The Burglar

by Thomas Perry

  Afterward she returned to her room, put on shorts and a tank top over a bathing suit, and went out to the pool, stopping first in the hotel store to buy new sunglasses, sunscreen, and a paperback book. She set aside the outer clothes and swam lengths until her muscles were so thoroughly exhausted that they relaxed because they couldn’t contract anymore.

  She lay on a chaise longue with her eyes closed and her oversize sunglasses on and felt the luxurious sensation of the sun warming her skin and the water evaporating into the warm, dry air. As soon as her skin dried she applied the sunscreen. It was not good for people in the theft business to get sunburned, particularly in Los Angeles, where the only people over seven who ever got sunburned were visitors from elsewhere.

  She opened her book to read, hoping it would distract her thoughts from Sharon. She was still feeling upset by the attack at the cemetery, but she told herself this place was as safe as any. People hunting for a Los Angeles–based fugitive wouldn’t be likely to hunt in a hotel beside a Los Angeles tourist destination. If they looked in hotels they would choose hotels in San Francisco or Las Vegas or resorts along the coast. And being in a bathing suit helped her disguise. People running from pursuers seldom hid in bathing suits. They made a person unprepared to fight or run.

  One reason she was wearing one now was that she’d noticed while growing up that although bikinis showed a lot, they didn’t give anything away about identity. All women’s bathing suits were pretty much alike—two small pieces of cloth that covered only the parts of a woman that people needed to be protected from by law. Wearing one by a pool said nothing about her identity or history except that she was young and female. That much could be observed about several similarly attired guests around the pool at this moment. And even to Elle’s discerning eye, most young women’s bodies were pretty much the same from a distance. Today she was glad to see there were a couple of them who looked better than she did—more eye-catching, at least.

  She used the cover of her big dark sunglasses to focus her eyes an inch or two above the printed pages of her book every few minutes to scan the area. The fact that she was hiding didn’t necessarily mean nobody would ever find her.

  She spotted a young man on a nearby chaise watching her and noted that he was attractive, with a trim, muscular body and a boyish blond look. She went back to reading, then noticed him looking at her again. She gave him another chance to look at somebody or something else, and when he didn’t, she said, “We don’t know each other well enough for you to give me your undivided attention. Your divided attention would be enough.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “That girl over there, the one with the black nylon suit and the big earrings? She’s so pretty I may go try to pick her up myself.”

  He looked at the woman, this time surreptitiously. “I don’t know. She’s a little scary to me.”

  “Get used to it. That’s how we are in L.A.”

  “You’re from around here?”

  “No,” she said. “New York. But I visit L.A. often.” Talking about herself wasn’t the best way to avoid attention, so she grasped at the only diversion she had—him. “Where are you from?”

  “Calgary.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I guess I’m trying to get on a television show.”

  “Any one in particular?”

  “At the moment it’s called ‘Untitled Hector Staples Project.’ It’s a pilot about modern cowboys in Canada. There were a couple of producers and other people up there and I got hired to show them around for a few days. Now they’re paying my way to audition.”

  “Are you an actor?”

  “I wasn’t until now.”

  “Are you a cowboy?”

  “Mostly when I was younger. The work is hard, and the pay is lousy. You’re always hot or cold or wet. But I got good with horses. Since then I’ve been a horse trainer.”

  He was good with more than just horses. Either he was the best confidence man of the thousands within a mile of the hotel, or he really was what he said. No woman could have this conversation with him and not picture him patiently and competently winning over one of those big, beautiful, powerful creatures, reassuring it and soothing it, getting it used to his touch and his soft, strong voice. She glanced at her watch, closed her book, stood, and put on her shorts.

  He said, “You’re going? I hope I didn’t scare you off.”

  “I don’t stampede easily,” she said. “I just don’t think any more sun right now would be a good thing.” She stepped into her sandals. “Break a leg.” She began to walk toward the glass doors.

  She made nine steps across the hot concrete before she felt his presence behind her. She slowed down to let him catch up and turned her head. “What?”

  “I don’t want to give up, so I thought I’d get out of the sun too. Will you have a drink and a snack with me? It’s teatime.”

  She stopped, looked up at him through the sunglasses, and squinted to see him better. “Teatime? That’s a first. Mmmm … I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  She took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Turning you down doesn’t mean anything bad about you. It can mean that your set of coordinates in the universe, or your trajectory, is just not right in relation to me at the moment. You show signs of being a first-rate human. You’re attractive and well-spoken and decisive without being too sure of yourself. You must be kind and gentle or some horse would have kicked your brains out by now. But to me, today, you’re a distraction. You kind of entered my space unexpectedly from an angle, and sharing time with you would require that I slow down and move a few paces off the track.”

  He looked down at her, his expression still open and friendly. She wondered if he was stupid.

  “I understand,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were having a psychological emergency. You must be a strong and disciplined person to handle it so well that I missed it. I’m sorry. I hope you have a wonderful day.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Okay?”

