Death Prefers Blondes

by Caleb Roehrig

  “I would.” His father turned his hands over again, his palms as bare as the regret in his expression. “I’ve had nothing but time to think about what I’ve lost, and what I did to deserve losing it; and out of everything they took—the cars, the yacht, the properties, even my freedom—all I really miss is you.” There was no guile in Basil’s tone, no silver edge to his tongue. “You, your brother, your mom … you guys are what mattered, and I know I can’t make up for what I did. But I’m sorry, Axel. I’m really and truly sorry.”

  Axel could barely keep his chin steady. His mouth opened and shut, working to produce the three words he’d come all the way from Malibu to say. He’d meant for them to be cold and strong, but when he finally got them out, they were soft and broken.

  “I hate you.”

  “I know.” Basil nodded, his eyes filming over, his lips twitching down. “I know. But I love you, Axel. I love you so much.”

  The boy’s fingers released, Liesl’s bright red support slipping away, and he buried his face in his hands. A sob wrenched his body, and then he was weeping openly, tears slipping over his palms and trailing down his wrists. Rough and high-pitched, his muffled reply was barely audible.

  “I love you, too.”

  * * *

  The executive floor at Manning was a carpeted graveyard—a honeycomb of abandoned cubicles drenched in silence, set against a backdrop of windows gazing out at the San Gabriel Mountains. Five men, as large as the one who’d escorted Dallas up on the elevator, lounged restlessly in what had once been the office space of the CEO’s administrative assistant. Seated in swivel chairs or leaning against flimsy workstation walls, they glared at the boy with theatrical mistrust as he was squired to Addison Brand’s door.

  After some complicated call-and-response, the door unlatched, and Dallas entered Brand’s sanctum sanctorum. It was a throne room usurped, and the air was laced with the stale reek of paranoia. Pale and edgy, seated behind his desk in a high-backed ergonomic chair, Addison greeted the boy with a rictus grin. “So. Tell me about Margo.”

  “Money first,” Dallas replied coolly, slamming a metal briefcase down on the desktop and popping it open to reveal a hungry interior. “You promised me untraceable currency, and I want to see it before I give you what I have. I’m not getting screwed here.”

  Brand laughed, a sound like ice being chipped off a gravestone. “This isn’t some frat house poker game, Mr. Yang. One word from me, and those men will gladly smash a window and throw you fifty-four stories down onto Grand Avenue. We’re not negotiating.”

  “Your call, I guess.” Dallas swallowed, channeling his inner James Bond. “But forty-five minutes from now, a video message I made explaining the nature of this meeting will pop up all over the internet, and it might be inconvenient for you if I’m too dead to say it was a joke.” Pointedly, he crossed to one of the windows and leaned against the glass with a toothy smile. “Anyway, I’m not scared of heights—or death, either, really. So pay me or kill me, but if you pick Door Number Two you’ll find out what Margo’s planning the hard way.”

  “For fuck’s sake.” Brand rolled his eyes with a disgusted grunt. “The problem with your generation is that you watch too many superhero movies, where every self-destructive gesture has an accompanying swell of dramatic music.” Shoving to his feet, he turned to an oil painting hung behind his desk in a thick, silver frame. Swinging it open like a door, he revealed the metal face of a safe with an electronic keypad. “I’ve no intention of dishonoring our agreement. But you only get paid if I think the information is worthwhile.”

  As he reached up to enter the safe’s access code, Brand angled his body to block Dallas’s view of his fingers. He had it opened and closed in a matter of seconds, producing a bulging envelope with one hand as he swung the painting back into place with the other.

  He gave Dallas enough time to confirm that the package contained genuine bearer’s bonds in the amount they’d agreed upon, and then took them back, holding them ransom while he waited to be impressed. Seated again, the boy grinned. “She’s planning a three-pronged attack. I don’t know all the details yet, but I can give you the basics.”

  “And?”

