Kate hesitated. “She left with her bodyguard. He received some facial cuts. The two of them went to the hospital.”
This was partly true. Grange was on his way to the ER. He was the unconscious man found in the nightclub. Swann had subdued him, taken his car keys and phone. And Grange’s gun and holster, of course. Those items would have raised a red flag if they’d been found by the cops or paramedics.
Gabrielle shook her head. “She wouldn’t leave me. She’s my ride.”
“With everything that happened, she probably forgot.”
“She wouldn’t just run off. Especially after what happened. She’d want to know I was okay.”
“Are you okay?” Kate asked, looking closer. There was a minor cut on the girl’s cheek and a purplish contusion on her neck.
“Yeah. Shaken up, is all.”
“Were you with Chelsea when the craziness started?”
“No, she went to the toilet. She was sick. I wanted to go with her, but Alfonse made me wait outside.”
Distantly, Kate was pleased to hear her call Grange by his first name. “Were they in there long?”
“Hardly any time before the gunshots, or whatever it was.”
“So you ran out—”
“No way. I tried to get to Chels, but with all those people…It was like a riot in there. They just, like, pushed me forward. Like a tidal wave.”
That explained the firecrackers. Swann needed a diversion to drive the club patrons out the back, scatter the people waiting on line, and lure the paparazzi into the parking lot, allowing him to make his getaway through the front door with no photographers on his tail.
“I never would’ve left her if I’d had a choice,” the girl added plaintively. “And she never would leave me. I figured by now she’d be in the parking lot with everyone else. But she’s not. And now you’re telling me she’s left?”
“She had to make sure Grange made it to the hospital.”
“She was my ride,” Gabrielle said again.
Kate knew it wasn’t transportation that had her upset. “She didn’t forget you,” she said. “Where do you live?”
“Silver Lake.”
Kate handed her two twenties. “Call a cab. This’ll get you home.”
“I should make sure she’s okay.”
“Go home to your folks. If they hear what happened, they’ll be worried about you.”
“Right. Um…thanks. Sorry I was a bitch to you at Stiletto.”
“You were just looking out for your friend.”
She watched Gabrielle walk away. Her story clarified a few details. Grange ordinarily wouldn’t accompany Chelsea into the lavatory, but tonight, knowing Swann was stalking her, he would not have let her out of his sight. Swann was counting on that. He had positioned himself for an ambush. Somehow he had known when Chelsea would head for the restroom.
She looked kinda out of it, the bouncer had said. Shell-shocked.
Drugged. Probably, Swann spiked her drink with Rohypnol or GHB. He knew the drug’s effects would drive her into the bathroom and leave her dazed and compliant afterward.
And the out-of-order sign—he posted it to ensure that there would be no witnesses in the restroom. He must have removed it just before Chelsea entered with Grange.
That much was clear, and so was another thing. She wasn’t bringing in the police. She’d made the decision the moment she’d lied to Gabrielle.
She got back into the Jaguar and cruised the neighborhood, looking for the company limo. It was equipped with an OnStar transceiver that allowed its location to be traced via GPS. Swann would know about that. He had almost certainly dumped the car soon after leaving the club. It ought to be parked within a few blocks of Panic Room.
While driving, she called her office number. Alan answered. She filled him in. When she got to the abduction, he cut her off.
“Chief, less than five minutes ago I received an anonymous tip about Chelsea Brewer. The guy said I should check out the action on that celebrity dead-pool site.”
“And?”
“Couple hours ago someone placed a significant wager on Chelsea’s imminent demise.”
A chill passed through her like the onset of the flu. “How significant?”
“Ten Gs.” His monotone irritated her. There was such a thing as being too unflappable.
“The creep who runs that site,” she asked, “what’s his name? Chip something?”
“Skip Slater.”
“I need his home address. I know he’s local.”
“Give me a minute. He’s got to be unlisted.”
