The bedside clock was buzzing harshly. Sam Murray opened his eyes with difficulty and hit it to shut it off. He was lying enfolded in Lisa’s slender arms. She stirred, groggy. Hell. It was hard to get up. After sex with her, he was drained at the best of times. Today her wet, slippery, squirming body had aroused him so much she’d milked him dry, and Sam had carried her, damp, to the bed and practically fallen asleep in her embrace the moment his head touched the pillow.
He could have slept for hours. Years. But there was no time. They needed to move from here. Craig Gordon knew where they were. The Bureau might have wheedled it out of him. They could not stay still.
‘We got to get up. Come on, baby.’
‘Where are we going now?’ She rubbed her eyes. God, but she was beautiful when she was sleepy. He noted that she did not prevaricate, did not argue. She was a soldier. She moved when he said move.
‘We need clothes, food. We didn’t bring anything. Got to get supplies. I’ll find another place to stash us.’ He grinned. ‘I know a few hookers I trust. You don’t mind?’
‘Don’t mind anything from your past. They’re more honest than half the trophy wives I knew,’ Lisa said.
‘The Farmers’ Market sells cheap T-shirts, shorts, stuff like that. It’ll do for now. And we can eat. I want to be open air.’
‘Sure. I like the market.’
‘We’ll change in the bathrooms there, walk down to the Beverly Center, catch a cab. I know this chick in the Hollywood Hills. Then we start making calls on Peter Mazin . . .’
He turned and looked at Lisa. She was standing in the middle of the room, naked; enough of a sight to arrest him just by itself. But there was a look on her face he hadn’t seen before. A terrible, fearful look. Understanding. Disgust.
His heart thumped. ‘Lisa! What’s the matter? What is it?’
She faced him, and he half quailed at the look in her eyes.
‘I know who did it,’ she said. ‘I know who killed Josh. It’s so obvious. It was always staring us in the face. You worked it out and then you looked right past her.’
‘Her?’ Sam repeated, and his mind swung straight to the same place, and realisation ripped across him in a tidal wave of shock.
‘Hannah,’ Lisa whispered. ‘It was Hannah Mazin. She slept with him. She might have loved him. But to Josh she was just another whore. He enjoyed her more because she was married to Peter; he was asserting himself over Peter . . . but he didn’t want it open. He was going to marry me . . . he loved me, maybe, after a fashion. As long as he didn’t have to stop screwing around.’
‘Jesus, Lisa.’
‘What you said . . . hookers . . . and I said they were more honest than the trophy wives . . .’
‘Hannah didn’t want second place. She wanted Josh.’ Sam shook his head at his own blindness. ‘It burns these people; they’re myopic. Maybe she could deal with rejection, thought she’d get him back. But when he was actually going to marry you . . . that was too much for her. Going to the big society wedding. Watching you in your dress. The photos. The TV shots. My exclusive. She couldn’t stand it. She wanted him dead and you to suffer for it. And with Josh out the way, guess what? Peter Mazin becomes the alpha dog. By default.’
‘I think you should call Craig.’ Lisa picked up her clothes from the floor. ‘Have him check her money too. Do we still go out, go to Hollywood?’
‘We need fresh clothes. We smell, we get noticed. And food. No, we go on as planned. It might not be Hannah. It’s just a theory that fits right now.’
‘It’s Hannah,’ Lisa said, and her eyes were dark with rage. ‘It’s Hannah.’
Chapter Fourteen
Peter Mazin waited as his garage door swung smoothly up to admit his Ferrari. Hannah’s Aston Martin was parked next door, and the housekeeper’s BMW in the third garage. The second row of garages, right behind, kept the customised Hummer he used for hunting, the SUV they took on weekend trips, and the gardeners’ pick-up truck. They had never had any kids, never wanted any. Hannah didn’t bug him about it. Until Josh . . . until the goddamned thing with Josh, he thought she was the perfect wife.
He parked the car and jumped out. She would be in. He knew her routine. Their house lay stretched out, perfect, in front of him. Ten thousand square feet of prime Beverly Hills real estate, the lawns smooth and lush from the sprinklers, the air fragrant with roses and hibiscus. The house itself looked like a Williamsburg Colonial from the outside, all cream and apple green and fresh-painted wooden shutters. Inside, it was wired up with more modern electronics than a NASA launch pad.
