Sam’s head was spinning. He wanted to get the hell off the phone and get up to the hotel.
‘Is my credit card extended?’
‘I took the limit off it. But don’t screw me, Sam.’
‘OK.’
‘Look.’ Rich Frank was using that earnestly passionate voice he brought out only in times of extreme stress. Sam read people well, and he paid attention when Rich used that voice. ‘This is going to be the biggest story of the year. If we get lead exclusives on it, it will make this fucking magazine. We’ll eat the Enquirer’s lunch for them. You were there. They don’t know where she is. Find her.’
‘Find her?’ Sam repeated dumbly.
‘You were FBI. Find the girl or find her body if she offed herself. If it’s a corpse, get pictures.’
Lovely. But Sam understood the magazine business. This story was worth multiple millions to their publishers, and he knew it.
‘What do I get if I break this, Rich?’ It was his opportunity; this whole thing was his once-in-a-lifetime chance, and Sam was determined that he was going to take it and run with it. ‘This is massive for you. I want fair compensation.’
‘You find her, you’ll win a Pulitzer.’
Sam rolled his eyes. They didn’t give out Pulitzers for celebrity crime stories. ‘That’s nice. I want cash. Lots of cash.’
There was a pause.
‘OK, hotshot, here’s the deal. A million dollars.’
Sam closed his eyes briefly, letting the words sink in. One million dollars. Enough to go somewhere and have a fresh start. A complete new life. Enough to solve all his problems.
‘Half when this assignment’s done, or if you’re the guy that finds her. And the other half I’ll pay you on the road, but only piecemeal. Each story gotta be worth it. Twenty-five grand a pop.’
He ran the sums in his head. ‘What if there isn’t twenty weeks in it?’
‘If you find her, you get it all. Come on, Murray, what did I hire you for? Cops don’t know shit. If she’s good, they won’t find her. If she’s just some dumb bitch and they catch her tomorrow, then you lose. I ain’t giving you a million bucks as a birthday present. Fair?’
‘Yeah.’ It was. And now he was on the manhunt of his life. For a moment, a rush of sympathy for Lisa Costello overwhelmed him; if he found her, dragged her to court in Thailand, tried her there, wouldn’t they kill her? She’d be lined up for the execution O.J. never had to have.
What the hell, don’t be so soft. He was no bleeding-heart liberal, after all. The woman stabbed Josh Steen to death. Being obnoxious didn’t merit his execution.
He glanced down at his watch. Three p.m. local time. If they hadn’t caught her by now, she was likely well away, clear of the hotel and the area.
‘Yeah, it’s fair. I got to go, Rich. Get you something for that first twenty-five grand.’
‘Then go,’ his editor said, hanging up.
Sam looked round the bungalow. Kevin was still sleeping, and he did not intend to wake him for photos. This was Sam’s story, his game. He slipped out of the front door, closing it gently behind him, and started to run across the neatly clipped grass towards the hotel. Time to see if his generosity would pay off.
Something unfamiliar stirred in him. Excitement. Sam was on the story of a decade. And now he was on a second chance, for life, his life, a chance to be somebody, to start all over again.
The marble façade of the luxurious hotel rose before him. The Thai police were already there, their cars parked out front; they’d taped the building off. Luckily there were no TV cameras. Sam could still be first. He looked to see if the old man was there, the one he’d tipped so generously.
Yeah. There he was - Bhumibol, the porter, standing forlornly by the side of a police car, in front of the tape. Party guests were hanging around; some were crying, although to Sam the tears looked theatrical. He couldn’t see any family members. They had to be secluded somewhere else.
Sam palmed his camera and subtly photographed the scene. He was skilled in doing this without holding it up; there was a knack to it. When he’d got enough shots, he sidled up to his contact. No point in pretending to be devastated with grief. Bhumibol knew he was a journalist. When they’d arrived here on Thursday, he’d tipped the guy a hundred American dollars. Now he would see how much goodwill this bought.
‘I can’t believe this,’ he said quietly.
The man shook his head. He had excellent English; the staff at this place were all educated, and most of them spoke several languages.
‘Very shocking,’ he said.
