by Tim Downs
But Bobby wasn’t there.
So much for making it look like a robbery, he thought. Too bad—it would have been nice to do it while he was asleep. Tino considered the hospital again. It was impossible—UCLA was enormous and there were people everywhere. No, it had to happen away from the hospital—and soon. There was no way around it: Bobby was a loose cannon, and there was no telling what he might do next—unless Tino got to him first.
Tino needed to find him. A great deal of money was riding on this—and if anything went wrong, maybe even Tino’s life. My life for Bobby’s, he thought. Sounds like a good trade to me.
He started the car and drove off.
Fifteen minutes later Tino was standing in the center of the lobby of UCLA Medical Center. Straight ahead of him was an information desk manned by two elderly volunteers with stooped backs and welcoming smiles. On the left was a gift shop filled with all the forgotten sundries a patient or an overnight visitor could ever need. On the right was a glass-encased vending machine stocked with vases of roses and daisies—instant comfort or consolation, whatever the occasion called for. The ceiling was high and the floor was covered in a slick, glistening stone that seemed to muffle all the footsteps. Though it was only the hospital’s lobby, the air already had a slight smell of disinfectant that imparted a vague sense of dread. And there were people—some talking, some laughing, some seated on vinyl sofas consoling weeping friends. There were people everywhere; Tino wondered if the lobby was ever empty. The old man’s no fool, he thought.
“You lookin’ for me?”
Tino turned. There was Emmet, staring at him coldly with his open hand already outstretched.
“You like to get right down to business, don’t you?”
“This ain’t no social call. You got somethin’ for me or don’t you?”
Tino took the envelope from his blazer and held it out. “A cashier’s check made out to ‘cash,’ just as you asked. Feel free to verify the amount.”
“No need. A man like you don’t make mistakes like that.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s not a compliment. I just figure you’re the smart one in the group—though I can’t say you got much competition.”
When Emmet took hold of the envelope, Tino held on to the other end. “This is a great deal of money,” he said. “What do you plan to do with it?”
“I’ll find a use for it,” Emmet said, tugging the envelope free. “The thing with money is, you don’t want to let it stick to your fingers.”
“Very wise. Mind if I give you a piece of advice?”
“I can’t stop you.”
“Don’t deposit that in your checking account. Most people would, just to see the nice fat account balance—but if you do, you’ll have a federal agent knocking on your door within the week. They keep an eye out for large cash deposits; it smells like drug money.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I’m just looking out for myself. A man in your line of work would have a difficult time explaining where he managed to come up with an extra million dollars. I don’t want you pointing your finger at me—that would be bad for both of us.”
“I’ll remember.”
“You do that. By the way, have you seen Bobby today? I didn’t see his car in the parking lot.”
“It’s Saturday—might be his day off. Did you try his house?”
“He didn’t come home this morning.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised—the man’s too dumb to stay where he belongs. No tellin’ where he’s been—but I can tell you where he’s bound to be later on.”
“Where?”
“Don’t you read the papers? Figured you’d know all about it. That book of yours—there’s a big book signing over at that new mall in Glendale. Olivia Hayden’s set to be there, and if she’s there I don’t believe Mr. Kemp will be far away.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
“Just lookin’ out for myself.”
Tino smiled. “You’re a very smart man, Emmet—a lot smarter than Bobby.”
“Like I said—not much competition.”
Tino turned without further word and headed for the exit.
Emmet watched him until he left the building, then walked around the corner and found an old wood-paneled phone booth. He pulled the door shut behind him and dialed a three-digit number. When the emergency operator answered he said, “Is this where I find the police? No, ma’am, it’s not an emergency exactly, but it’s sort of important so I thought you wouldn’t mind. Can you put me through? Thank you—you have a good day now.
“Yes, hello—is this the police? Well, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not tell you my name—but I have some information I think you’d like to know. Remember that doctor over at UCLA—the one who just up and disappeared a couple weeks back? Smithson, I believe his name was. Well, I believe I know the man responsible for that—and I can tell you right where to find him. You know that new mall over in Glendale?”
41
Kemp stretched up on his tiptoes and peered down the line of people. The line must have been fifty yards long, winding like a river down the long pedestrian walkway at the new $400 million Americana at Brand. The outdoor mall was the ideal setting for a book rollout and signing of this magnitude; no single bookstore could have ever contained the crowd. From where he stood Kemp couldn’t even see the front of the line, but he knew where it had to be because the location was marked by thousands of multicolored balloons bound together in a gigantic rainbow arch stretching across the pavilion. At one end of the arch was a wall-sized rendering of our own Milky Way galaxy; at the opposite end was an enormous photograph of a beaming Liv Hayden holding a glossy hardcover book. The crowd prevented Kemp from seeing beneath the arch, but he knew what he would find there when he eventually reached the front of the line. Directly beneath the arch would be a table, and seated at that table would be none other than Liv Hayden herself, smiling mechanically and jotting inane greetings to total strangers inside the covers of her just-released and soon-to-be-best-selling book: It’s All About You.
