She was in a restricted area. If she got caught, she’d be thrown in jail and Maurice would win. So don’t get caught, she thought. With her penlight, she scanned the areas, the odor of chemicals floating in the air, making the back of her throat feel dry. Bitter. What is that? She checked the contents of a couple of drums, jotting down the names. The element names were unfamiliar and she’d have to check them on her computer later. The smells were making her a little dizzy.
What had brought Maurice here that night?
She moved to the back of the building just as one of the wide rolling doors scraped open. She lunged toward a corner, crouching behind drums as workers filed in, grabbing cartons and cables.
Oh, hell. Oh, hell. They’ll find me.
A truck engine roared as the vehicle backed into the warehouse entrance, and the crew began loading it with supplies for stunts. There were about ten people moving in and out and Darcy considered staying right where she was till they were gone, but couldn’t take the chance of anyone seeing the side-door lock was gone and trapping her inside. Workers moved toward her position, gathering supplies. Sweat trickled under her mask, and her heart pounded as they neared.
If they saw her bag, they’d immediately think she was stealing. Stealing explosive material was a crime. God, they’d find her clothes, know she wore a facial mask. Oh, crap.
They came closer, and she shoved the bag under a discarded wood pallet, then inched her way to the doors, waiting for attention to focus on the loading before slipping out.
Immediately, she backtracked behind them and grabbed a roll of heavy cable. She loaded it on the truck. No one spared her a second look. Being around them felt familiar, though back when she was hired for a movie, she’d worked in the makeup department and, if on location, out of a trailer. It had been a cushy job, with two assistants helping her.
“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Darcy looked up, hefting the stack of boxes and trying to keep the fear out of her expression. “My job.”
“This is a restricted area.”
“Well, no shit,” she said, showing her old IDs and praying he didn’t look at the expiration dates. “Penn sent me over here for more blasting caps.” Luckily Darcy had glimpsed the list needed for the stunts posted inside the truck bed and who would oversee them.
“Well, get out.” The man shook his head, rubbed his mouth. “Christ, they let anyone around this stuff.”
“I know, I know, blow us all to hell and it’s your responsibility.” She handed him the heavy stack of boxes, forcing him to take it. “Then I guess you need to do it or trust us.”
The assistant shot her a hard look and pushed the box back into her arms. “Get moving and don’t come in here without an escort.”
Darcy shrugged, chewing gum she didn’t have, and walked away, then deposited the cartons in the truck. As soon as she was out of sight, she kept walking and circumvented the building. She had to go back there to get her bag and to look again. She’d smelled something familiar, but couldn’t put her finger on what it was. Or where she’d smelled it before. Could it be just a memory of a smell from a movie set?
The workers and set directors kept her from getting inside without being noticed. Unfortunately someone had closed the padlock on the side door. She hid till the trucks rolled away, then, pulling tools from a small black pouch strapped to her calf, she went to work picking the padlock again. The sounds of trucks and cars moving around made her heart shoot to her throat. Voices grew louder, moving closer. Her hands shook so hard she couldn’t get the lock open. In one sharp moment, she took a calm breath and worked the lock. It sprang, and she darted inside, flattening against the wall.
She paused long enough to get her heart where it belonged, then flipped on her penlight. It was pitch-black but cool, air conditioners keeping the materials stable. She moved to the back, getting her bag first. Her head felt fuzzy, her limbs a little rubbery. She turned sharply, almost falling on a canister. It tipped and an odor rose up from beneath. The drum was leaking and she lurched back, staggering and reaching for anything to keep from falling. Her hand smacked on a crate and she held on.
I’m going to lose my breakfast, she thought, her mouth watering, bitterness burning the back of her throat. She was still, waiting for it to pass. But it didn’t and she struggled to reach the door, praying no one had put the lock back on, and grabbed the knob. Her head pounded, not with pain but as if it were filled with cotton and needed more room. She slipped out the door, and it took several tries to close the padlock. Darcy walked away, her steps weaving.
Unable to go another foot, she sagged against the wall and breathed deeply. The fuzzy feeling started to clear, but the taste in her mouth was still there. She dug in her bag for a bottle of water and drank, thinking that was stupid. All those chemicals in there, she could have blown herself up.
She climbed to her feet, heading toward the entrance and hoping she made it to her hotel room before she passed out.
In her hotel room Darcy slept for an hour, and her head was clear when she woke. She ordered room service, called Megan and spoke to Charlie. He was sweet and silly, and having fun with Meg’s neighbors’ puppies. When Megan got back on the line she gave Darcy the rundown on the salon’s business.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Meg.”
“You’d fall apart. I want a raise.”
Darcy laughed softly. “Take it out of petty cash.”
“Jack called here for you.”
Darcy stilled. “Oh.”
“He didn’t seem surprised you were out of town for a couple days.”
“He saw Charlie on TV, Meg.”
“Oh, God.” Darcy told her about the segment about Rainy.
“You didn’t tell him more, did you?”
“I had to tell him I knew Rainy, because he knew he’d seen Charlie. But I didn’t say more than I had to, and he left angry.”
