whole file on Liza Cummings, and with her he wasn’t so sure. She’d been one gutsy little Lolita. Most of the guys saw that surveillance shot—that asp going for her perky breast—and labeled her a saucy little tart. That’s how the state painted her in the juvie hearings. He’d known right away that there was more asp than victim to little Liza Cummings. She would double back all right, if she felt the odds were with her. She was one hot number who could live off the lay of the land.
The frustration could have left him flailing, but Frank Bentec prided himself on control. Nineteen years on the Force, he’d dealt with plenty of frustration. He’d learned to grab naps whenever he could and never let emotion stand in his way. Three times those calls of Chan’s had jerked him awake.
He wasn’t any closer to Liza Silvestri now but at least after an hour and a half’s sleep he was rested enough to think. And his conclusion remained sure. She had to be headed north to Richland. That was the only thing that made sense.
The phone rang, this time with a call from Potelli. “Frank, CHP had her in a sobriety check on twenty-four east of San Francisco—”
“Had, as in ‘don’t have anymore’?”
“Yeah. Don’t ask. That’s not the worst. It was two hours ago. Frank?” Potelli was scared.
“Where was she headed?”
“East on twenty-four. But none of my guys spotted her farther east, or on six-eighty. Twenty-four ends at six-eighty. She wouldn’t have any other choice.”
Bentec let a beat pass. “But she did, didn’t she, Joe, because she’s not on six-eighty. Look, I’m going to be straight with you here. Getting her is vital. Without her the whole operation fails.”
“Yeah, Frank, I know and—”
“It not only fails; it boomerangs. So don’t figure it’s just you don’t get her, you don’t get money. Her husband’s already dead. You want to join him?”
Potelli was silent. Bentec knew this was the first time he’d faced the truth.
“Get a man on every road. You’ve got the make and model she’s driving. Make damned sure your guys find her.”
“Yeah, right,” Potelli coughed out. “Listen, though, if she’s headed north out of state, then everything’s okay. After Red Bluff there’s only I-five inland. If she doubles back to the coast there’s only one-oh-one. Or Route one, the coast road, but t
hat would take her forever. Listen, we’re still fine, Frank. Count on it.”
Bentec didn’t bother to answer. He pushed Off.
The phone rang again immediately. “Bentec.”
“Heron.”
“Where are you?”
“In L.A. We drove up and down the ninety-nine all night, man, and not only did we not see her, we didn’t see any blue Firebirds. I mean, it’s crazy to expect us to, you know. Like a needle in a haystack.”
Bentec tapped his finger on the phone, stopping Heron’s nervous rant. He had two dangerous loose ends here in L.A. and now he saw how they could be tied up with one move. “Listen, Heron, you screwed up twice, twice in one night. You killed Silvestri and you let his wife escape. I’m not a man to give second chances, but you’ve never screwed up before, so for you I’m making an exception. Do this right and you’re square with me, you understand?”
“Yeah, sure, Inspector.”
“Go to Silvestri’s house in Malibu. Break the front door—there’s an alarm so you’re going to have to move fast. Go straight ahead, down the stairs, make a right and you’re in the guest bedroom. You follow?”
“Yeah, straight ahead, down, right, bedroom.”
“Under the bed is a nine-millimeter. Get it. The bed’s a king; you’re going to have to crawl. You’re going to need a flashlight to find the damned gun, maybe a broom handle to get it. Bring whatever; just get it. Bring it to Loray Park, the corner in the back. Six o’clock sharp.” He gave Heron Silvestri’s address, had him repeat it twice, and hung up.
By seven he’d be back to the office, Potelli’s men would have spotted Liza Silvestri on one of the freeways north, and he would be done with L.A. and ready to move.
