"So, there are a lot of wealthy women in this
building that wear acrylic nails," Virginia spat.
"Where'd you find this, Santos?
"In the hallway right under Miss Essex's door
bell," Santos said, smiling evilly at Virginia, who glared back at
him.
"Santos, do a thorough search of Miss Essex's
condo," Dalton said. "Would you mind opening the trunk of your car,
Miss Essex?" Dalton grinned again but there was malice in his eyes.
"Would you like me to do it for you?"
Dalton motioned Santos to stand behind the
trunk. The Latino guard aimed the silenced weapon at the trunk as
Dalton grabbed the keys once again from Virginia. She did not
protest but stood motionless as Dalton popped the lock on the
Mercedes. Virginia managed a slight, smug smile. She had not left
the lid tightly closed. The smile lasted but a second. As Dalton
raised the trunk lid, Santos opened fire with his silenced gun into
the black trash bags.
Clarissa huddled into a tight ball, shivering.
She could hear the muted voices of Virginia and Dalton. The late
night had turned cold and damp. A stiff breeze rustled the trees
beyond the security gate that lead to the alley behind the
condominium, and swept dry autumn leaves under the nearest cars.
The night smelled of rain, a storm coming in off the coast. It
added to the slow peeling away of Clarissa's spirit. Her stomach
cramped with the constant tension and terror. She drew tighter into
herself. She couldn't stop shaking.
Then she heard the trunk opening and the muted
pop of gunfire. Her heart stopped, sticking like a rock in her
throat. They had meant to murder her as soon as they saw her. There
would be no trip back to the Wolfe mansion, no facing Morgan once
last time to plead for her life. He wanted her dead, now. The
thought made her stomach heave. She clamped both hands over her
mouth and squeezed. One small sound would give her hiding place
under the black pick-up truck away. Tears dotted the oil and
grease-stained cement under the truck. She could not control them
and let them fall. It was the hardest she had ever cried without
making a sound. To do so was instant death.
Clarissa laid under the pick-up until she
heard the Mercedes trunk lid slam down, Virginia's angry curses,
and her voice trail away toward the elevator. She let out a breath
when the elevator motor whirred on its climb back to the seventh
floor. Then Dalton's heavy black work boots passed the truck toward
the security gate, slowed, and stopped. Clarissa's heart stopped
with them. A flashlight beam flicked on. The yellow light swept the
ground slowly, searching, probing the concealing darkness. The edge
of the light passed agonizingly slow inches from Clarissa's nose.
She lay motionless, her legs and back wedged against the cold
concrete wall under the truck's engine. She closed her eyes and
prayed, certain that he would hear her breathing. The beam moved
on, then swung back again, hesitated, and chased the shadows under
the car next to the truck. Dalton's methodical scrutiny moved him
slowly toward the gate.
She heard the side gate open and close and
then there was blessed silence. Her mind relaxed enough to consider
her situation and come up with some solution.
Where was Santos? Clarissa's ears strained to
hear any sound of him. There was only the breeze and the swishing
of the dry, brittle leaves, like hissing snakes in the
darkness.
She lay there for a few minutes longer,
screwing up the courage to venture out into the night. Before she
could move she had to come up with a destination. Somewhere there
had to be a safe haven. Hugo was so far away, and now she had no
money to get to La Jolla, almost a hundred miles to the south. With
Dalton and Santos here with Virginia, even her potential refuge had
been cut off. Sylvia Cheswick was the only answer Clarissa could
come up with. She didn't know the famous cosmetician all that well,
but Sylvia had hired Clarissa as the spokes-model for the Cheswick
make-up line a few years ago. The woman had a beach house in the
Malibu Colony. It was a meager hope at best, but all Clarissa could
come up with. At least the woman would have a phone to call
Andrew.
The fortitude was long in coming. Clarissa
felt a weakness, a tiredness that had silently seeped into every
muscle and bone, saturating even her soul. She was stiff with pain,
and exhausted to the point of total collapse. When she was certain
that the parking garage was empty she crawled out from under the
truck. The deep shadows concealed her movements from the truck to
the security gate.
A fine drizzly mist had begun to fall.
Clarissa stepped out of the wrought iron side gate and let is snap
shut behind her, locking her out of the condo complex with a dead
finality. The back alley was empty except for an occasional metal
trash container. There was no sign of Dalton. Clarissa started down
the alley to the street to the west of Virginia's building. The
ocean lay to the west, in a direct route down Wilshire Boulevard to
the beach at Santa Monica. Malibu was north of that. Clarissa
mapped the route out in her mind and before she reached the end of
the alley, her heart sank. A quick search of the pockets in the
baggy jeans and the work shirt revealed a loose button, a dirty
tissue, and lint. She could never make it all that way on foot. She
needed a phone, a ride, or change for a bus.