Kemp could almost hear the sound: ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching . . .
He turned around and looked; there were as many people behind him as there were in front of him, and more were arriving all the time. Buses pulled up to the curb and dropped off people in droves, shuttled in from other malls across the city. He tried to take a head count of the people in front of him but it was impossible; there were people of all shapes and sizes, some alone and some in groups, some standing at attention like soldiers while others wandered in and out of line with food and drinks. There was no way to tell how many of them were actually buying books and waiting for them to be signed, so there was no way to estimate how long he would be stuck in this seemingly endless line.
To make matters even worse, Kemp’s line wasn’t the only one. There were two lines running parallel to each other about twenty yards apart, converging like train tracks at a point beneath the rainbow bridge. The people in each line eyed their counterparts in the opposite line warily, measuring the relative progress of each column, grumbling and complaining when either line seemed to be moving faster than the other. What’s the difference? Kemp thought. Two long lines or one gigantic one—either way we’ll be here all day. Suckers—at least I’m getting paid for this.
Kemp knew he should be thrilled by the size of the crowd—it was exactly what Kalamar and Biederman had predicted. Every autograph meant a book purchase, and every book purchase meant a third of the publisher’s take for him. He should have been ecstatic—but he wasn’t. In fact, the longer he stood in line the angrier he became. Why did he have to wait in line like everybody else? This whole thing was his idea. The book, the autograph session, even the stupid balloons—none of it would have happened if it wasn’t for him. He shouldn’t be standing in line like all these other peons—he should be sitting at the table beside Liv Hayden, laughing and flirting with her like the costar of one of her movies. He s
hould be signing books too—Best Wishes, the Angel.
The entire scheme was his inspiration; he alone was responsible; it was his flash of genius that was behind it all. The thought should have given him a sense of pride and satisfaction, but it didn’t. It stuck in his craw like a jagged sliver of bone—because nobody knew it but him.
Tino Gambatti also looked down the line of people, but he wasn’t counting heads—he was searching for one particular face. There was something sticking in his craw too, but it had nothing do with whose idea the whole thing was or who was getting credit for it now. Tino didn’t care about who got the credit; he only cared about who got the money. He was a businessman, an investor, and he had a great deal of money invested in this project—money that had been borrowed from others. He knew these people; they were businessmen too, and they had no interest in apologies or excuses. They simply wanted their money back—on time, to the dollar, with interest. In Tino’s line of work there was a simple rule of thumb: If you want forgiveness you go to a priest; if you want to live, you repay your debts.
It’s just business, Tino thought. A man who risks his money must do whatever he can to protect his investment—and right now Bobby Foscoe was looking like a very bad investment. This idea of his, it was pure genius; but Bobby himself was a fool, and now he was allowing his own vanity to endanger the entire project—a project that Tino was heavily invested in. Bobby was free to destroy himself, but he had no right to take the other partners down with him. It was time to end their partnership—and if Bobby wanted to destroy himself, Tino would be only too glad to help.
There he is.
He spotted Bobby in the opposite line about fifteen yards back. Bobby seemed agitated, impatient—no surprise there. Tino stepped out of line and started across the open space toward him.
The line inched forward again but Kemp found the progress maddeningly slow. What’s taking so long? he wondered. How long does it take the woman to sign her name? He went up on his tiptoes once again, searching the pavilion for any sign of Biederman or Kalamar or Tino. They were the last ones he wanted to meet here—they were the ones who had warned him that he could never, ever come face-to-face with Liv Hayden. But they were wrong. Hayden would never recognize him—not at first, anyway. Each time he had played the angel he had been careful to position himself directly in front of the brilliant examination light. His face should have been completely silhouetted—just a dark shadow against a blinding aura of light. How much detail could she have made out? Besides, he had to meet Hayden face-to-face. He had something he wanted to tell her.
He thought again about the words he had implanted in Liv Hayden’s mind while she was still in that semiconscious state—how the “angel” had told her she would find true love, that the man of her dreams would soon come to her and that she would know him the instant she saw him. He had described himself to her in exhaustive detail: his handsome, chiseled features; his sinewy jaw; the deep cleft of his chin; his aquiline nose with the sexy flaring nostrils; his penetrating eyes the color of plush sable; and his black hair so thick that fingers could get lost in it. Who else could that describe but Kemp? How could she possibly miss him? What did the woman need, a map?
Kemp imagined for the hundredth time how his first encounter with Liv Hayden would go. When he reached the front of the line he would slowly extend his book for her to autograph; when she took hold of the book he would refuse to let go, forcing her to look up and make eye contact. Then he would slip off his sunglasses and flash his most engaging smile, turning his head slightly from side to side to give her a thorough look. And then he would say it—the “password” that would identify him as her unmistakable one true love: “I don’t believe in accidents—do you?”
After that he would just let the old McAvoy instincts take over, and who knew what might happen next? I just hope she doesn’t do anything embarrassing, he thought.
