The Bequest

by Nancy Boyarsky

  She nodded, not bothering to ask how he knew.

  “Any idea who did this?’

  “No.”

  “Know what they’re looking for?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Going back to stay with sis?”

  “I guess.”

  “We may want to talk to you again. I’d consider it a favor if you didn’t leave town.” He was silent a moment, then added, “You sure you don’t want to share anything with me?”

  “Talk to my attorney,” she said.

  He lifted his arms in an exaggerated shrug, as if asking himself what he was supposed to do with someone so unreasonable.

  Nicole was tempted to tell him about the car that had almost run her off the road, but she knew what would happen. First he’d ask if she’d gotten the license number, which she hadn’t. Then he’d repeat what he’d said before—that she had to tell him what she knew about Robert. Well, now she did know something. But she certainly wasn’t going to tell Miller about Robert’s envelope. If she did, he’d say it was vital evidence and demand that she hand it over.

  She didn’t believe the police were capable of protecting her. She’d read too often of witnesses who were killed or went missing. In particular, she didn’t trust Miller. He’d been hostile and suspicious of her from the start. Handing over the envelope would be a mistake; her lawyer had warned her not to give Miller any more information. Besides that, she’d had a bad feeling about law enforcement ever since her experience in England the previous year. In that case, the police hadn’t believed her when she told them she was in danger. Their refusal to take her seriously had almost gotten her killed.

  Once the detective was gone, she took her suitcase, with some clothes and Robert’s envelope inside, and went down to the car. She had to pull it slowly away from the curb to avoid hitting the paparazzi clustered around it. She drove directly to Sue’s office, followed by a motorcade of reporters and TV vans. The guard at the garage had Nicole’s name on his list. The long line of cars following her were refused admission; they found themselves stuck in line, bumper-to-bumper, and they all started sounding their horns. Nicole got her suitcase out of the trunk, then took the elevator up, glad to get away from them.

  Sue was waiting for her. She ushered Nicole into her office and sat her down.

  “Here,” Sue said, pulling a white envelope out of a drawer and pushing it across the desk. “Your firm wants you to have this, and I’m going to drop you off at Hertz. I’ve reserved a car for you. Before we leave, I’ll give you a big hat so the mob out there doesn’t spot you.”

  Nicole picked up the envelope. Inside was an American Express Platinum card with her name and the firm’s name just below it. All at once she remembered something Reinhardt had told her when they first met, when she’d stumbled into the middle of an undercover investigation he was working. “When you’re in a perilous situation, and don’t know who to trust, trust no one.” It occurred to her that, as honest and honorable as Sue might seem, her real allegiance was probably not to her, Nicole, but to the people who were paying the tab: Bascomb, Rice, Smith & Di Angelo. And their generosity in these arrangements was making Nicole uneasy.

  “You’re going to have expenses in the next couple of weeks,” Sue was saying, “and your firm is footing the bill. Charge everything to this credit card. You have carte blanche. Just keep track of your expenses.”

  After studying the credit card for a moment, Nicole put it back on the desk. “Listen, Sue, you bill the firm for any expenses related to my case, right?”

  Sue nodded.

  “I’m not comfortable using a credit card,” Nicole went on. “Is it possible for you to get me cash instead? Say, $3,000?”

  “But why?” Sue said. “I don’t understand your thinking.”

  “It’s just a feeling I have. Anyone with computer smarts could look up my charges on the credit card and keep track of where I am and what I’m doing. I have a hunch the people who killed Robert are the ones who trashed my condo. I don’t think I’m safe, and I need to make myself scarce for a while.”

  Left unsaid was the bad vibe Nicole had picked up when she met with the partners earlier in the day. It didn’t make sense—all four of them congregated there, just for her.

  “Well,” Sue said slowly. “We can let the firm know you need a bodyguard. I’m sure they’ll be willing.”

  “No,” said Nicole. “I’ll be fine if I can just disappear and get off the grid. Can you get me the cash?”

  “Of course,” Sue said. “But $3,000? That’s not enough to live on for a couple of weeks. You’ll have lodgings to pay for, meals…”

  “Make it $6,000 then. I’m not going to stay at the Four Seasons.”