  “I’ll have tea with you.”

  “Really? Good,” he said.

  “I want to change first, though, not sit in a wet bathing suit.”

  “Good idea. We can meet in the lobby in … how long?”

  “Twenty minutes.” She turned.

  “Wait.”

  She turned back with her eyebrows raised.

  He said, “You’re not just getting rid of me, right?”

  “Don’t be clingy. I say what I mean.” She walked toward the doors, which slid aside to admit her.

  Elle went upstairs, took the bathing suit off in the shower, and rinsed the chlorine out of it, out of her hair, and off her skin. As she dressed, she thought. He was handsome and in some kind of post-athletic shape caused by working long, hard hours with—and on—big animals and doing heavy chores for years. And he was smart, which was probably why television producers had considered him a find. Or they hadn’t and didn’t exist except in the story he used to pick up women. She was aware that nearly all women except her would see the two possibilities as opposites, good and bad.

  For her, such distinctions were not so unambiguous. If he really was just a nice Canadian cowboy about to fall into an acting career, that would be fine. But if he was a con man smart enough to fool her and attract her at the same time, he would be rarer and more interesting. For now, she thought, he wasn’t asking much. He was attracted to her and wanted to spend an hour with her. She didn’t see that as an offense.

  And Elle had a criminal’s tendency to examine every situation for the possible advantages it might yield for her. She was trying to stay out of sight and safe for the longest time possible. He was about to buy her a treat on a day when she hadn’t eaten much, spend some time indoors with her away from the sight of enemies, and provide some human interaction that might help her morale.

  Elle didn’t believe in being late just to give a man a
chance to think about what a prize she was. She put some makeup on in a practical, efficient three-minute application, went to the elevator, and descended.

  He was waiting for her in an armchair positioned so he could see the elevator door slide open. He wore pressed pants, a polo shirt, and wingtip shoes. He looked so neat and put-together that he seemed to be a visitor from another era, not just another country. He strode toward her. When they met he was grinning.

  She said, “I wasn’t expecting the urban fashion model look.”

  “I thought this would be better than jeans and boots.”

  “You were right. Where are we drinking our tea?”

  “Right over there.” He pointed across the lobby at a short hallway ending in a door. “You said you’d had enough sun, so I thought we’d skip the patio.”

  In the restaurant they let the hostess take them to a table. It was near the glass wall, but in a shadow so they could look outside without glare. When the hostess had taken their order for tea, sandwiches, and pastries and left, he said, “Do you mind if I sit next to you instead of across?” and patted the place to his left. “Right here?”

  “It’s fine,” she said. “But if anything touches my thigh besides my napkin you’re a dead man.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, and slid to the next chair.

  “So,” she said. “I’m Annie McDowell. Who are you?”

  “Tim Marshall. I’m sorry I forgot my manners and didn’t introduce myself first thing. I was in kind of a hurry to keep you from running off.”

  “You’ve said you were sorry three times so far. Do you do that a lot?”

  “Canadians do, I think. But while I’m here I’ll try not to do anything that requires an apology.”

  “You’re doing very well,” she said. “So tell me about your new career. Are they asking you to do anything, or just to hang around and wait?”

  “This morning I went to a meeting in an office in that building over there at the bottom of the hill.”

  “White or black?”

  “White.”

  “That’s good,” she said. “It’s the producers’ building. The black one is for the suits.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I worked there as a temp once, years ago. Both buildings.”

  “How long?”

  “About two weeks each. There was a flu epidemic and I could type and spell. You might say I saved Hollywood.”

  “But you left. You didn’t like the work?”

  “It wasn’t that. I got the flu, probably from a dirty keyboard, and not long after that I left L.A. to go back to New York.”

  “Oh.”

  She had actually done the job she described, but there had been no flu epidemic. She had been doing research. Clerical employees at big companies had access to private information. Nearly all of it was accessible from the computer at the desk of each person she replaced. She had no trouble finding passwords scribbled on pieces of paper in drawers.

  She had compiled a list of the names and addresses of a large number of well-paid employees and contractual free agents who worked behind the camera and were not famous enough to need professional security teams at their homes. She also made lists of casts and crews working on movie and television projects that would be shooting overseas. Her information had remained useful for a few months, but projects ended and people moved on to others.

  “I did learn a few things,” she said. “You should make up your mind quickly if you want to do this. You won’t get another shot at it when you’re fifty and get tired of playing with your horses.”

  They talked for a time about his life in Canada and his possible new career. She liked him, so she encouraged him and gave him advice about living in Los Angeles. At no point did she ever forget that he might be a con man and not a cowboy, but she knew that her best strategy in either case was to appear to believe him. If he was a cowboy from Calgary he could use her help. If he was a con man he would know her advice was sound, and he would not have reason to guess she was anything but what she said she was.

  When the check came she let him take it and noted the number of the room he put on the signature slip. When he closed the leather folder she said, “I’d better get going. Thank you very much for teatime.”

