City of Fire (39 page)

WHERE are you taking me?” Harriet asked.

He turned and looked at her in the passenger seat. “A friend’s house,” he said. “A special friend. He’s out tonight. His place has a view.”

She nodded, smiled a little, seemed to accept his explanation at face value. Fellows took it as another sign that the script was prewritten and all things happened for a reason.

Twenty minutes ago he had been parked outside her apartment in a rage because he knew this was his final move. When she walked out the front gate and spotted him in the Taurus, he capped his anger and told her that he’d just pulled up and was about to knock on her door. He was worried about her, he said. Worried when she didn’t show up for work. It’s a dangerous world.

“You think your friend has any vodka?” she asked. “I could use a drink tonight.”

He nodded, trying to contain himself. He was still stunned that she hadn’t run away from him. Still couldn’t believe that she agreed to get in the car. After all, he was Romeo, and Romeo had another woman now.

He took in the scent of her body. Between streetlights he peeked at her legs and short dress.

“You like my legs, don’t you, Martin. You like looking at them.”

A moment passed. His eyes flicked back through the windshield and he hoped he wouldn’t crash the car. He had never heard her use that tone of voice before. It was low,
husky, just above a whisper, and the words themselves had a certain reach.

“In the lab we play our games,” she said. “I like playing them. It makes the day go by faster. But I see the way you look at me. I know what you really want.”

He turned to her and caught what looked like a lazy smile. After a moment, she spread her legs open as if relaxing in a pair of jeans.

The situation had become more complex than he anticipated. He thought he might need a time-out.

Although his friend and spotter couldn’t be with him tonight, he had followed Finn’s instructions and put together a plan. He made his mental calculations at each step and tried to stick to the plan. He even came up with a list of if-then scenarios, just in case the plan fell apart and he lost his way in the moment.

He made a left on Beachwood, trying to sort through the conflict. After passing the market a mile up the canyon, he made another left and followed the narrow road up a steep hill. Harriet was quiet, gazing at the homes, and it gave him a chance to think. She was finished, he kept telling himself. She was done. Like Finn said, he had gone the extra mile for a whore living a double life who couldn’t be saved, didn’t love him and never would. Now it was time to cut his losses and move on. Stow her away and get rid of her for good. Still, her birthday began at midnight and they shared a history he couldn’t ignore. He even had a present for her. He could feel it poking him through his jacket pocket—still frozen and wrapped in aluminum foil. He wanted to surprise her with his gift. See the look on her face when she figured out what it really was.

He pulled the Taurus into the carport and watched her get out. She was standing at the foot of the steps beneath the streetlight. The wind was blowing her hair and she looked good. Real good. Like somebody’s lucky night now that Burell was dead.

“Up the steps,” he said. “You okay in the wind?”

She nodded and her eyes sparkled. “I like it.”

She grabbed the rail and started up the steps. As he followed her, it occurred to him that she had an agenda of her own. That his imagination wasn’t playing tricks on him. That even though she was a whore and he was a fool, she was a gorgeous whore while he remained a low-life fool. The thought lingered. And by the time they reached the front door, he played it out to its radiological end. For Harriet he was merely serving as a stand-in for Burell. He was a nobody in her eyes who rose by luck and circumstance to second best. He wasn’t in control. She was. No doubt she likened her plans for the night to something along the order of a mercy fuck.

An image surfaced. Lena Gamble resting in her bed. Detective Lena Gamble of the Los Angeles Police Department. A woman who could bring him more than physical pleasure. A woman who had the power to elevate his place in history and give him the headlines no one in the past ever achieved. She was a cop working the Romeo murder case. She was tracking Romeo while Romeo tracked her. Poetry.

He checked his watch, wondering if Lena noticed the telephone he left on her bed. A reminder however faint that he was close and had spent some time there. When he glanced back at Harriet and she smiled, he felt cheap and dirty and wondered just who was second best.

Finn had been right all along. He could see it now. He was immune.

He spotted the old boot in the garden and dug inside it for the key. Opening the front door, he found the light switch and watched his next victim enter the house still trying to hide that stupid limp.

“Your friend’s got a nice place,” she said. “Is he away on business?”

Fellows nodded. “He won’t be back until morning.”

“Where’s he keep the booze?”

He pointed to the kitchen. Finn told him that it would be in the pantry beside the basement door. But as he picked out a bottle, Harriet reached for his hand and stopped him.

“You don’t drink much, do you?” she said, choosing a
different bottle. “I’ll make the drinks, Martin. Why don’t you put some music on.”

“What would you like to listen to?”

She smiled. “Something soft. Something slow. You pick it out.”

He stepped into the living room and found the CD player already loaded with a dozen albums by artists he had never heard of. Deciding to live dangerously, he selected disc 1 and hit
LAY.
When the music started, he felt a chill ramble up his spine and spread its wings across his neck.

He knew the song. He never listened to anything but classical music, yet here was a piece of jazz he was familiar with. He had listened to it with Lena. Heard it through her bedroom window as he stood outside her house. The same saxophone. The same song.

“Perfect,” Harriet said.

He turned and looked at her. She was crossing the room and seemed almost giddy as she passed him his drink and sipped her own. When she turned away to look out the window, he eyed his glass carefully, thinking about the alcohol content and weighing the damage it might do to his body. At least it didn’t have the chemical vulgarity of gin.

“It’s beautiful, Martin. You were right about the view.”

He sipped the drink, playing along. Sipped his poison slowly, fighting the urge to take a swing at her. He felt the heat slip down his throat, the fire in his belly. As he looked at Harriet, the war going on in his head lessened slightly and he realized that the only thing left to do was find the moment. She might think she was running things tonight, but his plan remained intact. He wasn’t a fill-in or a stand-in or even a stunt cock for a pimp like Burell. He was Romeo and she was done.

