by Meg Gardiner
‘‘He missed the deadline.’’
‘‘What do you want?’’
‘‘For him to do what I say.’’ He picked at a bowl of nuts on the coffee table. ‘‘He shouldn’t ignore me. Cal Diamond ignored me, and he paid.’’
I said nothing, running my gaze over Yago’s sharp face. What was he getting at, aside from telling me that he was blackmailing Diamond?
I said, ‘‘Diamond had a heart attack because he was stressed about trying to keep his swindles secret.’’
And dammit, one side of his mouth went up, the neat brown goatee curling with it. The smirk was an implication. He meant that Jesse was hiding something.
Do you want your woman to know? Think she’ll stay?
I bluffed. ‘‘Don’t bother playing the game with me. I know everything.’’
He leaned in. His black T-shirt smelled of last night’s weed. ‘‘You got balls, but you can’t lie for shit. You don’t know jack.’’
Attitude . . . ‘‘I know Brand was stealing from Mako and he inadvertently ripped off i-heist’s slush fund.’’
‘‘I love lawyer words. Inadvertently, let me write that down.’’
‘‘And Kenny Rudenski covered it up, hid it all from his father and the authorities.’’
‘‘He’s a scared little boy, Kenny.’’ He leaned back, stretching out his legs. ‘‘Franklin Brand don’t have the money no more. But your dude, he got money out of Mako because of Brand. I’m weighing it up; that money should be mine. I want it.’’
I said nothing.
‘‘I told Blackburn, he gives it to me or he pays. He didn’t give it to me, so now I need something else from him.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘A million.’’
He had to see the shock in my eyes. I didn’t know how to hide it.
He pulled out his laptop and casually booted it up. ‘‘But I don’t figure he can get it. So I’m giving him an alternative. He does me some favors. That’s all, favors. Until they add up to a million bucks. He does that, I’ll call it even. I’m an easygoing guy.’’
He typed on the laptop. ‘‘I love computers. This is such a better business than blow. Dealing is hard work. You ever been in sales? It sucks. Hustle here, hustle there . . . but this computer shit, you just sit back and watch the bits fly. No inventory, no sales force, it’s a dream.’’
He was hooking the laptop to a cellular phone with a cable.
I said, ‘‘And if Jesse doesn’t do these favors for you?’’
‘‘He starts paying in other ways.’’
‘‘How?’’
‘‘With his friends. With you.’’
My throat was dry.
He said, ‘‘I know everything about you. I know where you’re going to be at any moment. I can touch you in a dozen different ways, without ever laying my own hands on you.’’
He hit a key. I heard the familiar ping of an e-mail message being sent.
‘‘To you, babe. You’ll enjoy it.’’
He took a white grease pencil out of his computer case and started writing on the tabletop. ‘‘Blackburn’s gonna need this. It’s an account name and number, sort code and transmittal information.’’
My stomach quivered. He wrote, Segue, followed by several sets of numbers.
‘‘I’ll need the same kind of information from him, about his law firm’s client trust account,’’ he said.
He wanted Jesse to launder i-heist’s money. I said, ‘‘He won’t do it.’’
‘‘Yeah, he will.’’
He picked up one of the desk phones from an end table and punched in a credit card number. ‘‘The call’s on me. What’s his home phone?’’
I said nothing. His face sharpened.
‘‘I can get it in two minutes. Save us both the time, babe.’’
I relented, telling him. He dialed and handed me the phone.
‘‘Give him the information I wrote down.’’
Jesse’s answering machine came on. I repeated the Segue account information. When I hung up, Yago took a napkin and erased the numbers from the table.
‘‘He has twenty-four hours,’’ he said.
‘‘What if I take this information straight to the police?’’
‘‘You won’t.’’ He put the computer back in the case and stood up. ‘‘Come on. Time for you to go to the gate.’’
I sat. This guy was a gamesman. He played with people. He was playing with me now, and I didn’t trust his intentions. He had just passed on information without leaving a trail back to himself, and without leaving any evidence that could be found on me by the police. He had something nasty planned.