His heart raced, unsteady. His breathing was ragged. He almost wanted a drink, at eleven o’clock in the morning. When it had hit him, he’d come straight home, making an excuse to the guys in the office. Combine that with the FBI visit and what would they think?
He knocked on the door. Juanita, their housekeeper, raised her eyebrows to see him.
‘Mr Peter! You home early.’
‘Is Mrs Mazin in?’ he asked formally.
‘Yes, sir, she upstairs.’
‘Juanita, I want a little alone time with my wife. Can you get rid of the staff?’
He looked deadly serious. The housekeeper swallowed, broke eye contact. ‘Yes, Mr Peter. I send them away.’
‘And the gardeners. And you too for an hour. You could pick up the dry-cleaning, OK?’
‘Si, senor,’ she agreed, ducking from his path. Peter Mazin was a mild-mannered guy, but you didn’t mess with him when he was angry. The older woman was alive with curiosity. Who had that little Anglo slut been fucking now? she wondered. But it was more than her cushy job was worth to let it show. She bustled off to the kitchen to get rid of the maids, listening to him walk upstairs, his footsteps heavy on the polished oak stairs.
Lisa moved through the market. Sam was right behind her. He didn’t have his hand in the small of her back, but he might as well have done. She had picked up jeans and some tourist T-shirts almost as soon as she’d entered the market, and Sam and she had moved into the bathrooms and changed right away, stuffing their old clothes into carrier bags and dumping them in garbage bins. The feeling of clean cotton against the skin was utterly luxurious. They headed back and bought another set of clothes, socks included. One to wear and one to wash. Amazing how you cherished the small things when you were running for your life.
The market was dark with sunglasses on, but she dared not remove them. Even in shades and a baseball cap she felt conspicuous. It only took one astute shopper to spot her and Sam and she would be running again, this time with less safety than ever. There was no European anonymity here.
‘Let’s eat.’ Sam steered her towards a stall making juices. God, Lisa thought, fresh-squeezed Californian juice; it was one of the great things about this city. She had missed it so much . . . her body craved it, the vitamin C, the sheer lightness of it . . .
Yuri replaced the trinket on its stall. He didn’t jerk or move fast. He had seen them. Briefly, in his peripheral vision. But it was them. He had no doubts, none at all.
His mind moved to the car. It was waiting outside, parked near the exit of the Writers’ Guild building across the street. There was a latex mask, a good one, and glasses inside the glove compartment. He would drive it down the block to the Beverly Center and lose himself in there for a while. There was a second car waiting by a pharmacy across the street. He would be in San Diego by nightfall, and Mexico tomorrow, and then lie low for his customary two months.
Power and pleasure suffused him. Damn, but he was good at this. They had come to him, as surely as if he had them tied to a golden string. Time to let his nervous little client off the hook.
Keeping them in his sightline, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and punched in her number.
Hannah Mazin was sitting in her dressing room. It was a vast expanse adjacent to their master bedroom, her closets and shoe racks and mirrors lining it wall to ceiling, the whole thing painted a dusty pink with silver accents. She
faced her antique French gilt dressing table, regarding her pretty face in the ancient mirror covered with age spots.
Peter looked at her. She regarded his reflection, did not turn round. He thought her eyes were glittering, feverishly bright.
‘There’s money missing from our accounts. Millions of dollars.’
Hannah slowly raised her bone-backed hairbrush to her head. She did not deign to answer him.
‘The FBI came to see me. They don’t want me to leave the country. They know about you and Josh.’
It was the first time he had said those words out loud.
‘I don’t care,’ she said then, and her voice was high-pitched, half mad. ‘He deserved it. He used me. Threw me aside. Chose that bitch, that fucking little English bitch.’ She giggled. ‘I showed her.’
Mazin felt like vomiting. His wife. His own goddamned wife.
‘I want a divorce,’ he managed. ‘On grounds of adultery. You get nothing, Hannah, that’s the pre-nup. I want you out of my house.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she said. ‘Not till she’s dead. She’ll be dead soon.’
‘You did it,’ Mazin said. ‘You . . . you actually did this. You murdered him. They found you, Hannah. They’ll kill you. That’s why the agent left my office. He knew it wasn’t me. It was you.’