She sipped her drink, then reached out and smoothed her hand over his shoulder. She was standing close, her gaze dropping down to his mouth, then bobbing up again. He took another sip of vodka and looked at her standing before him. It was a shame that it had to be this way. Perhaps even tragic.

“Have you ever wanted something?” he said.

She giggled. “Who hasn’t?”

“I mean have you ever wanted something really badly? Thought about it, dreamed about it, wished upon a star?”

She seemed surprised and moved closer. “You’ve never talked like this before.”

Maybe it was the alcohol, but he thought he owed her something. Maybe not an explanation for what he had in mind, but at least something for her to go on.

“Have you ever wanted something so much you thought you might die if you didn’t get it?”

She paused, considering his question. “Maybe. But I don’t think I’d wish that hard for a house or a car or anything in the material world. A person maybe. Or even a job or a way out.”

“A way out?”

“When I was younger I needed a way out.”

“From your daddy,” he said.

She nodded and looked more sad than giddy, perhaps remembering the sexual abuse she endured, or the broken leg she received when her old man pushed her down the stairs. Something came over him and he kissed her—on the neck, her cheek, and finally moving to her open mouth. Closing his eyes, another image of Lena appeared and he grabbed it. The hunted kissing the hunter, or was it the other way around? Either way, he found the idea exciting, and Harriet Wilson, the ex–Virgin Mary, the woman who got off fucking Charles Burell on all fours in front of the entire World Wide Web, didn’t seem to notice.

He opened his eyes. He could feel her hand rubbing him. Squeezing him. It was an experienced hand, stroking him like a pro.

“Have you ever wanted something?” he whispered. “Wanted it and gotten it and then realized that the timing was off and you were too late? You didn’t really want it anymore. When you finally got it, you felt like you were stuck with it. You found it disgusting. Even the thought of it made you sick.”

She dropped her hand and giggled again. A little nervous this time. A bit unsure as she checked her glass.

“You want another drink?” she asked. “Then maybe we could sit over here on the couch.”

His eyes narrowed and he nodded. The moment was coming. The script had been written and all things happened for a reason.

She took his glass and he followed her into the kitchen. As she poured the drinks, he opened the basement door but decided it would be easier if he didn’t turn the light on. A moment passed—thoughts streaming by in an anxious blur. When she finally joined him, he took his drink and clicked glasses.

“What’s down there?” she asked.

Her eyes got big and she smiled. He watched her lap up the alcohol with that mouth of hers.

“Your birthday party,” he said.

And then the moment arrived. Everything steady as he reached for her neck and gave her the big push. He listened to her tumble down the stairs. Watched her vanish in the darkness. Heard the thud and groan followed by complete silence. Although he felt some degree of regret, it wasn’t much more than a ping because he knew that she had been through this before.

He switched the light on. Just long enough to see her sprawled out on the concrete floor. She was still breathing. He checked his watch. It was after midnight, and Harriet Wilson was twenty-nine years old.

Her present could wait until later, he decided.

As his mind quieted, he dumped his drink in the sink and poured a glass of mineral water. The liquid was clean and refreshing, and he spent several moments savoring its crisp, pure taste as he stared out the window and admired the view.

SHE could hear voices. Fast and slow and cutting through the haze. She tried to root them out. Tried to focus, but she couldn’t understand what they were saying. Two or three men—everyone speaking Spanish. And they were close. So close that she thought they might be standing over the bed watching her sleep.

Lena’s eyes snapped open. Looking out the window, she knew that something was wrong. Three men were standing beside her car at the end of the driveway. She had seen them before, mowing her neighbor’s lawn. Now they were staring at her house and looked concerned.

She ripped the covers off and pulled on a pair of jeans. Rushing out the door in her bare feet, she unlocked the slider and stepped outside into the wind. Something was burning. She could smell it in the air. When she checked the sky and looked to the east, she saw the plume of smoke over the city. Yesterday it had been a grass fire. Today, with the Santa Ana winds still blowing, people in La Crescenta were losing their homes.

She hurried down the steps. Two sheets of plywood were floating in the pool. Her lawn was littered with roof shingles and debris. As she legged it around the house, she gazed up and saw the rafters. At least one-third of the roof was missing. Papers were swirling about in the attic and jetting out the opening. Things belonging to her brother that she’d packed away for safekeeping.

“Devil winds,” one of the men said in broken English.
“Diablo. No bueno.
No good.”

He looked at her bare feet and flashed a timid smile, then pointed at the pool. He seemed shy and she guessed that he was asking permission to enter her backyard. She nodded, leading them down the path. When they reached the pool, the man eyed the water carefully, then spotted something.

“Si,”
he said. “We get it out of pool.”

Lena looked beneath the plywood, realizing why the gardeners were here. Her neighbor’s umbrella had broken loose from its stand and sailed over the trees. As she watched the men remove the sheets of plywood and hook the umbrella with the skimmer, she wondered how she could have slept through the storm. When the roof pulled away from the house, it would have made considerable noise, yet she hadn’t heard it. It had been a dead sleep. A sleep without dreams that hit the moment she laid her head down.

Her phone started ringing. She could hear it through the open slider. Her cell.

Thanking the men for their help, she ran up the steps and hurried over to the counter. When she checked the LCD, she read the words
OUT OF AREA
and hoped that it was one of Burell’s models finally calling back. But as she ripped the phone away from its charger, she caught the male voice at the other end. It was Art Madina, the pathologist who’d performed the autopsy on Tim Holt yesterday.