‘‘If you want your wallet back, you can get it out of the shopping bag yourself. I’m going to dump the coke in the toilet,’’ I said.
‘‘Dump it? But it’s my gift to you.’’
I sat.
‘‘Fine.’’ He reached into the sack and took the wallet. ‘‘You got thirty seconds.’’
He followed me to the ladies’ room and stood outside the door while I went in. Another woman was at the sink. I waited for her to leave. Using the tissue paper so my fingers didn’t touch it, I lifted the Baggie out and put it in the trash, pushing it down and placing lots of paper towels on top of it.
Yago was outside the door when I emerged. He said, ‘‘Let’s go.’’
He walked me to the gate. Before I started out the door, I said, ‘‘You’re letting me go. What makes you so certain I won’t give this information to the authorities?’’
He smiled. It was a hellacious smile, the equivalent of fingernails being drawn across a chalkboard.
‘‘Because of what you ain’t figured out yet. So I guess I’d better tell you.’’ Hands into his pockets. ‘‘That hit-and -run wreck, the one’s giving your man a permanent hard-on to see Brand’s ass in prison?’’
My radar was going. ‘‘What about it?’’
‘‘Everybody has the thing backward. All thinking it was about the kid from the start-up.’’
Over the PA, I heard my flight being called. I didn’t move. Yago kept smiling. General Custer, Son of the Morning Star, ghost of a killer.
‘‘Brand didn’t care about that kid. He had the stock scam all sewn up. The wreck wasn’t about the kid who got killed.’’
My vision was pinging.
Yago said, ‘‘You and your man ain’t ever figured it. Sandoval wasn’t the one was supposed to get dead.’’
No. My chest tightened. ‘‘Why?’’
‘‘I told you that, I’d spoil the fun. But if you spill everything to the cops, they’re liable to put it all together, and then things will get kinky real fast.’’ He shifted his weight. ‘‘Know how rough it is for a crip in prison?’’
I stared, wordless. His smile broadened and he said, ‘‘Don’t miss your plane.’’
He watched me go out the door and down the steps to the bus. When I climbed aboard I looked back at the terminal and saw him standing at the window. His gold ringlets buzzed in the sunlight.
I sat like a zombie while the bus clattered toward the commuter terminal, scuttling past the gravid, howling bulk of a triple-seven. I looked at my hands. They were shaking.
Spoil the fun?
Jesse . . . Brand was after Jesse. He had wanted to kill him from the start. The bus pulled into the commuter terminal, a cheap and crowded portable building. Inside a TV was on, and people sat around eating vending-machine food.
I heard an announcement. ‘‘Will Santa Barbara passenger Delaney please come to the desk?’’
That did it. Mickey had a surprise planned for me, I knew it—whether I got on the plane or not. But what? I went into the bathroom. In the corner stall I dumped out the contents of my purse. My temples pounded. There was a knife.
I took a breath. I had to get out of here. And I had to presume that Yago or his buddies were watching back at the main terminal, in case I came back. I had to get out of the airport without them spot
ting me.
I needed a disguise. Where was that Diana Ross wig when you needed it? I changed out of my bright blue Vegas clothing and back into the red dress, putting the Zero-to-Horny T-shirt over the top again to hide the stain. Then, ferreting in the shopping bag, I pulled out the Lickalicious edible body paint. I squirted it on my hand. It was chocolate. I squirted it on my head and massaged it in, turning my toffee-colored hair a sticky brown. It looked ridiculous, but this was L.A. In L.A. ridiculous earns you a second look but not a third, so you can get away with it.
Covering the knife with toilet paper, I dropped it in the trash. I put on my sunglasses and strode outside to catch a bus back to the main terminal. Somebody would be waiting, I had a bad feeling.
The bus pulled up. My sinews felt tighter than piano wire. I climbed the stairs and headed into the terminal, and there, sitting in a chair eating a Baby Ruth, was Win Utley. He was watching the people coming through the door. As he chewed, his chins flubbered and his ginger chin beard wriggled. I stared straight ahead and walked past him with other passengers.
Abruptly he stood up. His mouth moved, words. He had an earpiece in, was talking on the phone. I tried not to speed up or look his way.