  “The first step involves Nina McLeod, the nurse—”

  “I know who you mean,” Brand cut him off impatiently, “and I also know there isn’t a chance in hell of Margo finding Ms. McLeod, or compelling her testimony against me. If this is all—”

  “That’s not entirely true.” It was Dallas’s turn to interrupt, and he savored the taste of the silence that followed. “Maybe she can’t find the woman, but words are easy. A sworn affidavit bearing McLeod’s signature, confessing to her role in covering up Harland Manning’s will, could be damning, for instance—and Margo knows a former legal intern who could forge just such a document and who has access to the woman’s signature.”

  Brand flexed his hand until the ligaments popped. “It’ll never hold up in court.”

  “Doesn’t have to.” Dallas shrugged. “Margo only needs it to be seen. In two weeks, when copies arrive at all the media outlets, they’ll be everywhere overnight; and even if the document is fake, the accusation is true, and lots of people will start talking. Margo’s a celebrity, don’t forget. A bereaved daughter who can cry on cue is prime-time gold.”

  “Parlor tricks.” Brand waved a dismissive hand—but his fingers twitched.

  “The night before the affidavit goes live, she plans to break into Manning—”

  “Here? Is she out of her mind?” Brand actually laughed. “It’s ludicrous! She’ll get shot trying to enter the lobby. Honestly, she’d be doing me a favor!”

  “You shouldn’t underestimate her,” Dallas warned calmly. “If she wants to get in, she will. But she doesn’t even need to take anything for the play to be a success—that’s what so brilliant about it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Keeping his eyes on the man, Dallas replied, “Someone told her there was evidence here, in the building, linking you to Harland’s death.”

  Brand huffed, snatching a ballpoint pen off his desk. “Who? Who said such a thing?”

  “She hasn’t told me—yet—but the point is, she thinks this person was lying. She’s convinced the evidence exists, but that you’ve got it at home.” He grinned when some of the color drained out of Addison Brand’s face. “So: step three. With you rattled and against the ropes, focused on the Manning break-in and the media circus over the affidavit, she strikes where you live, gets what she really wants … and buries you with it.”

  “No, no, no.” Brand shook his head compulsively. “She’ll never get into my home. It’s almost as protected as … as…”

  “As Arkady Petrenko’s castle?” His tone was innocent, but the question connected like a slap to the face. Brand’s jaw clenched, his knuckles going white where he gripped the pen, and Dallas leaned across the desk to pluck the envelope of bearer’s bonds from the man’s distracted grasp. “Anyway, I better take my money and go before those video messages start uploading. Pleasure doing business!”

  Brand sat quietly as the boy stashed the envelope in his briefcase and started for the door, but then found his voice at last. “Mr. Yang. I don’t care how it happens, but Margo Manning doesn’t survive the break-in here at Manning. Is that understood?”

  “Sure,” Dallas replied, looking back with an easy smile. “And I hope you understand that I don’t actually work for your ass. You paid me for services rendered, and if you want more, you better have another offer. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  Exiting the office, he slammed the door on Addison Brand’s brooding silence and started for the elevator, the briefcase handle biting into his fingers.

  40

  The ground dipped and then rose, a wave covered in blossoming chaparral, the petals like sunshine in a children’s picture book. Point Dume—a high bluff kissed by salt air, with a vista encompassing nearly all of Malibu—was one of Margo’s favorite spots. She’d p
icked it for this rendezvous because, in case things went poorly, she wanted an excuse to see it one last time.

  Following a trail through the flowers, she ascended to the dusty clearing at the summit, and drank in the cool morning breeze. To one side, the ocean pushed against the crescent of Dume Cove, foam rolling over shaded sand; to the other, the golden ribbon of Zuma Beach snaked up the coastline; and dead ahead, the Pacific stretched out to the horizon, an endless ream of shining blue silk.

  Two families were already there, snapping selfies against the shoreline, and Margo ducked past them in her dun-colored wig—crossing to where Nadiya Khan already stood at the edge of the bluff. A large beach bag at her feet, the woman kept her eyes on the water even as she murmured a surreptitious hello.

  “It’s my first time up here,” Nadiya remarked. “The view is beautiful.”

  “You should see it at sunset.”