  “We’ll make it $10,000,” said Sue. “I’ll send my secretary to the bank right now with my authorization.” She pulled a checkbook out of her desk and wrote a check. Then she scrawled a note on a piece of paper and went out to deliver it to her secretary.

  When Sue was back, Nicole said, “I also want to do something about my phone. That’s another way I could be tracked, but I’ll need to stay in touch with you. On our way to the rental car agency, could you stop at an electronics store? I’ll run in and get some prepaid, disposable phones. That way you’ll be able to reach me, but no one else will.”

  A little crinkle had appeared on Sue’s forehead. “If you really think you’re in that much danger, please don’t go off by yourself.” She paused a moment, then said brightly, “I know! You can stay with me. No one will know where you are.”

  “Thanks,” Nicole said. “But I do have a plan. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m sure you will, Nicole,” Sue said, “But first let’s make sure.” She got up from her desk and opened a closet where her purse hung on a hook. She reached into it and pulled something out. When she turned around, she was holding a small silver gun.

  Nicole jumped to her feet, hand at her throat.

  Sue looked at her in surprise. “It isn’t loaded. Here, I’m going to get some bullets. Do you know how to load it?”

  Nicole could feel herself flush. “I thought—”

  “You thought I was going to shoot you?” Sue laughed. “Nicole, I’m on your side. You have to trust me. This gun belonged to my aunt. She died a couple of years ago, but it’s still registered to her. So if anything happens, and you need to use it, don’t worry. It can’t be traced back to me or you, for that matter. Here, I’ll show you how to load it.”

  Nicole went over to her and watched.

  “Have you ever shot a gun?” Sue asked.

  Nicole remembered, all at once, when Reinhardt had asked her the same question. It was just after he’d kissed her for the first time. They were hiding in a stable on the Scottish coast, waiting for his squad to make a drug bust. He had to leave her there and join his team, and he’d insisted on giving her a quick lesson in using a gun. After he’d left, she’d abandoned the stable, unable to endure the wait. She’d left the gun behind, choosing instead a flare gun he’d left so she could signal for help if she needed it. The flare gun had, in fact, done a perfectly adequate job of protecting her. She shivered, not wanting to think about it.

  “I don’t want it,” Nicole said. “I don’t like guns.”

  “You sense you may be in danger, and I agree,” Sue said. “So it’s your choice. Either you take the gun, or you’re not getting the cash you want. It’s as simple as that.”

  Nicole sighed and walked over to get yet another lesson in the care and handling of a gun.

  “This is a Smith & Wesson compact revolver,” Sue explained. “It’s small enough to carry in your purse, but it only holds five bullets, so it’s important to have extras if you need to reload.”

  When Sue was done demonstrating the weapon and showing how to set it so it wouldn’t fire accidentally, Nicole put the gun in her purse, along with a small jewelry bag Sue had found and filled with bullets. By now, the secretary had returned with an envelope of cash. Sue counted it,
handed it to Nicole, then went into the closet and pulled down a large, black, floppy-brimmed hat. Nicole put it on, but it was so big that it slipped down, almost covering her eyes. Laughing, Sue pulled it off and took it over to her desk to adjust the hatband. She placed the hat back on Nicole’s head, then flipped the brim at an angle. “Perfect,” she said. “Now put on your sunglasses, and we’re good to go.”

  Twelve

  It was dark by the time Sue dropped her off at the car rental agency. Nicole—still wearing her sunglasses and Sue’s hat—waved goodbye and carried her suitcase into the agency. Two people were already waiting in line. There was only one agent, and it took almost twenty minutes before she reached the counter.

  She used the time to check email and messages. There was nothing, of course, from Reinhardt. But there was a text message from Josh. “Thinking about you. Call me.”

  Nicole started to answer, then stopped. The paparazzi, and maybe others, had hacked this phone. She couldn’t reply without attracting their attention. She and Sue had stopped on the way here to get disposable phones; she’d given one to Sue, and her own was in her purse. But she didn’t want to use it to call Josh. Disposable phone to disposable phone—that was the rule if you didn’t want your number traced.