She heard the clicking of a computer keyboard. An unlisted address wouldn’t be an obstacle to the online databases Guardian Angel subscribed to.
“Also,” Kate said, “I want you to pull in a couple of off-duty bodyguards, send them to check on Grange—and to keep him quiet. We can’t let him make an official report. We’re handling this ourselves. No police.”
“Do you think that’s wise?”
“It’s our only shot at getting Chelsea back. Now, listen. Swann said he’d call my cell again in two hours. Any way you can trace that call?”
“I’d need some hardware.” He slipped into the faraway tone that signaled he was thinking aloud. “Basically, I’d have to connect your cell to an Asterisk box, tweak the configurations to strip out the privacy flags…”
“I don’t need the technical rundown.”
“Friend of mine has an Asterisk setup. I can borrow his box. If he’s home, and not out somewhere trying to get laid.”
“Get the box, then go to the Brewers’ house.”
“You said two hours? I don’t know if I can pull it together fast enough, chief.”
“Just try.”
“Will do. Okay, I’ve got Slater’s residence.” He recited the street address and unit number of a condo in West Hollywood. “You going over there?”
“Yes.”
“Be careful. Who knows what’s up with this guy. He could be part of it.”
“If he is, he’ll wish he wasn’t.”
She ended the call. There was a twisting queasiness in her gut. She’d forgotten how much fear felt like hunger.
Ahead, her headlights picked out a black Cadillac DTS parked on Cosmo Street, north of Selma Avenue. Grange’s car.
She double-parked alongside it. The Caddy was unlocked. When she opened the door on the driver’s side, the dome light came on. She scanned the interior. No large masses on the seats or the floors. She found the trunk latch and popped the lid. The trunk was empty except for a spare tire, a jack, and a first aid kit issued to all her security escorts. Only after she closed the lid could she admit to herself that she’d been looking for Chelsea’s body.
She carried out a more careful search of the passenger compartment. On the backseat floor she found Grange’s cell phone. No surprise that Swann had abandoned it. His location could have been traced by the GPS signal. Grange’s gun and holster were nowhere in sight. Swann had retained those items.
Kate got back into her car, intending to drive on, but for a long moment, she just sat there. Around her neck, under her blouse, she wore a crucifix of carved ironwood. She fumbled it out and rubbed her fingers over its contours. She wanted to say a prayer, if only for the comfort of a familiar routine. But she couldn’t remember any words. Then just pray from your heart. But she knew she couldn’t.
She bit her lip deep enough to draw blood. Tasted its warmth in her mouth. Wounding herself now? Creating stigmata? Maybe next she’d try self-flagellation. Maybe the bite of the lash would bring her, at last, to God.
Stop this.
It was not a thought expressed in words, but a physical tremor of revulsion.
She put the car into gear and began to drive.
To West Hollywood—and the proprietor of Celebrity Whack-A-Mole.
SKIP Slater had spent the past two hours in front of his computer, and what he’d learned about Loki had not, repeat not, calmed his troubled mind.
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Loki was no newbie. He’d played the site for the past three years, placing nearly a hundred bets. He’d won twice and come up dry every other time, his losses far outpacing his winnings. He had no evident system; he seemed to play hunches, and he liked backing long shots. He was, in other words, an addict, the kind of player whose greed and desperation kept CWAM in the black.
All of which should have been reassuring, except that Loki had never wagered this kind of cash before. His previous bets had been for fifty, a hundred dollars a pop. Two fifty, tops, and then only rarely. That was why he had stayed off the radar screen. Tonight he was laying down ten grand.
That was troubling. It suggested he had some special reason to expect success. But if it was a sure thing, why not bet even more?
Maybe he hoped ten grand wouldn’t draw any attention. Lay down twenty-five or fifty grand, and you just knew you were going to get noticed. But ten grand, to a person of means, might not seem like a red flag.
