by Keri Hudson
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Los Angeles Police Department Sergeant Thomas Spangler leaned back behind his desk in the little private office cluttered with pictures of his family and his prized marlin catch from some summer on the water.
“You two are having a busy week, eh?”
Layla sat there, seeming barely able to contain her anger. “You’ve got your nerve. We were both almost killed, for the second time in a week!”
“Isn’t that just what I’m talking about?” A tense moment passed before the sergeant shrugged and went on, “Anyway, we got our man, thanks to you, Mr.... Mr. Billings.” Another moment lingered as Sgt. Spangler opened a manila folder on his desk. “Jonathan Billings,” he muttered, looking over the file in the folder, “former Special Ops operative, tour of duty in Iraq. Quite a record for a man your age. What are you, thirty-five, tops?”
Layla’s eyes shifted to Jack. She knew what the cop was likely sniffing around at, and it was a secret Jack dared not have revealed.
Jack shrugged and said only, “Started young.”
The sergeant smiled and nodded, glancing back at the file. “Lots of gaps here, redactions… high-level stuff?” But Jack just stared at him, letting that silence speak for him and for itself.
“I don’t understand what the problem is,” Layla said. “You’ve got Cy in custody. You’re going to hold onto him for a while, I hope?”
Spangler shrugged. “Trying. But he’s a big star too. His lawyer’s trying to have him moved to the hospital ward; that’ll be a go, I’d bet. That’s not exactly maximum security, and he’ll be off on bail shortly after that, I should think.”
Layla repeated, “Bail? He’s a murderous lunatic! He has to be behind bars!”
“First of all,” the sergeant said, “he’s got rights, same as you. If his lawyer can make a reasonable case, and I say if, he’ll be set free, yes. But that’ll take some time, for the rest of your stay in Los Angeles, for sure.”
“My stay in—? I’m only here another two days anyway! What about that? I’ve got to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life?”
Sergeant Spangler tilted his head, light bouncing off his balding pate. “After you leave Los Angeles, you’re out of my jurisdiction.”
“But not mine,” Jack said.
The sergeant shrugged. “Go with God. But there’s something else you should know, here or… or wherever you may go; he says he wasn’t the one who tried to run you off the road.”
Jack and Layla shared a worried glance, a long quiet settling around them. Jack asked, “Does he implicate anyone?”
The bony sergeant just shook his head, eyes locked on Jack. He didn’t need to say anything, but his study of Jack’s reactions said more than any words could. Layla seemed to pick up on it too, eyes shifting from Spangler to Jack and back.
Layla said, “He’s half-crazy, Cy is. He’s probably just fucking with your head.”
“Possible,” Sgt. Spangler said.
Jack said, “You think he’s got an accomplice.”
The sergeant shrugged again. “Little reason he wouldn’t give that accomplice up.”
“Unless he’s holding out for a deal,” Jack said, “get himself off the hook by throwing his partner under the bus.”
“Or under the limo,” Sgt. Spangler said. Layla watched their exchange with what Jack could tell was increasing worry and suspicion; it was Spangler’s suspicion, and it was clearly contagious. Spangler went on, “So I suppose whoever this accomplice is, he… or she… would be getting pretty nervous right about now.”
Jack nodded. He knew the well-meaning sergeant was implicating him as Cy’s accomplice, and that this would bring his investigation to a dead end.
Cops, Jack thought, one’s worse than the next; even the good ones are pretty much useless.
Jack nudged the interview to its conclusion and led Layla out of his office. “You don’t think there’s anything to that theory, I hope.”
“What, that you and Cy are in cahoots? You gotta be kidding me.”
Jack cracked a little smile. “Given any thought to what you’ll tell the press?”
Layla sighed. “The truth worked before.”
“And it’s the easiest thing to remember.”
“Oh, darling!” Jack and Layla looked over to see Lorelei rushing toward them from the other end of the hall. She wrapped her arms around Layla and pulled her in close, rocking a bit as she hugged her daughter tight. “Thank God you’re all right!”
