She led him on an unhurried chase. Her first stop was for groceries, mostly frozen and pre-made, from the Whole Foods in Westwood. Then she dropped off laundry and dry-cleaning at a cleaners on Barrington and bought two bouquets of cut flowers from a florist off San Vicente.
He checked in with Sadie again. Billy had been awake briefly and had been able to keep down some broth. Nothing else to report. Nothing else was good news.
The customers at the Louis Vuitton store on Rodeo Drive were mostly women, but there were enough men that he didn’t stand out. Knowing he was going to be tailing a rich woman, Wycliff had dressed up-scale in one of the ensembles Charlotte had bought him, so he wasn’t conspicuous. Still, he wore his Dodgers hat low, a precaution against the security cameras.
After trying on several shoes, the woman bought a pair of ankle-high calf-skin boots. When Laurie had told him the basics about the woman – that she was unmarried and unattached (and straight) – he had thought a way to do the job would be to hit on her, get her in a private situation, and kill her in her bed or some other compromising situation. But now that he knew what she looked like, that wasn’t an option. He couldn’t fake it with a woman who looked like her, he wasn’t that good an actor. Plus she would know he was conning her, and would avoid him like the plague. However he wound up killing her, it wouldn’t involve sex.
Before he followed her out of the store, he checked the price of her new shoes. Over a thousand dollars. One pair of skimpy boots you couldn’t walk three blocks in without your feet killing you. He had been with Charlotte on enough occasions by now to know this was how some people spent their money, but it was still hard for him to get his head around stuff like this. I guess if you have that kind of money, he thought as he followed her on foot down Rodeo Drive to the lot where they had both parked their cars, you can buy anything you want. Burn a hundred dollar bill to light your cigarette if that floats your boat.
He was going to have real money soon, but he would not blow it on frivolous shit. He had waited too long for the big payoff, he wasn’t going to squander it.
The woman lived in one of the expensive high-rise condos that line Wilshire between Beverly Hills and Westwood, fortresses that come with a twenty-four-hour doorman, underground parking, and tight security. The killing wouldn’t be done here. Even if he could get in there would be cameras and other alarms. This woman seemed to be alone most of the day. He would find a time and place where there was no one around.
He wondered if she would be wearing her new boots when her time was up.
The three-story Spanish-style apartment building off Charleville in Beverly Hills was ordinary, compared to the one his prey lived in. No doorman or lobby, just a hallway with mailboxes and a security door you could open in five seconds with a screwdriver. He might look into what the rent went for in a place like this. Billy’s house was primo and he could be happy living there forever, but since that wasn’t going to happen, he needed to start thinking about new digs. A Beverly Hills address had class. It was closer to where Amelia worked, too. Someday, he hoped, that would matter.
Laurie lived on the top floor. He rode up on the elevator, which smelled of take-out Chinese food, walked down the hallway to her number, and rang the doorbell.
She opened the door immediately. ‘Did you see her?’ she asked fretfully, moving aside so he could come in.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘You didn’t tell me she was a gimp.’
‘What difference would that make?’ Laurie asked, immediately on-guard.
‘It feels weird. Like picking on a wounded bird.’
‘She has MS,’ Laurie said defensively. ‘Having a bad leg doesn’t change the fact that she’s a bitch. Are you growing a conscience now?’ she sneered. ‘It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?’
She was right. It was too late to make any moral distinctions. ‘I’m just saying … you’re right, it doesn’t change anything.’
‘Good,’ she said, relieved that he hadn’t lost heart. ‘Eyes on the prize.’
To take his mind off the victim, Wycliff checked out Laurie’s digs. Bland to the point of anonymity. You couldn’t tell anything about the person who lived here. Probably came furnished. A place to hunker down and lick your wounds until you were ready to move on with your life. Two months ago, if he had been presented with a pad like this, he would have thought he was on top of the world. Not anymore.
‘Do you want something to drink?’ she asked. ‘I have white wine open. Or there’s beer, and whiskey.’