  He said, “Don’t go so soon. I could talk to you all day.”

  “You could, but you shouldn’t, and I shouldn’t. Get up and move around.” She focused on something across the restaurant. “That girl with the big earrings from the pool is looking your way. She sees you’re with another woman, so she knows you’re not violent or boring. And she changed the earrings.”

  “I’m not interested in her,” he said.

  “You will be when you get a closer look.”

  She didn’t wait for an answer, just walked quickly to the elevator and rode it to the twelfth floor. After she was in her room she opened her laptop and tried looking up Tim Marshall on Google. There were dozens of Tim Marshalls, maybe hundreds. She spent some time scrolling down the list but didn’t find one who was likely to be this one. Either they didn’t live in Canada or they were doctors or professors or businessmen. She knew it didn’t mean anything—she wasn’t on Google either.

  She had spent enough time thinking about Tim Marshall. He had been a distraction for an hour or so and helped her to stop thinking about Sharon every second. But a man—probably the killer—had attacked her after Sharon’s funeral today. She couldn’t call the police, and she couldn’t get help from anyone she knew. She was alone. If she was going to survive, she would have to find out who the enemy was. The evening had almost begun, and it was time to get moving.

  Elle drove to Burbank Airport and exchanged her rented Audi for a silver Toyota Camry, because when she scanned the rental lot, the Camry seemed to be the most different from the black Audi her attacker had seen.

  11

  Elle drove her rental car to the street where the Pity was located, pulled to the curb a distance away, and sat there looking. The red neon sign above the door must have been brighter when all the letters still worked, but that had probably been before she was born. The surviving four letters illuminated only the few feet below the sign in a dim red glow. The city streetlamps nearby were old, dirty, and too far apart to light the sidewalks.

  She looked at the cars in the parking lot, studied the people going into and coming out of the plain one-story stucco building, and then moved her gaze to the cars parked on the street like hers, away from the lot. She sat unmoving, trying to pick out anything unusual—people watching the place, or anything that might be a police vehicle. It was difficult, but eventually she was satisfied.

  She got out and went through the parking lot to the back, where she was out of any overhead light and could see anyone sitting in a car watching for her. Judging from the number of cars in the lot, she decided there were more people than usual in the Pity tonight.

  She went in the back door to the T-shaped corridor that led on one side to the kitchen and on the other to the restrooms. She was acutely aware of the positions and angles of the three security cameras in the Pity. The one in the hallway she was moving along now would retain only a view of the back of her head. She would stay away from the cash register at the end of the bar where the second camera was. The third one was aimed at the front door to catch people coming in, and it wouldn’t see her face.

  She saw Desiree tending bar again with Ron Gillespie, one of the relief bartenders who worked a couple of nights a week. She nodded at both of them before she went to the table where Ricki the model sat alone. “Are you waiting for somebody?”

  “I’m always waiting for somebody, and it’s usually a waste of time. Sit with me and you’ll see.”

  “Okay.” Elle pulled herself up onto the tall seat.

  “I saw you at Sharon’s funeral,” said Ricki. “It was a truly shitty occasion.”

  “Yes, it was,” said Elle. “I missed seeing you there. Or anywhere. How have you been?” />
  “You know my life, L,” said Ricki. “I’m a huge success. I’m making plenty of money to eat, but I can’t, because I won’t be skinny anymore and I’ll stop making so much money. I should be a character in Greek mythology.”

  “Isn’t there a character like that?”

  “No, I checked. The Greeks didn’t think skinny was a good thing.”

  Elle went with the obvious. “You’re looking great.”

  “I know.” Ricki leaned on both elbows and rested her chin on her fists. “Did you ever connect with the three people who were looking for you?”

  “What did they look like?”

  “Two men in bad suits with bad haircuts. A blond woman about as tall as I am and thin, wearing tight black pants and a leather jacket, also tight. Not a good one. I hope I’m not insulting people you like.”

  “I don’t know them. Did they talk to you?”

  “No,” said Ricki. “I’m not very friendly.”

  “If they approach you, please don’t talk to them. I think they’re cops.”

  “I do too,” Ricki said.

  “If you see them again will you tell me?”

  “Sure. Watching people breaks up the time while I’m waiting for somebody.” She tapped Elle’s arm and stared across the room. “That’s them.”

  Elle glanced in the direction of the front door and then slid off her tall seat. “Thanks, Ricki.” She moved off without looking back and headed for the hallway. When she got there she went into the kitchen, edging past the cooks along the stainless steel tables to the door that led outside. It was propped open tonight because the kitchen was hot.

  She was outside in a moment and trotted across the street and down the sidewalk under the trees to her Camry, got in, and put the key into the ignition, but didn’t start the engine.

  She was pretty sure that the three were making the rounds of the places where some informant had told them she would eventually appear. They would see she wasn’t in the Pity and wait for a bit to see if she might show up, but when she didn’t they’d move on to the next bar or club.