‘They won’t kill me. They won’t dare.’
‘You’re fucking insane.’ Mazin started to back away, down towards the stairs. ‘Go right now, take the jet, get over the border. Maybe you can make a life. Otherwise they’ll fry you, Hannah. When you hired that assassin, you murdered Josh. And you did that in the USA. They’ll try you and execute you, right here. And you’d deserve it.’
Her cell phone rang. Mazin jumped out of his skin. She took the call; she actually took the call.
‘Good,’ she said, after a second. ‘You have all the money. Kill them.’
She hung up and looked at Peter.
‘That was Yuri. He works for me. They are at the Farmers’ Market and he’s going to shoot them now.’
‘You can’t do that,’ Peter Mazin stuttered. ‘You’ve lost your mind. I’m calling 911.’
Hannah Mazin smiled gently. She reached into her little drawer and turned back to him. He gasped in shock. She was holding a revolver, a tiny little thing with a gleaming pink handle.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re not.’
Then she shot him in the chest.
Sam tossed back the juice. Orange and lychee and watermelon. God, it was good. It slipped down his throat, hydrated him. He watched Lisa gulping hers. They’d get a burger someplace, then get over to the Hills. He wanted Craig Gordon. Hannah Mazin, she was the one. He was close to freedom, at last. He sensed it . . .
Sam saw him almost too late.
His left hand went out reflexively. He shoved Lisa by her neck. She yelped in pain, the remains of the juice splashing her new shirt. He heard the phut, the whizz of the bullet.
Behind him, somebody screamed. He was splashed with blood. Then everybody screamed.
Another bullet. The guy was closer now. Pain exploded in his upper arm. He knew he’d been shot.
‘Gun!’ somebody screamed. ‘Gun!’
The juice stall was upended; everything crashed to the ground. The market was full of people shrieking, running, mothers grabbing their children.
Sam saw the assassin. He was a Slav, blond and white-faced. He grabbed Lisa, yelping in pain from his arm. ‘Run!’ he shouted. ‘Get out! Out!’
Christ. Jesus Christ. He didn’t have a gun. This man was not Felix Latham; this man was serious.
‘It’s her!’ somebody shrieked, even louder than the roars of the crowd. ‘That’s Lisa Costello! The killer! That bitch has a gun! Get her!’
He was a burly black man in a Lakers T-shirt. Sam tried to push him off, but the guy had eighty pounds on him. He moved in front of Lisa as she scrambled for her footing in the panicking crowd.
The man’s head exploded. Sam retched. Skull ripped open, blood and brain matter everywhere. He had gotten in front of Lisa, and taken her bullet.
‘She killed him!’ a woman wailed. ‘She killed that guy! She shot him!’
‘LAPD!’ came a cry. And another. ‘LAPD! Drop your weapon!’
There were two cops. Full blue uniforms, guns drawn. ‘Get down!’ one of them shouted. He wasn’t looking at the Slav, shoving his way through the crowd, gun held discreetly next to his chest. He was looking at Lisa. His gun was drawn on her. It was cocked. Lisa tripped and stumbled.
‘Get down!’ the guy roared. ‘I said, get down!’
Lisa had no control. The press of the crowd was too thick. The cops were nervous, Sam could tell. He thought they might shoot. There were two of them. And the killer was coming, shoving inexorably through the press of bodies.
‘It isn’t her!’ he shouted. ‘She’s unarmed! It’s him!’
He pointed at the Slav. The man’s eyes narrowed. Sam saw he hated being pointed out in the crowd.
‘Get back, sir, right now!’ yelled the larger cop. He trained his gun on Sam. The smaller one was already aiming at Lisa as she struggled for balance. She wasn’t listening to them; she was running. Christ. They were going to kill her. Sam felt the chaos around him slow and stop, slow motion, like his heart, like life would be without her, and he knew if he interfered they would kill him, and he knew the assassin was readying his gun; he could see it. The cops weren’t looking, and suddenly it was all absolutely clear to him, and he turned and punched the large cop in the solar plexus. Then he took the guy’s gun, a huge, no-messing automatic, and he pointed it over the heads of the screaming crowd and he fired. The Slav stared at him, stunned, a bright-red hole blooming in his forehead, and the second cop turned away from Lisa and jammed his gun into the small of Sam’s back, and Lisa fell to the ground and looked up and cried out, ‘Don’t kill him, I love him! I love him!’ Sam dropped the gun and felt the first cop manhandle him to the ground, kicking him so hard in the ribs that they broke, and he crunched in agony, trying to look around for Lisa, and then the blood loss from his arm overcame him, and he fainted.