They wanted to screw me, to get me arrested. Just to pressure Jesse.
Utley tugged the waistband of his jeans and looked around. He had to be looking for me. I saw him humping toward the desk, agitation on his face. I headed toward the front of the terminal.
Two security men trotted past me, heading back toward the gate. I picked up my pace. I tried not to look up at the ceiling, where the CCTV cameras were. Woman with sticky hair, wearing rude shirt and frantic expression . . . a bored guard might look three times at that.
Then came the sound, the alarm, and guards running. I hustled it. Alarm meant security breach. Alarm meant Win Utley pointing his Baby Ruth in my direction.
It meant the guards stopping me outside, and retracing my steps to the ladies’ room trash cans, and a bag of cocaine, and a knife. I had to get out or I was hosed.
There was a cop at the door of the terminal, talking into his radio, eyeing everybody. I saw him scan the crowd, look my way. My stomach grabbed.
He started waving people outside. I rushed out to the curb and hailed a taxi.
24
Jesse’s car was parked in front of Adam’s house. I pulled up in the Mustang I’d rented at LAX. I felt dry, dirty, spent. For a moment I stared at the house, my nerves spinning up. How could I break the news without breaking Adam’s heart yet again?
When Adam answered my knock, his face couldn’t hide his perplexity.
‘‘What in the world?’’ he said. ‘‘Is this from the bridal shower?’’
‘‘No, honey, I did it to myself. May I come in before the flies settle on my head?’’
He gestured me in. ‘‘Do you feel as awful as you look?’’
‘‘Worse. I need to speak to Jesse.’’
‘‘He’s out back.’’
On the patio Jesse sat in the sun. There was salsa and barbecued fish and a bottle of wine on the table. Down the hill, the ocean swelled blue. The sun stained the horizon gold.
Jesse looked up. ‘‘Holy crap.’’
‘‘I’ll explain it in chronological order, except for the parts when I was drugged and blacked out. But first I need to speak to you alone.’’
He was using the crutches. He worked himself to his feet and followed me inside to the living room. I stood close and put my hand against his chest.
‘‘The hit-and-run wasn’t about Isaac,’’ I said. ‘‘Brand was after you.’’
His eyes held mine. He could see I meant it, knew I had evaluated the evidence or I wouldn’t have said it. His chest rose and fell, and a look infiltrated his face, a look of physical pain.
He leaned on his arms. ‘‘Why?’’
‘‘I don’t know. It came from Mickey Yago, and he insisted that the crash had nothing to do with Isaac. Nada.’’
It was sinking in, but not making sense. ‘‘But I don’t know Franklin Brand.’’
‘‘Think. It’s something you know, or saw, or did. Something to do with Brand or Mako. Anything connected with the company, even tangentially.’’
His blue eyes clouded. He looked as though he couldn’t breathe.
‘‘What is it?’’ I touched his face.
‘‘No, it’s nothing.’’
‘‘Tell me. Try to remember. What was going on with you before the crash? Things you did with Isaac, with work . . .’’
‘‘It’s nothing.’’
His shoulders were tight, his eyes focusing on walls, furniture, anything but me. Whatever he had remembered, he didn’t want to tell me.
‘‘Jesse, Yago hinted that it’s something that could send you to prison.’’
‘‘But I haven’t done anything that could send me to prison. Christ, Evan, don’t you believe me?’’
I kept myself calm. ‘‘Of course I do. But, Jesse, Mickey Yago screwed with me today.’’
I told him about LAX, about Yago’s demand that Jesse launder funds for i-heist, and the new deadline. When I said ‘‘a million dollars,’’ his neck colored. He seemed to shrink.
‘‘He said you need to play ball or you’ll pay—with your friends and with me. Today was meant to be a taste of that.’’
‘‘Oh, God.’’
‘‘So stop being evasive and tell me whatever the hell it is that you’re trying to keep me from knowing.’’
‘‘I . . .’’ He swallowed and shook his head.
‘‘I repeat. Yago said your friends will pay.’’
I looked pointedly out the window, at Adam leaning back in a chair at the patio table, running his index finger around the rim of his wineglass.