‘No, thanks.’
Along with the camera, he had bought a North Face daypack at a sports store. Half the population of LA carried them, no one would give it a second look. He took it off his shoulder and set it on the floor.
‘Where’s the money?’ he asked her.
‘In the bedroom.’ She turned and walked down a short hallway. He followed her.
Her bedroom was of a piece with the rest of the place: featureless, no personality. We could be in a Hilton in Omaha, Nebraska, Wycliff thought. Billy’s house, his framework for living now, was special and unique. Time and thought had gone into everything in it, whether it was a chair, a sketch on the wall, a plate, rug, towel. His surroundings had never mattered to him before. Now they did. He was changing in ways he didn’t know about. But he could feel how they affected him.
‘There,’ she said, pointing into the closet. ‘You take it out. It freaks me out, handling that much money.’
The suitcase was a gray Samsonite hard-shell, a bland-looking, secure bag you would normally check in at the airport. But you wouldn’t check this one, not with a ton of cash inside. They opened suitcases now, for security checks. A minimum-wage airport security drone would crap his drawers if he opened this bag.
He took the suitcase out and set it on her queen-sized bed. Wordlessly, hand shaking, Laurie handed him a key. He opened the suitcase.
Forty stacks of fifty-dollar bills, fifty bills to a stack, neatly arranged and bundled.
Wycliff had never seen this much money in his life, except on the Texas Hold ’Em show on ESPN. But this wasn’t television. This was real.
‘A hundred thousand dollars,’ Laurie said, looking over his shoulder. ‘It’s all there, but you can count it if you don’t trust me.’
He stifled a laugh. Trust her? He didn’t trust her as far than he could throw her, and she was not a petite woman.
He picked up a bundle and riffed it like in a gangster movie, trying to look like he knew what he was doing. It looked legitimate, as legitimate as a deal this filthy could be.
‘I’ll count it later,’ he told her. ‘If you’re short, I’ll let you know.’
‘What if there’s too much?’
‘Is there?’
‘No. It’s exact, to the penny. I triple-checked it.’
He put his backpack on the bed next to the suitcase and started transferring the money. ‘Where’s the rest of it?’ he asked.
‘Nearby.’
He kept stuffing the bundles into his pack. ‘Show me.’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
He turned to her, wads of cash in each hand. ‘What do you mean, no?’
She took a nervous step back from him. ‘I’m not going to show the rest of it to you now. You’re going to have to take my word about it.’
More bullshit about trust. ‘We had an agreement.’
‘Which I’m keeping. Half now, half when it’s done.’
‘I’m not going to take it,’ he said, trying to sound reasonable, so he wouldn’t scare her. ‘But I need to know that it’s there.’
‘It is.’
This was turning into a Mexican standoff. ‘I don’t know that.’
She held her ground. ‘I’m not going to.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you could take it now and screw me,’ she answered. ‘Keeping half back is the only insurance I have.’
She had a point, not that he wanted to concede it. ‘I could take
what’s here and screw you. Half a loaf is sometimes better than the whole thing.’
She gave him a slit-eyed stare, like a rattlesnake ready to strike. She’s tough, he realized. Tougher than I expected. ‘But you won’t,’ she answered, confirming his intuition. ‘You want it all.’
He carried his pack, now stuffed with cash, into the living room. ‘No more contact until this is over,’ he warned her. ‘One wrong move and everything could blow up in our faces.’
‘You’re running the show.’ She twisted a tendril of hair around her finger. ‘When are you going to do it?’
‘I don’t know yet. The sooner the better.’
‘Amen to that,’ Laurie answered.
He slung the pack over his shoulder and walked to the front door. He could feel her eyes burning a hole in his back as he left and shut the door behind him.
TWENTY-ONE
The daypack full of bills was in the bedroom closet, hidden under his laundry bag. Wycliff was nervous as hell about leaving it there, but he couldn’t think of anywhere safer to put it. He couldn’t open an account at a bank with it; he’d be arrested before he walked out the door. He could stash it in a safe deposit box, and maybe that’s where it would end up, but before he did he wanted to talk to Charlotte’s friend to find out if what she had told him about the guy lowering the amount it would take to get on board was real or bullshit.