Nineteen
LIZA KNEW IT WAS ridiculous, but she checked the parking lot for highway patrol cars before getting out of the Camaro and heading toward the restaurant. Too much had happened in too short a time. She felt as if she were walking on bubble wrap. She was steadying herself with the bond of Ellen’s friendship. And Ellen wasn’t steadying herself at all. She looked gaunt, wobbly and had hair poking in three directions. Her make-up was still in place but she’d turned so pale underneath that it looked garish, like the last attempt of the elderly to fool death. After what Ellen had been through, of course she’d behave erratically, Liza knew that. She should have expected Ellen could go from animated to mute, buzzed to nearly comatose. But she hadn’t, and this shell of a woman shocked her.
She pulled open the restaurant’s glass door and all but shoved Ellen into the warmth toward a pink and green booth.
The restaurant was empty except for a couple in their sixties seated on the far side of the salad bar. The man, in a yellow polo shirt, was sitting with his back to her. His royal-blue windbreaker hanging over his chair matched the one around the woman’s—she had to be his wife—shoulders. Both of them sat, shoulders hunched, hands knotted, not speaking. Liza jerked her head away. She’d sworn that she and Jay would never come to that. With a start, she realized she’d been right.
“Ellen, what do you want to eat?” She placed the stiff menu in Ellen’s stiff hands and beckoned to the waitress. “Coffee. Two.”
Ellen was holding the menu but not reading.
“Eggs, Ellen, nice scrambled eggs. And bacon. Toast with strawberry jelly. Breakfast. Food for the beginning of a new day.”
“I couldn’t…”
“Pie, then? Hot, gooey peach—”
Ellen turned white.
Hot and gooey, not the best image for a woman who just escaped being raped.
“Salad. Crisp, healthy—” No. The prospect of Ellen sliding her tray along the salad bar runners, choosing or rejecting cherry tomatoes, bacon bits, chopped green peppers, was as likely as Felton rejecting any of them. “Felton would really like the salad bar. It’s what they have in piggy heaven.”
Ellen stared over the menu top, eyes wide. Incomprehension? Or disbelief that a friend would think pig chatter appropriate at this time?
“Scrambled eggs, bacon, white toast over there,” Liza said to the waitress, speaking loudly to keep the waitress from staring at Ellen. “Here, a cheeseburger, onion rings, and, well, we’ll think about pie afterwards, especially if you have chocolate cream pie.” She grinned at Ellen, poured milk in both their coffees, pushed Ellen’s toward her, and gave the cup a little encouraging pat. “I haven’t eaten a cheeseburger in years, all that fat. It’s like having your whole day’s food in a bun. Okay, so not true about years. Sometimes Jay wants—” wants, not wanted—she couldn’t bring herself to talk about him dead—“to go out for a burger and so I order one and eat part, because when Jay’s gone—he’s away a lot on business—I know I can do a juice fast as soon as he leaves and then—”
“What kind of business?” Ellen looked up and for the first time appeared to really focus.
“Jay? You mean what does he do? He’s a venture capitalist.”
“Just what is that?”
“He finds funding for businesses, you know.”
“I really don’t know. What kind of businesses?”
“All sorts, it’s not any one kind.”
“Uh-huh.” Ellen was tapping her teeth together, as if she was pondering a particularly intriguing puzzle. As if she was on the verge of spotting the fatal flaw in it.
“No, see, it’s not the business that matters, it’s Jay. He’s the kind of guy who knows everyone and what they’re interested in, what they’ve got in the way of property and cash, and what they need, or want—” she was talking too fast—“or can be convinced they should want. See, Jay’s sort of a business visionary. He can see things—and people—that should come together. He creates wholes greater man the sums of the parts.”
Ellen’s expression hadn’t changed. Liza still couldn’t tell if it meant Ellen had zeroed in on some flaw in Jay, or in her, or maybe Ellen was just still in shock.
“What kind of business was he bringing together lately?” Ellen’s voice was sharper. She sounded like the lawyers in Juvenile Court and the psychiatrist and the judge, all of them, insisting they were her friends, then once they walked through the hearing-room door, they’d slapped her with questions she couldn’t answer, and threatened to send her to Juvie and slam the cell closed.