And Skip was pretty sure Loki was a person of means. Look at the way his residential address was set up. It was the home of someone with international connections, a world traveler.
Add it all up, and what did you have? A compulsive gambler who was suddenly betting forty times more than he’d ever wagered before. A guy with money and foreign contacts, playing a long-shot bet that could break the house.
An hour ago, Skip sent home Elke or Ellie. No more nookie tonight. No more nookie ever if he lost CWAM and the money it brought in. If he had to rely on his charm and good looks to get women, he would be celibate for life.
The intercom buzzed.
The noise startled him. Until now, he hadn’t realized how quiet it was. Even the constant tattoo of footsteps from upstairs had ceased. His tranny neighbor must have taken his high heels out on the town.
Skip rose from his chair, the first time he’d moved his lower body since sitting down at the computer, and hurried into the living room. The intercom buzzed again. Somebody was impatient. He tapped the mic button. “What?”
“Mr. Slater, my name is Kate Malick of Guardian Angel, the personal security firm. I need to speak with you regarding one of my clients.”
His heart flipped. He tasted puke at the back of his throat. “Which client?”
“Chelsea Brewer.”
He was fucked.
The world’s most trashtacular popwreck was deceased, and even if word hadn’t reached the media yet, an after-the-fact investigation was already underway. He was about to become another dot-com millionaire with an empty bank account and a wolf pack of creditors on his ass.
“Mr. Slater?”
He thought about turning her away, but it was no use. You couldn’t turn away the angel of death.
He buzzed her in. She was at his door twenty seconds later. Must’ve taken the stairs; the elevator wasn’t that fast. He opened up, and damn, she really was the angel of death—black skirt, black jacket, black hair, black eyes. She terrified him. She was going to bring his world crashing down.
“Uh, come in.”
Kate Malick entered, unsmiling, and stood in the small space the lying Realtor had described as two rooms, a living room and a dining area, when in fact it was all one room—and not a very big room, at that. She kept her hands in her jacket pockets, unwilling to touch anything, as if his very presence rendered the premises unclean. She looked around slowly as if scenting the air.
“You have a problem,” Malick said.
“Do I?” He did his best to sound nonchalant. It seemed like the cool thing to do.
“You do. And unless you’re an idiot, which I doubt, you already know about it.”
He swallowed. “I’m aware someone’s put down a sizable chunk of change on your client. I don’t see how that’s my problem.”
“It’s your problem because if Chelsea Brewer dies tonight, you’ll take a major hit.”
If she dies, the woman had said. If. Such a beautiful word. Skip had never appreciated its aesthetic qualities until now.
He let out a shaky breath. “Is there any reason to think she might die?”
“She was abducted a half hour ago.”
Skip moaned, his reprieve evaporating. “Oh, man, I knew shit like this would happen.”
“Your concern for Chelsea is touching.”
“Hey, I’ve got nothing to do with this.”
“Don’t you?” She turned her cold gaze on him. “You’ve got quite a setup going here. You’ve found a way to profit from death.”
He tried not to be intimidated. It wasn’t easy. She was older than he was, and taller, and something in her stride suggested she could kick his ass. “I wouldn’t look at it that way. It’s a game, that’s all.”
“It hasn’t occurred to you that your game may encourage someone to murder a celebrity for a big payoff?”
“I’ve got that covered.”
“Not well enough, it appears.”
“Look, it’s not like I’m killing anybody. I’m just keeping score.”
Kate Malick stared at him. Skip found it kind of fascinating to be in the same room with someone who despised him so completely. Then she turned away, her gaze traveling to the art print on the wall, a reproduction of Piss Christ, the Andres Serrano photo of a crucifix in urine. Skip had always found it daring, but now he saw it with her eyes—a bit of childish graffiti, stupidly offensive.
Something about the photograph triggered an association. “Shit. I remember you. You’re the nun.”
“My personal life isn’t relevant to anything.”