He double-checked Billy. His brother was sleeping. Satisfied that he had some time for himself, he dialed Charlotte’s number.
‘I want to get together with your money man,’ he told her.
‘Why? Do you have money to invest?’ she asked, sounding skeptical.
‘Yes.’
‘How much?’ He could hear the surprise in her voice.
‘I’m not going to talk about it on the phone. I can be a player, if what you told me is true about him bending his rules because of you and him being good friends.’
Be a player. Damn, that sounded good.
‘I’m pretty sure he will.’ Charlotte sounded excited, but then he heard her gasp. ‘Did your brother die?’ she asked him. ‘Is that why you …?’
‘No,’ he cut her off. ‘He hasn’t died yet. He’s going to, real soon, but for now, he’s still alive.’
‘I’m glad,’ she said, sounding relieved. ‘I know it’s inevitable, but as long as he’s alive, there’s hope.’
There was something in the way she expressed her sympathy that sounded wrong, like she was faking it because it was the right thing to do instead of actually feeling it, but that was probably his own projection. He was the last person on earth to judge anyone else, especially now.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There’s still hope.’
There was a moment’s pause, then she asked again, ‘But you have money anyway?’
‘Yes. I have some money.’
‘An advance on his will?’
Jesus, she could be pushy. What business was it of hers how he had it? But he wasn’t going to call her on it. She was his connection to the big time. He wasn’t going to jeopardize that. If she wanted to believe that his brother had fronted him some money, all the better. In fact, he realized, her thinking his money was an advance on Billy’s estate was the perfect cover-up for the real reason. That the money was in bundles of cash, rather than in a bank account, would be hard to explain, but he’d come up with some excuse.
‘I have money,’ he told her again. ‘That’s all I can say for now.’
‘Fine,’ she answered, her voice now brisk and neutral. ‘When do you want to meet with John?’
‘As soon as it’s convenient for him.’ He looked across the room to his brother in his drug-induced sleep, his chest barely rising and falling. ‘And when I can get someone from the hospice to watch over Billy while I’m gone.’
‘Of course,’ she said, coming on sincere again. ‘Do you want him to come there? I wouldn’t come with him, I couldn’t take seeing your brother like he is now, but John doesn’t know him. His condition wouldn’t affect him like it would me.’
That was the last thing in the world he wanted, some stranger coming in, sizing up the lay of the land as it actually was, and upsetting his tidy little applecart. The hundred large in small, used bills was enough of a red flag, he didn’t need to throw more oil on the fire.
‘Not a good idea,’ he told her firmly. ‘We’re keeping everyone out who isn’t essential.’
‘I understand. All right, then. I’ll get in touch with John and let him know you want to meet, and you two can work out the details.’
‘Thanks, Charlotte. I owe you one.’
‘You’ll find a way to pay me back.’ He could almost hear her purring over the phone. ‘I’m glad you’re finally going to have some serious money, Wycliff. But I’m saddened by how you’re getting it.’
It was late, after midnight, but he couldn’t sleep. The lethal combination of the money in the closet, which was throwing off psychological heat like molten lava from a volcano, the senseless murder he was going to commit, and his brother’s imminent death, combined to fry his emotions. He had already gotten up twice to go outside for a cigarette and a drink, hoping to calm his nerves, but it hadn’t worked. He lay wide awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. What in God’s name had he been thinking?
He kept replaying what might have been, over and over in his head. He could have backed out the first time Laurie propositioned him. He didn’t have to call her. He could have walked away from her at the mall, yet again when he went to her apartment. But he hadn’t. At every step where he had faced temptation, temptation had won. He had been a coward, a pathetic loser afraid to say no.
Too late to back out.
Leaving Billy alone was a huge risk, but he had to take it. He had to kill the woman and put it behind him. Before the fear ate him alive, before he lost his nerve and chickened out.