  “I’ll come back.” Dr. Khan fell quiet as a child scampered past them with a shout, and then gestured to her oversized bag. “I almost can’t believe it, but I managed to get everything you asked for.”

  “I’m impressed,” Margo said, filled with a purifying relief, “but not surprised.”

  “You should know, the key card is low-level access, and only works for the parking deck. All other parts of the building require security clearance, and entries are recorded and identified by the system—meaning a cloned or borrowed card would incriminate the owner.” She gave the girl a look. “There were no volunteers.”

  Margo nodded slowly, fighting the urge to dig into the bag and examine the goodies. They were quiet a moment, watching surfers rise and fall with the waves. “What’s the latest on the refugees?”

  A smile lit Dr. Khan’s features, and she glanced over. “We’ve saved nearly a hundred people in the past few months. The money you provided paid for a lot of new futures.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Me too.” Her smile faded gradually. “It never feels like enough, though, does it? Money buys things, but not peace. Not empathy or human kindness.”

  Just like that, Margo felt every bruise she’d gotten while battling Win’s assassin, her gut-punched breathlessness over the Malawi arms deal, and the steady throb of Addison Brand’s carotid artery beneath her itchy fingers. “Do you really believe in human kindness?”

  “Of course.” Dr. Khan regarded her with surprise. “I see it every day in the people who risk their lives for the refugees, in those who give to the homeless, in children who are selfless because they haven’t been taught selfishness yet…” Her cheeks flushed. “Perhaps I’m oversimplifying. But I believe everyone is capable of charity. My faith demands it.”

  “I wish…” Margo struggled for words. “I wish I shared your conviction.”

  They watched the horizon for a while longer, and then Margo picked up Dr. Khan’s bag and started down from the bluff.

  * * *

  Four days later, Friday evening, Margo and the boys gathered in the abandoned dining room at the villa; the sun slowly bled out over the purple-black ocean outside, while the air around them was so charged they could almost hear it hum. Once Nadiya’s contributions had been inventoried, Margo revealed a few party favors of her own.

  “I wish we had a little more time to practice with this stuff,” Axel remarked wistfully, inspecting an item he would soon have to use. “And maybe more of these things. Is this really all you were able to get? Because—”

  “On short notice? Yeah, that’s it.” She didn’t mean to be brusque, but she was on edge, worry sinking its teeth into her gut. Too many things could go wrong, even with their numbers bumped up to six. Supposedly up to six, anyway—Dallas still hadn’t arrived yet. “When you’re paying cash for untraceable weaponry, sometimes you just get what you get.”

  Margo resumed pacing, rerunning the strategy in her head, time slipping away while they waited—and then, finally, there came the hollow click of the front door, Dallas’s voice resounding through the cavernous shell of the villa, “Uh, hello? Anybody home?”

  “Back here,” Margo called out, more relieved than she cared to admit. She hadn’t realized it until that moment, but she’d been afraid he wouldn’t show. “Follow the light.”

  His footsteps thumped closer, and the boys all turned to the door, watching like spaniels awaiting the mailman until Dallas appeared. “Uh, hi! Sorry I’m late.”

  He sketched a wave with one of his broad hands, flashing a sheepish grin. Leif stared, Axel smoothed his hair reflexively, and Davon made a squeaking sound in the back of his throat. Grinning smugly, Margo announced, “Boys, this is Dallas. Dallas, these are the boys. Leif, Joaquin, Axel, and—”

  “Dibs,” Davon announced immediately. “I call dibs!”

  Axel whirled on him. “Excuse you, sis, I saw him first! He was at the funeral—”

  “Excuse you both, but you can’t call dibs on a person,” Margo interrupted, appalled. “Especially not using my dad’s funeral to do it!” When they were suitably chastened, she added, “Besides, I saw him first.”

  “Spoilsport,” Davon grumbled, giving Dallas a coy smile anyway.

  With the team fully assembled for the first time, Margo walked them through the plan again. They were only going to get one shot at this, and they couldn’t afford to be lazy about it. When she was sure every step was memorized, she looked each one of them in the eye. “Unless anyone has questions, I guess that’s it. Time to suit up.”