“I’m fine, Mom, thanks to Jack… again.”
Lorelei smiled at Jack from over Layla’s shoulder. “Thank you, Jack. Anything I can do, anything… you name it.” Jack offered a little nod, a vague wink, but said nothing. Lorelei returned her attention to Layla. “The press is out front. You want me to get rid of them?”
Layla turned to Jack, who said, “Could be a compromise of your safety, considering…”
Lorelei looked at them, confused. “What, considering what?”
“The police think Cy may have had an accomplice.”
“An accomplice? But—?”
“Cy claims he wasn’t in the car that ran us off the road. That means a second person.” New worry replaced the relieved gratitude on Lorelei’s face.
But Jack added, “Still, with him in custody, whoever that is has probably gone so far underground they may never be seen again. I don’t think they’d be hanging around, certainly not lurking around with a gun.”
“You’re awfully cavalier,” Lorelei said.
“If Cy had an accomplice,” Jack explained, “their only payoff would have come from Cy himself. And he’s not going to be in any position now. No, I think we may be in the clear on that… at least for now.”
Layla added, “And anyway, I want my fans to see that I’m all right, and that I’m going to go on with the concert.”
Lorelei asked her, “You’re sure?” Layla nodded, taking her mother’s hands in hers. The two women shared a quiet moment, Jack looking on in respectful silence. Lorelei cracked a smile, a tear rolling down her cheek. “Okay, let’s do it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Jack, Layla, and Lorelei entered the Microsoft Theater on time for her last rehearsal before the concert the following day. Everybody had gathered early, the dancers and the band and the wardrobe and hair people, and they threw up a great cheer when Layla entered. They gathered around her, hugs and smiles, cooing well-wishes. Jack glanced at Lorelei and noticed how closely she was watching each interaction, eyes sinking to shrewd slits as if trying to catch a glimpse of one thing or another, a knife, a pistol.
Jack watched for the same things, but he’d become secure in the notion that any direct accomplice of Cy’s would either be long gone or lying very low. They’d have no reason to attack Layla, not at Cy’s behest. And nobody in the entourage exhibited any anxiety or discomfort. Jack flashed on the notion of her fired personal assistant, Yvonne Fitzgerald. Working closely with Layla, she could have come to know Cy, perhaps peripherally at first, then gradually getting closer.
But there was no trace of that redheaded pixie anywhere around, and she was on every guard’s shit list. It was a solid theory, one he’d pass along to Sgt. Spangler for further bungling in the department’s incompetent hands.
But Jack had to wonder, How hard can it be to track down some broad, even for them?
“There she is!” Jack and the others turned to see Stewart Mathers rushing down the aisle between the seats toward the stage. “Layla, you… you can’t imagine how I felt when I heard! My God, that… that maniac!” He rushed onto the stage and gave Layla a hug. She reached with an uncomfortable expression, mouth a twisted and awkward frown, eyebrows furrowed. He released her and asked, “And you’re still going on?”
“Of course, Stewart. The planet needs me… it needs us.”
Stewart smiled, beaming and sharing his glee with Jack, Lorelei, anybody nearby. “Well, I’m just so… so glad, so grateful. I’ll tell you what… All
World Entertainment will donate another hundred grand to the cause.” Taking in their silent response, he went on, “Aw, hell, let’s make it two… the planet needs us.”
Layla said, “We need the planet even more than it needs us, wouldn’t you say?”
Stewart stammered, glancing around and coughing up an uncomfortable chuckle. “Y’know what? Half a mil, that ought to make a dent.”
“Thank you, Stewart,” Layla said, earning a secret smile from Jack.
“Okay, well, I’ll leave you all to it. Duty calls!” Stewart chuckled again, then turned and waddled away, grumbling.
Layla turned to her band and Lorelei turned to Jack. “What do you make of this guy?” Jack let a moment pass, to let her add, “He couldn’t have been the guy in the car, could he? Good publicity for his concert, turn her into a martyr, the show into a memorial.”