A last-minute check of Billy’s condition. His breathing was shallow, but regular. He was almost in a coma now, but he could stay in that state for an indefinite amount of time. The doctor didn’t think he was going to last much any longer, but there were no certainties. Wycliff had done some research about it online. People sometimes lasted like this for weeks, even months.
He placed a palm on his brother’s forehead. It was cool and dry. I’ll be back as fast as I can, he promised. Don’t die on me while I’m gone, he prayed silently to his sleeping brother.
It was dark out. Sunup wasn’t due for another hour. The freeway traffic was sparse. Wycliff made the drive to the victim’s apartment in less than half an hour.
He still didn’t know how he was going to kill the woman. He had read her dossier again, but it hadn’t given him a specific enough schedule that he could make a move on her with absolute certainty that he would be successful. The only thing he could think of was to wait until she came out today, stalk her, and see if there was someplace where he could jump her when she was alone.
He tucked into a parking spot across from her building, sipping a McDonald’s take-out coffee. To the east, shards of sunlight were starting to spackle the roadway and highlight the palm trees towering above the sidewalks. The traffic was picking up, at this early hour mostly commercial vehicles. Pre-dawn joggers floated by. Wycliff was dressed for movement himself: running shoes, comfortable jeans, a white T-shirt with no logo, and his Dodgers hat. Nothing that would draw attention. He didn’t want anyone to give him a first look, let alone a second.
Cars began emerging from the victim’s underground garage. Sporadic at first, then a gathering stream. He studied the drivers through his camera’s zoom lens. They were prosperous looking in their German and Japanese and Swedish vehicles. The sun had risen. The flow of traffic was picking up. The fullness of the day had begun.
The little blue convertible, top up this time, popped out of the shadows and turned right, heading east. Wycliff, startled by its sudden emergence, laid rubber as he pulled out into traffic, hung an illegal U-turn across four lanes of traffic (still not
heavy, fortunately) and began to follow her. Adrenaline pumping, he checked his rear-view mirror for cops; there weren’t any.
He spotted the Audi a block ahead, puttering along in the slow lane. Sit chilly, he admonished himself as he tailed her. Let the action come to you. He had to be clear-headed and alert when he made his move. And fast. It had to work the first time. There wouldn’t be a second.
The woman turned south onto South Beverly Drive and pulled into a city parking lot. Wycliff parked on the street in a loading-zone space and watched as she got out of her car and entered a Starbucks. He opened the information folder and checked her schedule again. She had an appointment with her psychiatrist in twenty minutes. The shrink’s office was a few blocks away. He pulled back into traffic and headed for it.
The therapist’s office was in a modest two-story Spanish-style building on a quiet, tree-lined street, flanked on either side by small apartment houses. Wycliff parked down the block, got out of his car, nonchalantly crossed the street, and entered the lobby. No security doors. No guards. He looked up at the ceiling. No cameras.
There was a directory on the wall next to the mailboxes. Dr Lovitz’s office was on the first floor. The other tenants were all psychiatrists and psychologists. He opened the unlocked inner door and walked down the long corridor. He located Lovitz’s office, the last one in the back.
Years ago, he had seen a head doctor for a couple of months, as a condition of his parole. He hadn’t learned a thing from the guy, except that talking about yourself and analyzing your feelings was bullshit. One thing he remembered was the layout of the doc’s office. You came in one door and left from a different one. For a lot of people, seeing a shrink is embarrassing. A patient doesn’t want to encounter another patient, especially one you might know.
He walked outside and went around to the back. An alley ran parallel to the street. There was a small parking lot in back of the doctor’s building. A sign in front of the lot declared For Visitors Only. You parked here, you went in and saw your shrink, you came back here and you left, your anonymity protected. Not a bird’s nest on the ground, but as good as he was going to get on short notice. He needed to do this before his nerves or circumstances froze him.
Turn Left at Doheny--A tough-edged crime novel set in Los Angeles Page 17