He briefly thought about Natalie again; when he did he felt a surge of anger and resentment. What was the woman’s problem, anyway? Kicking him out of the house without even a day’s notice, making him spend the night in some cheap hotel. He should have been furious, but he wasn’t. It just made things easier in the long run. No awkward breakup, no tearful goodbyes—this way the whole thing was her idea. Natalie’s a good woman, but that daughter of hers . . . who needs the grief? A kid who sees angels—what’s she been smoking? And she’s not even a teenager yet. Better to cut bait before the kid goes off the deep end completely.
Tino was only halfway across the pavilion when two men in blazers and sunglasses stepped in front of him.
“Tino Gambatti?” one of them said.
Tino looked at him. “Who are you?”
The man flashed a badge. “Detectives Isaacson and Garibaldi, Los Angeles Homicide. Are you Mr. Tino Gambatti from Baltimore, Maryland?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Look, pal, I got a whole list of questions for you and that’s the easiest one. Now are you Tino Gambatti or not?”
“Okay, I’m Tino Gambatti. What about it?”
“We have some questions we’d like to ask you, Mr. Gambatti. Would you come with us, please?”
Tino glanced over at Kemp. “This is not a good time.”
“Well, it’s a dandy time for us. Now are you coming with us or do we have to arrest you?”
Gambatti took one last look at Kemp, then reluctantly turned and followed the detectives to a waiting car.
“Hey, do you mind? Stop pushing.”
Kemp looked down. The voice came from a squat-bodied woman standing in line in front of him. “Are you talking to me?” he said.
“You’re the one pushing. Who else would I be talking to?”
“I’m not pushing, lady. It’s a little crowded, okay?”
“Pushing, shoving, call it what you want. It’s not your line, you know. Wait your turn like everybody else.”
Kemp glared at her. “Oh yeah? Well, suppose I told you it is my line.”
She sneered at him. “Who do you think you are?”
“I happen to be a personal friend of Liv Hayden.”
“You know Liv Hayden.”
“As a matter of fact I do.”
“You’re friends.”
“Close friends.”
“And as a personal favor, she asked you to wait in the back of the line with everybody else.”
People around them began to snicker.
Kemp was about to give a stinging reply when something caught his attention from the corner of his eye. He looked and saw three big men standing together near the center of the pavilion. They seemed somehow out of place; two of them were dressed in business attire and wore dark glasses, as if they were security guards. They suddenly turned and headed toward the exit together, and when they did Kemp could see the third man clearly—it was Tino Gambatti. What was Tino doing here? More important, where was he going—and who were the two men with him? Then he noticed that one of the men was leading Tino by the arm.
Kemp felt a sudden wave of panic and began to frantically search the area.
Emmet watched as the two homicide detectives led Tino Gambatti away, then looked across the pavilion at Kemp. He waited for Kemp’s frantic gaze to pass close to his position—then he raised his hand and waved. When he saw Kemp’s eyes lock onto his own he smiled back, and when he did he saw a look of astonished recognition flash across Kemp’s face, as if the two men were high-voltage wires that had suddenly crossed.
Emmet! What’s that old fart doing here?
The instant Kemp’s mind formed the question he also knew the answer. Emmet must have been there for the same reason Kemp was—he wanted to meet Liv Hayden face-to-face. But the old man had no romantic interest—he was the other angel, and he just wanted to see if Hayden would recognize him. But what if she did? That would be disaster—then she might figure out the whole thing! How could the old man take a chance like that? Kemp knew the answer to that question too: The old man had nothing to lose. If
Hayden wanted to make trouble, Emmet would just point the finger at Kemp. And if she didn’t want to make trouble—if she kept her sense of humor—the old man might even take credit for the whole idea!
Then an even more sickening thought occurred to Kemp: If Hayden recognized Emmet, she’d know the entire message was phony—including the part about the man of her dreams.
Kemp looked at his line, then over at Emmet’s. He knew he had to get to Liv Hayden before the old man did.
Emmet turned to a young man standing in line in front of him. “Warm day,” he said.
“Hotter’n blazes if you ask me,” the man replied. “That’s L.A. for you.”
Emmet nodded. “Must be almost noon—that ol’ sun’s about straight overhead. But I suppose a strapping young fella like you can bear the heat a might better than an old man can.”
“You feelin’ okay, mister?”
“Don’t like to complain,” Emmet said. “A man could get a bit light-headed under a sun like this, that’s all. Never you mind.”
“Here, why don’t you go ahead of me?”
“I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“No, I insist. Here.” He stepped aside and allowed Emmet to take his place—then he turned to the next person in line, a man about his own age. “Hey, we got an old man here, and the sun’s getting to him. How about we let him go ahead of us—that okay with you?”
“No problem,” said the other man, who then turned to the next person in line and made the same request. Within minutes Emmet had moved forward eight positions.
Emmet looked over at Kemp and grinned.
Kemp panicked. He turned to the squat-bodied woman in front of him. “Fronts?”
“What?”
“Fronts? Mind if I go ahead of you?”
“What is this, recess? Wait your turn like everybody else.”