Liza sat dead still; it was a skill she perfected back then, pulling in tight inside while leaving her shell unaffected. Ellen wasn’t one of them, she insisted. Ellen was her friend. But, she realized with a start, she didn’t know how far friendship went. She’d never really, had a friend.
“Liza, I’m asking because I care what happens to you. I owe you—I don’t even want to think how much I may owe you. You called me out here to get some order in things. So let me do that, huh? Trust me.”
The music thumped on her skull. Trust her? She hadn’t “trusted” since when, when she was three? Four? Before she knew that trust meant giving over control, being helpless, watching someone else stumble over words or chairs or feelings. Years after she’d stopped trusting, she’d still been mopping up mistakes. And Ellen, who hadn’t spotted Larry Best for a letch—how could she possibly trust her judgment when her whole life was hanging on what she decided to do next? Ellen didn’t know what she was asking.
For the first time she could hear the couple across the room. The man was grumbling about his trailer. No wonder his wife wasn’t answering.
The food arrived. With relief, Liza focused full force on her burger. “Could you bring me some mustard?”
“It’s on the table, ma’am.” The waitress waved a hand at the wicker basket holding mustard, ketchup, salt, pepper, and three kinds of sugar.
“Hot sauce?”
“I’ll go back to the kitchen and get you some.”
“And salsa? Do you have any salsa?”
“I’ll have to check, ma’am.”
Liza nodded.
“Will there be anything else, ma’am?” Before Liza could react to her frigid tone, the waitress turned and headed
back to the kitchen.
A second later, Liza lifted her hand to call her back.
Ellen grabbed the hand. “Forget her. Forget everything, Liza, except your husband who was murdered, and the police. Why weren’t you on the horn to them the moment I told you? Because of a juvenile record? Liza, what’s a juvenile record compared to murder?”
Liza jumped up. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
“No!”
Ellen clamped a hand on her arm.
“This time yesterday I was home in my own bed. My life was under control. The biggest problem I had was whether to drive to the opera or take a cab.” She pressed Liza back down toward her seat with surprising force. “You called me; I dropped everything because I care about you, and because, Liza, I’ve ‘owed’ you for ten years. Now, dammit, let me pay up. Let me help you figure out what to do!”
The room seemed like an echo chamber as Ellen repeated, “You’re an impulsive person. It’s what we love about you. But you’re out of your league here. Let me help you make a plan. Tell me what the hell is going on.”
Liza sat, still not moving. No one had ever offered this much. She stared at Ellen’s face, still gaunt but now flushed, with concern? Or from being pissed off big-time? How could she—“I don’t know.” That was the truth and it shocked her.
“Liza, I’m not buying that. Now you tell me!”
Liza felt numb. She’d given Ellen the truth and Ellen figured she was lying. Just like the lawyers and shrinks and judges.
“Liza, I know this is hard. Obviously it is. But running away is just going to prolong your misery. Call the police—Inspector Bentec.”
Out of the corner of her eye Liza could see the blue-jacketed couple behind the salad bar. They’d given up any pretense of conversation or eating.
Once you talked it was too late. The only safety was in silence. She was surprised to hear herself say, “You want to know why I can’t call Frank Bentec?” Her voice was half an octave lower than a moment ago. She took a deep breath, stared Ellen in the eye, and realized that she’d made her choice about trust. “I met Bentec with Jay. He recognized me, from a tattoo I no longer have. He knew I’d been in jail, juvenile hall.” Before Ellen could ask, she added, “For holding up a jewelry store.” She was not looking at Ellen anymore, not even aware of her reaction. She could hardly make herself go on. Even at the trial they’d had to pull the details out of her. “I was on Wiltshire Boulevard one afternoon with my parents, when they were on one of their sobriety binges. By that time—I was fourteen—I didn’t have much hope of success for them, but I knew I’d best keep them moving. Cold turkeying with another drunk is a pretty low percentage prospect. So we were walking along, looking in the shop windows, and I’ll say for them, they were really trying to buoy up ‘the family outing.’ ”