The theory made some sense, at least economically. But there were other considerations. The move on Mulholland Drive took skill and guts, and Jack didn’t recognize either of those things in Stewart Mathers.
But there were reasons to let Lorelei be distracted by her little investigation, and Jack was almost amused by her new turn as a junior sleuth. Knowing what he now knew of the complex relationship between the two Schaffer women, it was reassuring to Jack, even impressive.
“Maybe you should keep an eye on him,” Jack said. “Not too close, but don’t lose him either.”
Lorelei looked in the direction the little man had gone, nodding as she seemed to give it all some thought. “I see anything, I bring it right back to you.”
Jack shot her with a look of grave seriousness, punctuated by a sharp nod. “Look sharp!”
She nodded back with a determined sneer. “Ten-four,” she said before stepping out to follow Mathers. Jack tried not to break out laughing, glad enough to have her out of his way and off his suspects list.
There were still others, and they needed his attention.
But for a moment, there was still Layla. She took the center of the stage as her band and dancers rallied around her. Their attention was fixed on her, and her attention fixed on their performance, and her own, striving toward perfection.
The band hit the familiar opening number and Layla threw herself into her performance. Jack stood, nearly entranced by her dancing, those luscious yet firm curves, muscles shapely but strong beneath her flawless skin. Her voice was a sexy purr, her face radiant and welcoming, remarkable in every way. Her blonde hair bounced on her shoulders as she swung that incredible body into her dance steps, singing out her sexy pleas for certain satisfaction.
And Jack knew when she glanced at him from the stage, thrusting her hips and rolling her shoulders, that he was the subject of her attention even beyond the music and performance. She was performing for him, promising him that wondrous physique, wanting him to live the fantasy that her throngs of fans paid eagerly for just a glimpse of.
And Jack would take it, glad and grateful and unabashed. The memory of her body wrapped around his was clear in his memory, in his nostrils, on the back of his tongue even then. Anticipation grew, power and energy roiling through his body.
Confident of her safety, Jack turned to step out of the theater for a breath of fresh air. His focus on Layla was becoming troubling for Jack. He’d told himself several times that it was merely a matter of duty; she was his client, he was right to focus all his attention on her. But he wasn’t about to lie to himself either. He wanted her with every fiber of his being, and that wouldn’t be good for business.
It could even cost one or both of them their lives.
Jack stepped out of the theater to survey the growing bustle of activity. The protesters were still there, and Layla’s fans clustered nearby. There were also the paparazzi, crews, and VIP visitors with ID badges around their necks.
But one thing Jack didn’t see was the Homeland Security team with their German shepherds. A quick walk around the place told Jack what he’d dreaded assuming. With Cy in custody as Layla’s stalker, and with her own mother and manager being their chief informant, Homeland Security clearly decided there was no further threat, presumably not of a terrorist nature. So they’d withdrawn their presence, taking their windbreakers and their bomb-sniffing dogs off the case.
And that only left Jack with a hollow feeling, a creeping worry wriggling in the back of his brain. Less security meant more danger, and there could still be a renegade accomplice out there.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Jack and Layla arrived at her dressing rooms, one hour before her concert set was to begin. She was already surrounded by hair and wardrobe people, poking and tugging at her, muttering their fey objections of her hair and body and lifestyle, shaking their heads and sucking their teeth.
Layla said to him, “So, I… I guess we’re good to go.”
Jack nodded, glancing around. “I’m gonna disappear during your set, make sure everything stays good to go.”
Layla smiled and Jack smiled back. “Jack, I… I owe you so much, I… I don’t know what to say.”
Jack put his big hand under her chin to raise her face to his. “You don’t have to say anything, Layla, not to me.” They stood in a sultry silence, before he added, “Just don’t say goodbye.”
Layla’s sad expression became more sweet than bitter. “You mean… after all this… you wanna stay… with me?”