“Let’s hope Jack keeps his mouth shut about it.”
Fear streaked through her bloodstream, tightening her features. “Why wouldn’t he?”
“Maurice had millions, Darcy, how much would he pay for information on you?”
“Jack wouldn’t do that.” Would he?
“Are you ready to trust your life with that?”
“No, I’m not.” And it proved that she’d let Jack deep into her life when she shouldn’t have. “I’ll be home in two days. I’ll talk to him.”
“I’ll take care of things here, Darcy, but please, watch your back and don’t do anything stupid.”
“This is all stupid, Meg, but I have to, you know that.”
Or she’d be locked in this hell forever.
She hung up and sat on the bed, but that only lasted a few seconds. She turned on the TV, bit into a cold French fry from dinner, then flipped through channels.
Something caught her attention and she flipped back to the local news. There was a big press party at the Beverly Center for Dead Game—a fan show, stars appearing, signing autographs, doing interviews before the premiere Friday night. That meant Maurice would be there. And not in his office.
Chapter 6
S taring up at Maurice’s offices, Darcy popped a piece of gum in her mouth to help the dryness. It was as if the moisture in her mouth shut off when she was nervous.
And she was. Under her clothes she wore a synthetic catsuit, skintight and unrestricting. She felt like Jane Bond about to infiltrate a death-squad hideout.
Armed with her knife, wire cutters and lock picks, she had black nylon rope wound around her waist, just in case she needed it. She didn’t know why, but having it made her feel better when she knew she hadn’t planned this well enough. She didn’t have time, nor any way to access information other than city plans. For a second, she wished she’d asked Jack for more equipment, then instantly dismissed that—he was being nosy enough already.
Going through the front door was out of the question. The building had a guard at the
desk and a security system. Maurice had boasted about it once, as if warning her that there was a part of his life she would never know.
She knew enough. She checked the lower window, finding metal-strip sensors on the glass and locks. Okay that wasn’t an option. Think. She could feel the clock ticking away her chances.
The pre-premiere party was for the staff, crew, actors and sponsors and would go on all night. Maurice would make a graceful escape soon enough, though she doubted he’d come back here anyway. But she didn’t want to risk it.
She circled to the back, her gaze traveling up the artdeco line of the building that used to house the offices of Edgar Bergen. Surprisingly there wasn’t a fire-escape ladder that reached past the third floor. She had to scale the building. Stripping off her jeans and shirt and leaving them in a ball by the trash, she grasped the end of a brick indentation and pulled herself up, glancing down to check the area again. She looked to the top.
Man, it was far. If she fell, she’d be a flying Wallenda trapeze artist without a net.
She hooked her toes in the brick work, taking her time, breathing slowly. In her training at Athena, they’d scaled rock walls and, as she moved, everything Rainy and her instructors had taught her came rushing back. Secure the footing first, don’t overreach.
I can do this. Energy surged, her confidence building as she passed the third floor. Her aim was the roof. The buildings weren’t close enough for her to risk jumping from one to the other from the top floors. Besides, the neighboring building was only three floors tall. She was in good shape, just not that good. She stretched her arms, her feet braced on the sill of an office window. If she remembered right, it was the bathroom. Even that had a sensor and she was careful not to touch it with her foot.
Darcy held on, her hands sweating, her toes curling to grip. She stretched again to reach the next brick. They stuck out at different spots, creating a pattern of sweeping curls in the wall. One more, don’t rush it.
Cars moved past on the street, voices, faint and distant, pierced the night’s silence.
Carefully she pulled her leg up, using her toes to feel the wall. When she found purchase, she pushed.
And slipped.
Her chin hit the brick and her muscles seized. She clutched the brick hard. Her breathing rushed with quick panic, and she was suddenly mad that she’d been brought to this.
Darcy struggled for five more minutes, choosing each move carefully, her fear replaced with tenacity. When she reached the top she grasped the edge, dangling like a noodle, then used her arms to pull herself up.
She swung her leg over the edge and hiked herself onto the roof. For a second, she just stayed there on her knees, catching her breath. Then she stood, looking around.
Air vents. Fire door. Glass skylight to Maurice’s sitting area. She moved to that, looking down.
The room below looked opaque, the shapes undefinable. She reached for the lock, stopping short when she saw the metal tape. She unwound the rope, leaving it behind, and moved to the vents. She didn’t bother pulling one apart, they were too narrow. Her hips would never fit through, and she didn’t know where they led.
She went to the fire door and checked it for sensors. There weren’t any. She frowned at that, double-checking, then slipping on latex gloves, she knelt, put her penlight in her mouth and used her picks to open the lock. Her hands grew slippery with sweat inside the gloves. She expected the alarm to sound.
The lock sprang. She slipped inside, padding down the short staircase that ran to the first floor right outside the guard’s desk. She moved quietly, knowing sound would echo down the narrow stairwell and alert the guard. Who was armed.
She pushed open the door to Maurice’s floor.
The hall was dark, the carpet lush and new smelling. What little moonlight there was coming through the open doors reflected off the pictures that lined the walls, shots of Maurice with actors and directors, and promo posters of movies.