  She’d have to figure out another way to let Josh know she’d be off the grid for a while. She turned off the phone and dropped it into her purse. She couldn’t use it anymore. It was too much of a liability. Even with location services turned off, it still could be used to track her. Her smart phone was essential in her daily life. She was always in touch, aware of the latest headlines. Most of all, she loved the way it gave her access to the web and immediate answers to just about any question. She was going to miss it.

  At last Nicole made her way to the counter. More waiting for the paperwork to be filled out, then printed. Finally, she was handed two keys on a ring and the number of the parking space of the car Sue had reserved for her. It was at the back of the lot under a yellow sign that said HERTZ PRESTIGE COLLECTION. Somewhat to her astonishment, it was a sleek silver Mercedes sedan, not exactly the sort of car that would easily blend in. Besides, it occurred to her that the rental agency and others with an interest in her whereabouts would be able to track her through the vehicle’s GPS.

  She went back to the office, where three people were now waiting in line. She told the agent she’d changed her mind and put the keys on the counter. He asked her to wait—gesturing toward the line—because she’d have to sign some forms. Remembering how long it had taken for him to process the rental in the first place, she said, “No thanks,” and walked out of the agency, ignoring his shouts of protest.

  She headed toward the nearest bus stop, several blocks away. It was starting to get dark. Passing a convenience store, she noticed two pay phones on the wall outside. She had to call Josh, and here was her chance. She went to the first phone and picked up the receiver. It was dead, but the second one had a dial tone. She got out her coin purse, fed in three quarters, and punched in his number.

  “Hello?” he said, somewhat uncertainly.

  “It’s me,” she said.

  “Oh, you!” She could hear the smile in his voice. “Hey, where are you? I don’t recognize the number.”

  “I’m at a pay phone.”

  “I didn’t know they had those anymore.”

  “I didn’t either,” she said. “Listen, I said I’d call, so here I am. I had to turn off my cell because the tabloids hacked it. I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be out of touch, without a phone, for a bit.”

  “Hey, I read those stories,” he said. “You’re not—”

  He was interrupted by a woman’s recorded voice, saying, “To continue with this call, please deposit seventy-five cents.”

  “I’m out of quarters,” Nicole said. The phone went silent.

  She hung up. It rang almost immediately, and she picked it up.

  “I saw the number on caller ID,” Josh said. “As I was saying, I read today’s stories. You aren’t—I mean, are you going off to meet that English guy who was in that photo with you? Is he the one you had a relationship with?”

  She could tell he was jealous and trying not to be a jerk about it. “No. I’m not seeing him. A lot of what the tabloids are saying is a distortion of the truth,” she went on, “but I was involved with him, and he did stand me up. He hasn’t contacted me since. I’m done with him.”

  “Good,” Josh said. “Come stay with me. Tell me where you are, and I’ll pick you up. Without a cell phone, you’ll be off the grid. You can keep out of sight, and no one would ever guess where you are.”

  She was quiet a moment, thinking how nice that would be—if only it were that simple.

  “Look,” she answered, “there’s something I have to do.” She was choosing her words carefully. “And—well, it’s complicated. I don’t want to drag anyone else into it.”

  “It’s about the guy who was murdered, isn’t it?” he said.

  When she didn’t answer, he said, “Hey, that guy was mixed up with some very dangerous people. Nicole, you’re scaring me.”

  She tried to think of a way to reassure him. Finally, she said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you any more than that. I promise I won’t put myself in danger. I’m going to say goodbye now. It will just be a day or two. The minute I’m done, I’ll call you. I promise.”

  She could hear him protesting as she hung up the phone. She began walking toward the bus stop. Behind her, the phone was ringing again. She walked faster, sorry she’d upset him. But she did have a plan. It wouldn’t take long, and once she’d taken care of it, she’d call him.

  As she reached the corner, one of the big blue buses that ran along Pico Boulevard appeared. She climbed on and paid the fare; it hauled her through a slightly seedy area of small storefront shops, some vacant, others occupied with marginal businesses that were so bereft of customers she wondered if they might be money-laundering operations.