‘And bad for business?’ Concern was written on the porter’s face. The billionaires and minor princelings who used this little Shangri-la, rap moguls and overpaid athletes, they would shun this sort of publicity. The Jade Dragon Estate traded on its privacy. Would he soon be out of a job?
Bhumibol nodded. ‘Yes, it is not a good thing.’
‘I heard the wife is missing. Are they searching the hotel for her?’ Sam craned his neck. ‘They won’t even let you inside, huh?’
‘Yes, they are taking fingerprints, bringing special dogs.’
‘Sniffer dogs?’ Sam liked that detail. Who knew the Thai police had such things? Maybe he was the typical Yank, assuming the local cops were rubes. He mentally adjusted.
‘If that is what you call them.’
‘So no staff are inside at all?’
‘Some - they are asking many questions of the workers. If they saw her last night, if they saw him.’
He needed more.
‘Did you see it - where he was killed?’
The porter’s eyes narrowed, and he looked steadily at Sam.
‘Maybe I shouldn’t tell it to you.’
Sam understood. ‘I want to know. I’ll pay you, Bhumibol, and I never reveal my sources.’
The older man’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘You remember my name.’
‘I’m not one of these guys,’ Sam said, gesturing at the overdressed crowd of super-rich gawkers. ‘I’m here on sufferance, to make Mr Steen look good. They put me in a bungalow but I might as well be serving the drinks. You know this story will be in all the papers. It’d be good if it was in mine first.’ He drew the porter to one side and carefully peeled off another hundred from the roll in his pocket; Bhumibol took it carefully.
‘She killed him in bed.’
‘The marriage bed?’ That was sensational. They’d be going to press in an hour back home. He’d give them something worth a last-minute rewrite.
Bhumibol had an audience now, and he was rather enjoying Sam’s shock. Sam could play that up to good effect. It made the speaker want to go on surprising you.
‘Yes, and with the royal dagger. You understand?’
He did. Sam licked his lips, now dry with excitement. ‘You’re kidding. The one the prince gave them?’
‘Yes,’ Bhumibol hissed. Like most Thais, he took royalty very seriously indeed; parts of the country still regarded the royal house as close to divine.
‘If she’s not there, how do they know it was her?’
The porter raised his eyebrows. ‘Come along, mister,’ he said. ‘Room service go into the room when no answer. Man dead, lady gone. No window broken, lots of blood. Her clothes also gone, shoes too, and police have her fingers on dagger.’
‘Open and shut,’ Sam agreed.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Just an expression.’
‘She will not get far away,’ the older man said, with grim satisfaction. ‘Her passport gone, but police stop it. On computers at airport. They have police looking in Phuket town. Villages too. Family gives already big reward. Three million dollars US. Everybody will looking for her.’
Sam nodded. ‘Thanks, man. I might be back for more.’
‘No more.’ He had that slightly sick look, the way interviewees often did when they thought they’d said too much. ‘I want job more than hundred dollars. Understand?’
‘Yeah,’ Sam said. He peeled off
another bill. ‘Have two hundred anyway, man. And thanks.’
It felt wrong to leave the scene, but he had to. He turned around and sprinted back to the bungalow. The gods were with him, because his magazine was going to bed tonight; for once he could beat even a print newspaper. He called his editor and breathlessly dictated the copy.
‘Fucking hell, Sam, that’s great. It’s going in.’
‘I want my twenty-five.’
‘Check your bank account in ten minutes.’
Sam felt a surge of satisfaction. Now the basic facts were out there, he could chase up more around the hotel.
‘And Sam, get me those pictures.’
His phone had wireless Internet, and the cabin was equipped with it, so lack of signal was no problem. Sam didn’t leave home without all the latest toys. Today they would even be useful.
‘Done and done,’ he said.
‘So she’s on the run. That’s even better. Take longer to catch her, we sell more copies.’ A greedy pause as Rich figured out what this little scandal would do for his career. ‘You think you can do it?’
His tone was almost pleading.
There was a million dollars at stake. And Sam’s mind, trained to hunt, had already started to imagine what he’d do, how he’d get away from the rest of the press pack. He had met Lisa Costello, and he understood one thing. The girl was not stupid.