“You’re cool, though. Seriously. They kicked you out of the convent and you just turned around and went entrepreneurial on their ass. Is it true you hired guys off the street to be bodyguards—bums—and you cleaned them up?”
“They cleaned themselves up.”
“Personally, I think it was genius. With all the bleeding hearts in this town, you knew you’d get some killer PR. Every celebrity latte drinker would be jonesing to be part of your rehabilitation crusade. Only, it kind of knocks you off your high horse, doesn’t it? You exploited the down-and-outers to generate buzz in the community. Then you exploited the do-gooder instincts of the rich and clueless to get yourself a client list. Now that you’ve hit the big leagues, I’ll bet you don’t hire street people anymore. But that social activist vibe still clings to you, right?”
“I’m not here to discuss my business practices. I’m here to discuss your culpability in the abduction of Chelsea Brewer.”
“Hey, I can’t be held responsible for what some mentally unbalanced individual may do. I don’t even know that the wager is connected to the kidnapping. Actually, I hope it is. If the bet was placed as part of a criminal conspiracy, I’m not obligated to honor it. No payout.”
“So you think you’re off the hook?”
“Looks that way.”
“I was wrong about you. You are an idiot.”
“Hey, I’m a pretty tolerant guy, but I won’t take an unlimited amount of shit. You’re in my house, you know. I can make you leave at any time.”
Malick appraised him darkly. “Can you?”
He swallowed. “I don’t want to get physical.”
“No. You really don’t.”
She stared him down until he looked away.
“You’re not off the hook, Mr. Slater. If my client dies, there will be legal consequences.”
“The system can’t touch me. My site is licensed through the Canadian Mohawk territory of Kahnawake. The whole operation is outside US jurisdiction.”
“But you personally aren’t outside US jurisdiction, are you?”
“I haven’t done anything illegal.”
“It’ll make an interesting test case. Care to chance it? Even if you avoid criminal charges, there’ll be civil liabilities. Any way you look at it, it’s in your interest to keep Chelsea alive.”
“And how am I supposed to do that?”
“By giving me the name and address of the person who placed the bet.�
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“What makes you think I can supply that info?”
“There’s a lot of money on the line. You had to be curious.”
His shoulders narrowed in a defensive scrunch. “I made an effort to track down the bettor, but I got nowhere. There are layers of anonymity. My clients transfer funds to CWAM via one of several third parties located in places like Costa Rica and the British West Indies. What with the cutouts, I don’t know who’s playing. All I ever see is a bunch of screen names. The payment processors have the players’ real names and contact info, but they don’t share their data. They’re more secretive than Swiss banks.”
“So you’ve hit a dead end?”
“Right.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re too tech-savvy to get nowhere. And you’re a crappy liar.” A compliment and an insult in the same breath. She was playing good cop–bad cop all by herself.
“Well…there could possibly be other avenues of investigation. But even if I were to come up with something, I wouldn’t hand it over to you.” He drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t much. “I don’t cooperate with agents of the established social order.”
“What are you—an anarchist?”
“Anarcho-libertarian, actually. The state itself is a criminal enterprise—”
“Save it.”
“You’re not into politics?”
“I’m into saving my client’s life. And if you’re really an anarchist—”
“Anarcho-libertarian.”
“Then you should want to help me. Because I’m not from the government. And if Chelsea dies, people who are in the government will be paying you a visit, and they won’t be as sociable as I am.”
He paused. “That’s the first intelligent statement you’ve made.”
“I’m still waiting for yours.”
He thought it over. Malick wasn’t a cop. She was probably discreet. He just might have to trust her.
“Okay,” he said. “I did make some progress tracking down the bettor. I’ll walk you through it, and I’ll try to keep it nontechnical.”
“Let me guess. The money is transferred by the payment processor, but the player logs on to your system from his own terminal. You performed a WHOIS lookup of the player’s IP address. Then you ran a traceroute to identify the proximate server.”
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