Surrounded by all your glory, eh, Maurice?
She moved down the hall, silent, slow, then went into her husband’s office. There was no reason for him to lock the door. No one came on this floor unless he said so.
She shined her light over the room, which stretched the length of the building, decorated for masculine power and money. Darcy spotted several new pieces of art, a leather-sofa grouping to the left, a sparkling wet bar behind that near the window. In the center, the skylight reflected the black surface of a small conference table before his desk.
Like a king holding court.
In a small room to her far left were copiers, fax machines and a bathroom complete with a shower and a closet.
Darcy went right to the files in the Brazilian mahogany cabinets behind the desk. She flipped through them, looking for anything on taxes, financial reports that would connect Maurice and Porche. And mostly anything that was dated and signed after Fairchild had vanished. When she didn’t come across anything, she grew antsy, a little dispirited.
He had to have it here. He’d need it for his accountants.
A sliver of hopelessness pierced her and she sighed, sitting in his chair. The leather was so cold she felt it through the cat suit. Her gaze fell on his computer and she turned on the screen. With the mouse, she opened files, reading quickly. Nothing. Leaving the desk, she moved her penlight over the room’s interior.
She studied the bookcases, four wide and lining the wall opposite the desk. She barely noted the titles till she realized the same sets of books were on two shelves. She tipped a few out, then back, going down the line. It wasn’t until she reached the third row that she found it. A little switch. She flicked it. The wall sprang with a soft sigh.
Very clever, Maurice, very clever.
Behind it was a safe.
Hell.
That didn’t do her much good. She couldn’t open it.
A lock, sure, but a safe?
She tried anyway, using his birthday, then their wedding day. The day his first film was released. Maurice had trouble remembering sequences of numbers, so he kept them familiar. It was how she’d gotten into his personal finances through the online search.
She dropped her arms, staring at the unopened safe.
Nothing worked.
She checked her watch, aware she was running out of time. She gave it one last try, and for reasons she couldn’t say, she tried Charlie’s birth date.
It clicked open.
Darcy blinked, stunned to her soles.
Maurice using Charlie’s birthday when he’d pushed her down the stairs to make her lose him? When he’d ignored her son when Charlie was born?
It didn’t please her.
It made her more afraid.
Because it meant that, no matter what Maurice had said or done, Charlie was important to him. She didn’t want that. She wanted her son for herself. God, she didn’t want Maurice even thinking about him!
Shaking off this new concern till later, she rose on her toes and peered in, then lifted out the stacks of paper. She found cash bound in ten-grand increments, bonds and his passport. And hers. She considered taking it, but then he’d know she was here. Yet she stared at the picture, seeing a stylish woman, sapphires dangling from her ears to match her suit. She snapped it closed.
That Darcy was dead.
She brought the stack to the floor, spreading it out. She expected to find computer discs of information, but it was all paper. She flipped and read, careful to keep the papers aligned as they were. Then she found what she needed and felt almost giddy. The final documents of the loan for the production.
She didn’t see a thing wrong with them, though by the graininess at the top of the page, she could tell they were copies. Porche would have the original to file with the banking commission. She hurried to the copier near the bathroom, shut the door and started the machine. It sighed softly as each scan-and-copy printed and she peeked out the door, wondering if the guard made nightly rounds. She checked her watch. Damn. It was fast approac
hing midnight.
Darcy willed the copier to move faster, then glanced at the immaculate bathroom, the small open closet outside hung with two suits and fresh shirts. She searched the pockets, finding nothing but cleaner stubs and the monogramming order.
The copying done, she rolled hers into a tube and went back to the safe to replace the others, stacking everything exactly as it had been and putting them back in the safe.
Returning the wall to its closed position, she grabbed a rubber band from the desk to secure the tube of papers and headed to the door. She was nearly there when she stilled, hearing something. It took her about two seconds for the sound of a knob turning to register.
Oh, no.
She turned back, ducking behind the four-foot-wide wall that sectioned the office from the conference area. She went motionless, her breathing light and slow. She didn’t hear footsteps or keys. Then the door opened sharply, a wide beam of light glazing over the room. She could almost feel a figure approaching, hear his breathing. Oh, man, oh, man.
Darcy held her breath. The light speared over the interior, then clicked off.
She still didn’t move, waiting for her heart to slow down, then she checked her watch. Midnight on the dot. She stayed where she was till she heard the close of a door somewhere down the hall, then moved to the door, wondering how she’d get down from here and what to do next.
She needed to lure Maurice, scare him a little to see if she was on the right track. She stopped and turned back.
She knew just how to do it.
Leaning over his chair, she opened the Web browser on his computer. The high-speed line was open and she went to Yahoo.com and sent a blind message.
I’m back. 11 PM, lot 8.
P.F.
That should do it.
She deleted the cookies and history, then dumped the trash bin, erasing her trail. It was a long shot, but he lived by e-mail, voice mail and cell phones. And she didn’t have any time left. She repositioned everything on the desk, including the chair. Maurice’s world was a precise and orderly one. It almost made him predictable.
Alias Page 6