‘Don’t worry, boss,’ he said. ‘I’m on it.’
Sam walked back up to the hotel. He’d got a few more ideas. Definitely have to bribe a cop. He could get in trouble that way, if he picked the wrong guy. He was gonna ask Bhumibol who he should talk to. It worked like a referral; get the guy you bribe to recommend another guy who’ll take a bribe.
But before that, he wanted more. The guests; these were Josh Steen’s family and friends.
Josh’s, not the happy couple’s. Staggering how few people Lisa had there. She was a friendless girl. He warned himself not to misjudge her, not to be a sucker for a pretty face. The chick couldn’t help having no family, but no friends? What did that say about her? Most killers were loners.
And you’re a loner, too, said the voice in his head.
He shoved that aside. He wasn’t the issue.
Outside the hotel, more people were standing in a crowd, waiting to be interviewed maybe. He saw Melissa Olivera and her husband Paulie; Melissa had been crying, Paulie stood apart from her. Sam filed that away carefully. Lisa Costello thought her husband had screwed Melissa yesterday.
She certainly looked upset.
He could not see the mom and sister. The cops must have taken them aside. There was Fiona Greenberg and her husband Stan; Fiona was shaking her head, looking shocked, but he could not see tears. She was talking to a few of the other women, their voices low, murmuring about the scandal.
Yeah. They were not upset. He wondered how many of this crowd truly loved Josh. A quick glance told him a few of the men, colleagues perhaps, were genuinely sorrowful.
Sam moved up to the group of women, a sombre expression on his face. It was always simpler to get women to talk. And after going to this wedding, he knew just how to do it.
‘I can’t believe this,’ he said to Fiona Greenberg casually, like he had a right to start talking to her and had known her for years. ‘Lisa Costello seemed like such a sweet girl. Who would believe she could do it?’
‘Sweet?’ Fiona said tartly. ‘You didn’t know her.’
He looked humble. ‘I guess not.’
Hannah Mazin tossed her hair. ‘She was a bitch. She never supported Josh. No interest in his work at all. I mean, Peter hardly even talked to her.’
Peter . . . right, that was Peter Mazin, Josh’s business partner. They’d had a prickly relationship lately, fights over movie royalties. Didn’t seem that unusual if Lisa hadn’t socialised.
‘I don’t think Josh loved her at all.’ A third woman, in her forties, her mouth wearing too-red lipstick, chimed in. Sam flicked through his mental Rolodex. This was Emma Greenberg, Fiona’s sister. ‘She was demanding. Nagging at him. We all knew he wasn’t faithful . . .’
Sam swallowed a grin. Demanding, nagging? That didn’t sound like the girl he’d met. Ms Greenberg meant that Lisa Costello hadn’t rolled over for Josh. That she’d put up a fight, maybe, tried to stop him turning her into a clone of these overgroomed, Botoxed Hollywood bitches. Wives in this circle knew their place, three steps behind their meal ticket. If Lisa Costello had rebelled, tried to be herself, they would condemn her as a vicious harridan. You conformed, or it was social death. Lisa Costello’s crime was not giving a damn.
‘Melissa is such a slut, though,’ Fiona added.
‘I bet Paulie gets a divorce,’ a younger woman said with relish. ‘Why put up with that? He’ll be a laughing stock.’
‘Yes, and Melissa doesn’t have Josh to protect her now,’ Hannah added. ‘She’s not getting Josh and she’ll lose Paulie.’
‘She deserves it. Poor Josh, to get himself involved with such awful women,’ Fiona said, with a big, fake sigh. ‘And now he’s dead . . .’
They don’t care, Sam thought. Not really. None of them. It had been a lonely life for Josh Steen, when you thought about it. He was unhappy with Lisa, and all these vultures simply used him. Could you feel sorry for a billionaire? Poor little rich boy?
‘Lots of rumours flying around,’ he said. ‘They were drunk, all that stuff.’
‘She was drunk. She killed him in a drunken rage,’ Fiona said. ‘What a lush. Did anybody see how she spoke to me?’
‘Oh, that was awful,’ Hannah Mazin sympathised. ‘You poor girl . . .’