  No hands were raised; and then, as the boys left the room, tossing interested looks back at their new teammate, Dallas turned an amused smile on Margo. “What about you? Don’t you usually ‘suit up’?”

  “Not this time,” she answered. She’d considered doing her Miss Anthropy drag, but ultimately decided against it. The building they were breaking into had her name on it, and she intended to go in as herself. Gesturing to the canvas bag over Dallas’s shoulder, she asked, “You bring me anything?”

  “Only what you asked for. You want to see it now? Or—”

  “Gimme.” She wiggled her fingers eagerly.

  “I did a pretty excellent job, if I must say.” Dallas went on without a trace of modesty, producing a tablet computer from the bag. “I think you’ll be pleased.”

  The screen came alive, showing the first frame of a paused video: Addison Brand, seated behind his desk—Harland’s desk—scowling into the lens. Margo pressed play.

  “You promised me untraceable currency, and I want to see it before I give you what I have. I’m not getting screwed here,” Dallas’s voice sounded through the tablet’s speaker, coming from behind the camera.

  “This isn’t some frat house poker game, Mr. Yang,” Brand replied with a laugh. The high-def image was crystal clear, and Margo’s pulse picked up.

  “This is good.” She zoomed in, the details staying crisp and precise. “The quality is fantastic. But did you—”

  “Skip ahead,” Dallas advised softly, his breath against her ear, and goose bumps pebbled the back of her neck. He reached around her and tracked forward until Brand rose from his chair, turning to the painting on the wall. Margo held her breath as he revealed the safe.

  “I’ve no intention of dishonoring our agreement,” Brand was saying, “but you only get paid if I think the information is worthwhile.”

  “Dallas, he’s blocking the camera!”

  “Watch.”

  On-screen, Brand glanced over his shoulder and then moved to block Dallas’s sight line from the window—and in so doing, cleared the sight line of the tiny camera that had been hidden inside the boy’s briefcase. Margo nearly gasped as she watched Addison tap out his private code on the safe’s keypad, each stroke captured perfectly. Replaying it again in slow-motion, she memorized the combination.

  “I did good?” Nervousness underscored Dallas’s question, and Margo looked up at him with the moon in her eyes.

  “You did amazing.” Unable to resist, she pressed her lips to his, tasting the fresh mint of toothpaste
on his breath.

  “You were right about the poison samples,” he said when they broke apart. “You can see it all over his face. How’d you know Castor was lying about them being at the office?”

  “He has a tell.” She allowed herself to gloat, just a little. “I knew he was holding back in our first little tête-à-tête, so I watched him closely the second time. When he lies, he swirls his drink.”

  “I’m impressed, but…” Dallas wrinkled his nose. “If he was lying about the poison, how do you know he wasn’t lying about everything?”

  “I don’t. Not for certain. But I have a sense for people … I don’t know how to explain.” She shook her head. “Castor’s an egotist, and withholding a key piece of information in order to maintain his power position—something he could use later as leverage—would be irresistible to him. He was bragging when he told me how he secured the hidden computer data, but he gave away the location of the poison for nothing, and it made me suspicious.”

  “And Brand?” Dallas pressed. “What if the poison wasn’t at his home? Or what if it was, and he keeps it there? What if he moved it to a bank or something?”

  “No chance. Addison is too paranoid to let something that valuable outside of his immediate control. He’s not Petrenko, and his home can’t compete with corporate security; he’ll pick the place where he can guarantee the strongest safeguards, and that’s Manning.”

  “You’ve really thought about this.”

  “I’ve thought about nothing else.” Scooping up a bag from where it rested beside the door, she said, “By the way, I have something for you, too.”

  Dallas made a face when he saw what it was. “Is this really necessary?”

  “If you still want to come with us, it is.”

  “Of course I’m coming, I just … is everybody getting one, or—”

  “Just you.” Off his disappointed look, she added, “It’s your first job. You’ve never faced what we’re about to face, and I don’t know what your strengths and weaknesses are yet. I’m sorry if this feels like training wheels, or like I’m doubting you, but it eliminates a variable I can’t predict, and … I have a thing about that.”