For a moment Jesse said nothing, then, ‘‘Jesus. I have to tell him.’’
I put a hand on his shoulder. ‘‘You’re making me nervous. Not to mention pissed off. What’s going on with you?’’
Wordlessly he pivoted and headed out the back door.
‘‘Adam,’’ he said.
‘‘No. Tell me that’s not true.’’
Adam hunched over the table, fingertips on his temples, deadly still. Jesse’s hand rested on his back.
‘‘Why would Brand want you dead?’’ Adam said.
‘‘I don’t know.’’
Adam looked at him as though he were a stranger. ‘‘You must.’’
‘‘Truly, I don’t.’’
‘‘You’re telling me that Brand set out to kill you, but missed and killed Isaac by mistake. And you have no idea what led to this?’’
‘‘Not right now, but—’’
‘‘I find that inconceivable.’’
He stood up, shying away from Jesse’s hand.
He looked at me. ‘‘This man Yago didn’t tell you why? You didn’t insist?’’
‘‘He refused,’’ I said.
He pressed the heels of his palms against his head.
I feared what I was seeing in him. He was undergoing an emotional polarity reversal. Three years of sympathy were blowing away, a new anger coalescing, a new confusion aging his face. He looked at Jesse, disconsolate, his lips trying to form words and failing. His eyes said it: Your fault.
Jesse said, ‘‘I swear to God—’’
Adam held up his hands. ‘‘I can’t talk right now. Could you just go?"
The sun reflected in Jesse’s eyes. I saw hurt and helplessness.
‘‘All right,’’ he said.
He got up, moving heavily, and headed into the house. I watched Adam. I wanted him to say something, anything. He stared at the ocean as though spellbound.
I said, ‘‘There are people who want to hurt Jesse. These extortionists, i-heist, are threatening to get to him through you and me.’’
No response. I felt my own anger kindling. No matter how dazed or grief-stricken Adam felt, he shouldn’t take it out on Jesse this way.
He stared at the sun. ‘‘You
know about entropy?’’
It couldn’t be a nonsequitur. With Adam, all thoughts connected.
I said, ‘‘The second law of thermodynamics.’’
‘‘It’s a measure of disorder in a closed system. It means that chaos always increases.’’ He put a hand over his eyes. ‘‘Go, please.’’
I was halfway to the rental car when I heard the patio table crash, plates smashing, the wine bottle breaking.
Cautiously I pushed open the French doors at my house. With relief I saw that the living room was intact, everything where I’d left it. Whoever drugged me, they didn’t do it for the chance to burglarize the place while I was wrecked. I grabbed some clean clothes and headed over to Jesse’s place. I didn’t want him to be alone.
When I walked into his house, he had the TV on. ‘‘You hit the big time. FOX News. Terminal evacuation after a passenger reported seeing a woman with a knife. No photos, but i-heist will make sure the feds know it was you. If they want them to find you, that is.’’
I stared at the screen. ‘‘Very expensive game they’re playing.’’
‘‘They don’t care about the expense. They care about demonstrating their power.’’
The sun hit his face. His expression was desolate. I went and put my arms around him.
‘‘I’m sorry,’’ I said.
He held on to me. I stroked his hair. Gold light infiltrated the room, strangely sterile for a summer sunset.
Finally he straightened. ‘‘You look whipped.’’
He was being polite; I smelled like it, too.
I let go of him. ‘‘Let me shower and we’ll talk.’’
‘‘Sure. I’ll call Lieutenant Rome and give him the revised edition. He’ll love me for it.’’
Ten minutes under hot water washed away chocolate and sweat, jalapeño popper grease and any drug metabolites emanating from my skin. But none of my anxieties. I dressed and went back to the living room. Jesse was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the sea. It was flat, with a pewter shine.
‘‘I heard your phone message, the Segue information.’’ He rubbed his leg, as though it ached. ‘‘I have to tell Lavonne. Yago demanding that I move money through the Sanchez Marks client trust account—that’s a threat against the firm. Maybe she can talk to the FBI about this, I don’t know. . . .’’