Sam looked at them, his gaze darting from one to another. They despised Lisa Costello. She’d killed a man; they hadn’t. Yet he didn’t think he could stand to be in their company one more second.
‘Josh asked me to write the story of his wedding,’ he said. ‘Name’s Sam Murray. I work for USA Weekly. If any of you ladies want to talk about Lisa, on the record I mean, give me a call.’ He handed out business cards. The women looked askance, but they all took them, of course; they were as publicity-hungry as the next Hollywood chick. Wives were the worst; they lived a life in their husbands’ shadow, and most of them did nothing themselves. Gossip and bitching turned into a way of life.
‘Will people be interested in this story?’ Fiona asked innocently, as though she wasn’t slavering at the prospect of seeing Lisa vilified across America’s newsstands.
‘Sure they will. At least until they catch her.’
‘Well, that won’t be long,’ Hannah said. ‘She’s got no money, and she’s a stupid drunk. Where’s she going to go? She won’t get away.’ A pinched smile. ‘Not unless she grows wings.’
The other women tittered, and Sam walked away. He noticed Stan Greenberg and Paulie Olivera were both staring at him, and there was rage in their eyes. Time for him to go.
‘Please remain in your seats until the aeroplane has come to a complete halt.’
Lisa smiled at the incongruity of it all. So normal, so boring. And here she was, running for her life.
The last seconds of the flight were the worst. She had nursed herself through every wretched minute, fighting the bile that rose constantly in her throat. It seemed like the worst hangover she’d ever had. Rehydrating was a battle. Her body was screaming for water, but her stomach still did not want to keep it down, even hours later. She had to sip slowly, and then use all the concentration she could manage to stop herself from vomiting.
The skies were cloudy; Lisa stared past the head of her snoring neighbour at the window, and a blanket screen of white and grey. Her own memories were just as foggy. She tried, desperately, to recall something of what had happened. But there was nothing. The fight - that hadn’t been physical; she was too sick, too weary to do something pathetic like slap him. Rage, drink, stumbling into their room. Then nothing. When had she lost her mind? When had she taken that golden dagger and sliced through Josh’s throat?
Tears prickled in her eyes. Angrily, she dashed them away. If they caught her, she could cry all she wanted. Right now, nothing about her could attract attention. She needed to get through. The next ten minutes might be the most important of her whole life.
Mercifully, the seat-belt light snapped off. Lisa jumped to her feet; the passenger on the aisle seat, a dumpy woman in a sweatshirt, was still plugged into her headphones.
‘Excuse me,’ Lisa said, shoving past her. The woman grunted in protest, but Lisa didn’t care; loads of people rushed to get off a plane, she wouldn’t be marked out for that. Most passengers had hand luggage, kids, magazines; but she was standing by the door, behind a handful of businessmen and ready to disembark, within twenty seconds.
Her hand slipped into her pocket. Janet Park’s passport was in there. Adrenaline surged through her, making her palms moist and her heart pound again. The door opened, and the men pushed out of it. Lisa was wearing sneakers; it would have been easy for her to run past them. But she did not. Arriving first in immigration, not a good idea; first was always noticeable. And she knew she looked anxious. She slowed to a walk and pasted a slight smile on her face, hanging back just behind the first passengers, even letting others pass her. Every step was torture. The urge to run was so great. But no, she was still trapped, still behind the barrier; and here was the immigration hall, with the Chinese agents ready to interrogate her.
The clinical expanse of Hong Kong airport was before her. A vast domed roof made out of thousands of panels of glass, floor shining white like a hospital. It was clean, architecturally pure. Lots of light. No place to hide. The immigration agents had computers and pressed uniforms. They didn’t look as though they missed much.
Lisa’s pulse was racing; she was covered in sweat. She wasn’t James Bond, she was just a girl in trouble, and she felt her body start to shake, the fright surging through her. Paralysed with fear, she let a family of four get in front of her; their baby was crying his head off, the parents were distracted . . .
The sobbing kid was clawing at his mother. Lisa watched the immigration officer wave them forward, his face creasing with annoyance at the sound. She breathed in, hard, calming herself. You’ve done all you can, she thought. There is nothing else you can do.
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