  Next, the bus entered a strip of more prosperous establishments bordering Beverly Hills. This ran through a residential neighborhood mainly occupied by orthodox and ultra-orthodox Jews. She looked out the window as the bus passed delicatessens, kosher eateries, and markets, mixed with various other businesses that served the area’s thriving population. Onward they moved along the congested street, stopping and starting, toward Santa Monica.

  It struck her now, in a way that it never did when she was driving, how empty the sidewalks were. Occasionally, she’d spot an elderly man or woman in a motorized wheelchair, tooling across a street, up the specially-designed curb, and along the sidewalk. But, while auto traffic was dense, pedestrians were few. From her own experience, she knew that walking—even in her own relatively safe neighborhood—was problematic.

  Although she did her running on a treadmill at the gym, Nicole had to walk her dog in the neighborhood surrounding her condo. Almost invariably she’d find herself being panhandled by one of the homeless—usually male, but sometimes female—who camped on the sidewalks and in storefront doorways. Sometimes she’d cross the street to avoid an obviously deranged person who was screaming or making menacing gestures at passersby. And there was also the issue of the Westside’s hyper-aggressive drivers who had no intention of stopping for pedestrians.

  Spotting the freeway overpass ahead, she pulled the cord for the bus to stop. She knew exactly where she was headed. The Rent-a-Wreck auto agency was now a nationwide franchise. As a girl, she’d been aware of it as the one-of-a-kind brainchild of a freethinking entrepreneur. He’d built a steady business by renting cars that really did look like wrecks—old, dented and dirty but usually perfectly drivable. It was rumored that movie stars and other famous people rented them because of the anonymity they afforded. In the agency’s heyday, Marlon Brando was said to be a regular customer.

  Rent-a-Wreck had come a long way since then. It now rented cars that were just a few years old and in pretty good shape. What made the agency attractive to
Nicole was that they accepted cash customers, while major brands like Hertz and Avis demanded credit cards. She went in, produced her driver’s license, and put down a $350 deposit and a week’s advance rental in cash. She left in a nondescript three-year-old beige Toyota and drove a mile east to a Best Western motel. It was on Sepulveda, a wide boulevard of commercial ugliness lined with cracked sidewalks and palm trees. The motel or inn, as it was called, occupied several clunky-looking white buildings in the middle of a block of cracker-box apartment houses.

  She checked in, again using cash, and was surprised by the hefty room rate—almost $200 a night. But the place was nicer inside than it appeared from the street, with a swimming pool, gym, and free Wi-Fi. Her room was attractive with yellow walls, soft lighting, and a comfy-looking, king-sized bed. The clock on the nightstand said it was 7:30 p.m. She hadn’t had dinner but was too exhausted to feel hungry; she lay down and promptly fell asleep.

  Nicole awoke at 7:00 a.m., her stomach growling in protest at the missed dinner. Checking in, she’d noticed a sign in the lobby announcing that a full breakfast, included with the room, was available from 6:30 a.m. until 9:30 a.m. She brushed her teeth, pulled on her clothes, ran her fingers through her hair, and went down to the tiny dining room. The only other people there were an elderly Asian couple who looked up briefly when she walked in, then focused back on their meal. At the breakfast buffet, she served herself scrambled eggs and bacon, then popped a slice of bread into the toaster and poured herself a cup of coffee. The food was lukewarm and tasteless, but she was so hungry she went back for seconds.

  Back in her room, Nicole made more coffee in a small automatic coffee maker stationed on a counter outside the bathroom. Then she got out the envelope Freeman had given her and sat down at the desk to go over its contents more carefully. She’d noticed before that Robert’s notes about his house seemed to mainly be an inventory of its furnishings and their cost. His handwriting was small and sketchy, written in pencil, and a bit hard to make out. Robert was a great one for pencils. He was the only person she knew who preferred to write by hand and kept a container of sharp pencils on his desk. On the other hand, he was a whiz with the computer and seemed to know a lot about programming and how to hack into other people’s computers.