Jack smiled as his face neared hers. “Try to keep me away.” The entourage pulled back while Jack and Layla shared a gentle kiss. The energy between them was palpable, kinetic, even frenetic. “Okay,” he said after their lips parted, “have a good show. I’ll see you on the other side.”
Jack stepped away and down the hall, headed for a labyrinth of hallways running behind, around, and under the Staples Center stage. Rock music played, muffled and distant, from the ongoing concert above.
“Hey, meester!” Jack turned to see the familiar male dancer approach.
“Rodrigo Sanchez,” Jack said.
“Dat’s right! How ‘joo doin’, man’g?”
“Fine, what’s up?”
Rodrigo glanced around, eyes shifting as he leaned forward. “I jus’ wanted ‘joo to know I got a call from Yvon’g las’ night, man’g, she was all cryin’ an’ sad, ‘joo know?”
“Yeah?”
“Jes, man’g.”
“You think it’s a reason for concern, do you?”
“Hhhi doo, man’g, jes.”
Jack already knew the former personal assistant had little chance of getting close enough to Layla to do her any harm. Unless she’s got somebody on the inside, Jack had to remind himself.
“All right, Rodrigo, thanks.” Jack stepped away, unconvinced. But it raised the possibility that Rodrigo was trying to manipulate him, that he knew more than he was letting on.
But that was what Jack was facing at virtually every turn, and time to solve the riddle of Cy’s accomplice was fast running out.
Jack took a circle around the compound, finding little to worry about. The parking lots were all packed, but the various businesses around the compound, the bars and restaurants and shops, were virtually empty with all the fans inside the stadium. There were some stragglers, a few crew members pushing crates on carts in last-minute preparations for the closing acts coming in the next few hours.
Security men stood around, keeping a visible presence even if they had little to back it up. In general, their presence would be enough. But this isn’t the usual circumstances, Jack reminded himself, and these idiots would be even more worthless than the cops if things come down to it. Speaking of useless, I wonder where Layla’s mother and that halfwit promoter are?
It was easy to imagine them watching the concert from a special box in the stadium. Lorelei was clearly eager to trail Mathers, and he wouldn’t be anywhere else. Even on the odd chance that Mathers was involved, he’d want to see the fruits of his labors; but that just seemed unlikely to the point of being absurd, the more Jack thought of it.
&n
bsp; As Jack returned to the stadium, he had the feeling that something was looming, that there was still grave danger waiting for him, for Layla, perhaps for everybody in that stadium. And to properly find it, and deal with it, he’d have to be more than merely human.
Jack remained in his human form as he stepped into the maze of hallways leading to the stage. Men and women crowded the hallway, casually chatting and snorting little spoonfuls of cocaine.
Jack walked past and deeper into the stadium, past one door marked No Entry and then another.
Jack had to wonder, Where’s the guard for that door? Or do they just assume a red sign will do the trick? The hallway was much quieter than the clatter and chat of the groupies and staffers in the outer hall. The muffled music from the stage was louder as he walked down the inner hall.
Several other show-biz wannabes were gathered around a pair of double doors marked Stage—Official Personnel Only. A beefy man with a headset and a clipboard guarded the door, glaring at Jack as he approached. But one flash of his laminated security badge would shut down any pesky objections. Though Jack wasn’t interested in going to the stage. His instincts told him that wasn’t where the danger would be.
Jack turned and hit the smaller door marked Stairs on the side of the hallway, a concrete stairwell opening up in front of him. His footsteps echoed in the tall, narrow chamber, quick as he descended two flights. His instincts were crackling in the back of his brain. He was nearing the area directly under the stage, and there was something happening there Jack would have to deal with. He couldn’t quite identify it, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before that would no longer be necessary.
Jack looked around the otherwise empty stairwell and pulled the door open just a bit. Instead of a frenzy of activity or a completely empty area, vacuous and dark, he saw the first armed man, wearing the traditional robes of an Arab soldier, holding an automatic handgun fixed with what Jack could clearly see was a silencer. They wore red berets, and Jack knew instantly that they were not US Army.