Hannah Mazin watched the scene unfold on CNN. She was numb with anger. Peter’s body was still warm in the room behind her. The servants would be up soon, but she still had the gun.
The scrolling titles on the bottom of the screen made no sense to her. The news feed was muddy, indistinct, shots from a helicopter showing the Farmers’ Market sealed off, FBI vans and police cars parked around, lots of yellow tape.
Lisa Costello apprehended, it said. Fatal shootings on West Third St. Casualties unknown. Samuel Murray under arrest. FBI investigating.
Apprehended. Under arrest. That wasn’t dead, was it? That wasn’t fucking dead. She scanned the lines but nothing more came out. Where was Yuri?
‘And now we have a report from Susie Chen, our reporter on the scene,’ said the anchor excitedly. ‘What’s new, Susie?’
‘Joanne, police sources are informing CNN at this time that the journalist Sam Murray of USA Weekly shot another man dead with a gun belonging to a policeman,’ said pretty Susie to camera, looking earnest. ‘These are unconfirmed reports right now. We are hearing that this second man was found to be carrying a gun. There are suggestions that he may have targeted Lisa Costello for assassination.’
‘Well that’s a very significant development. Are the police saying anything for the record?’
‘Not yet. We are hearing though from several law enforcement sources that this may have something to do with the recently publicised theory that Josh Steen, former husband of Lisa Costello, was in fact slain by an assassin; you remember that major story that’s been all over the airwaves this past week. A corpse has been taken to the medical examiner . . . One thing we know for sure is that Lisa Costello and Sam Murray are both in custody at this time, both alive. Sam Murray sustained a gunshot wound and is on his way to hospital under police guard, but it’s not thought to be life-threatening . . . Lawyers are
already scrambling to be the one to represent Ms Costello, and it would seem the strangest murder case in America for years has just taken another turn . . .’
Hannah understood that. The writer, the tabloid hack. Somehow he had killed Yuri. Her money was gone. Lisa was with the FBI. Peter, behind her, was dead. They had tracked her.
She thought of Josh for a few moments. Thought of his dark eyes boring into hers. Thought of her body leaping eagerly, God, so eagerly, to his touch. His mouth on hers.
Almost without thinking, she raised the gun to her temple, and she fired.
Epilogue
‘You can go,’ Craig said.
‘Jesus.’ Sam could hardly believe it. ‘I can? Are you sure?’
‘They’re satisfied. Listen, don’t fuck up again. My advice is to get out of this jurisdiction. Nobody likes a wise-ass.’
‘Right,’ Sam said. He didn’t know what else to say. Craig had dealt quietly and patiently with his lawyer, with all the authorities. It was less than a week, and the DA had informed him there were no charges. Self-defence, and two notorious assassins dead. He was a free man. Apparently a hero too. A celebrity.
None of that mattered. Nothing did, without Lisa.
‘Where is she? Did they charge her?’
Last he’d heard from his lawyer, they were still thinking about it. Multiple charges were possible. Abduction. Assault. False passports. Flight. Theft . . .
‘No. Couldn’t do it. Nobody hates her any more. Didn’t you hear?’ Craig’s grin split his face. ‘America’s feeling guilty for believing the hype. Believing a tabloid hack like you. The general consensus is she did nothing wrong.’
‘Where is she?’ Sam asked. ‘I want to see her. I want to talk to her.’
‘She’s waiting for you. Come on.’
His friend led him out of the interview room and down a corridor. They were together in the middle of the Beverly Hills Police Department. Cops stared as they walked past, and Sam didn’t give a damn. Craig shoved him into an open room. And there she was, in a white T-shirt and a pair of jeans, her hair blonde, blow-dried and healthy, and nothing on her face but lip gloss, and to him she was the most gorgeous woman in the world.
Desire Page 31