Where she would get any of that at this time
of night pulled her down deeper into despair. A place to sleep, to
hold up for the night, was her next best solution. A shelter. The
thought made her shudder. None in this part of town. She would have
to go east toward downtown, and that was gang territory and too
frightening to even consider. A church. It had been almost fifteen
years since she had stepped foot in one. But they were supposed to
help those in need any time of time of night. A Catholic or
Anglican rectory was always on the church property and since the
priests lived there, someone would be there to help her. And they
would have a phone.
Westwood Boulevard was an easy eight block
walk. There were movie theaters, restaurants, and gas stations that
would have a public phone with a directory. Did they have those
anymore? She wasn’t sure. Everybody had one at their fingertips in
their cell phones. Who would need a payphone? Clarissa’s hope sank
further.
She knew the area fairly well and could find
the nearest church. Then she remembered that her cell phone was
history and so were public phones. She started walking anyway.
Westwood would be full of the university kids in the theaters and
bars and surely one of them would lend her a phone.
"Hey you!"
"Please, God, no," Clarissa whispered. It was
Dalton's voice. She heard the hollow slam of the security gate down
the alley behind her. She wanted to bolt and run but her mind was
frozen in a blind panic. Slowly she reached up and pulled the black
scarf further forward, covering as much of her face as possible.
Every one of Dalton's gritty footsteps ground into her nerves as he
drew closer.
Her movements were more instinctive than
conscious thought as she stepped to the nearest trash bin and began
to rummage through the stinking debris. Head and shoulders thrust
deep among the plastic garbage bags, cardboard boxes, and rotting
food scraps, Clarissa willed herself to stop shaking. She focused
her mind on the garbage.
"I said you there," Dalton called. "What are
you doing around here? Get lost, you worthless piece of trash. Go
on, bitch, get the hell out of here."
Clarissa straightened, careful to keep her
face away from Dalton, who had stopped a few feet from the end of
the trash bin. She wanted to desperately run, but that would surely
give her away. Instead, she struggled for control, pulled the olive
work shirt tighter around her, and walked bent and hunched toward
the end of the alley. When she reached the corner of Wilshire
Boulevard and turned west toward Westwood Boulevard, she broke into
an open, flat out run. Finally, the pain in her shoulder and side
caused her to stop a couple of blocks away, and she sagged to the
pavement on a side street.
A late model car with two men in it stopped
and asked her what she was doing and said that she was trying to
get to the Catholic Church to go and attend early morning Mass.
They decided to leave her alone and even gave her directions to a
local church. When they asked her if she wanted a ride she said no
but that she would say a prayer for them. Letting out a sigh of
relief, the car moved on and Clarissa was along on the dark
street.
The rain was showery by the time Clarissa had
found the church. No one had answered her repeated knocks on the
rectory door, and all of the church doors were locked tight. A sign
of the escalating crime in Los Angeles, when you couldn't even take
sanctuary inside a church for fear of robbery, desecration, or
vandalism. Clarissa sat in the deep recess by the front door, at
least out of the rain and wind. Her eyelids were heavy and she
wanted to sleep away the pain and terror. The church bell in the
steeple chimed five times. Five o’clock in the morning. It was
close to dawn. Clarissa drew her knees up to her chest and rested
her head in the fold of her arms. She did not hear the taxi pull to
a stop in front the church, but her eyes snapped awake at the
gentle touch to her shoulder." Come with me, Clarissa," Virginia's
voice was firm and with a sense of urgency. "You can't stay here. I
can get you to safety, but we have to hurry. We haven't much
time.
The city cab left behind the high-rise
condominiums of Westwood and the exclusive shops and department
stores of Beverly Hills. It headed east down the near empty
Wilshire Boulevard toward downtown.
"How did you find me? Clarissa asked, stifling
a yawn.
"I watched you with binoculars from my window
after Santos left," Virginia replied. "I saw you head down toward
Westwood, watched you at talk to someone in a car. I figured you
were looking for some place to hide. It was easy when they pointed
in a north direction. The only thing up there is the church.
Really, Clarissa, if I could find you this easily, how long do you
think it would take Morgan's army?"
"Why didn't we take your car?"
"All of the staff cars have GPS," Virginia
said. "I didn't know mine had one until Dalton mentioned he had
checked the monitors and my car was still in the garage. I should
have known better, even though I own my car. All Morgan's cars are
monitored on the security screens. That's how Marco found you in
the Jag."
Clarissa turned away to stare at the passing
shops and buildings.
"It's a miracle you're alive, Clarissa. I
don't know what you've got going for you, but you're damn lucky. No
one I know has ever gotten this far."
"What if he finds out you've helped
me?"
Virginia’s silence was answer
enough.
From Wilshire Boulevard the cab turned north
on Western Avenue, heading toward Santa Monica Boulevard, and
threaded its way past graffitied tenements and hole in the wall
liquor stores with iron gates pulled fast across their doors. It
turned onto a side street just before the Hollywood Freeway
northbound on-ramp and stopped in front of an old four story brick
building on the corner. A struggling white neon sign sputtered that
it was the Hempstead Hotel.
"Why are we stopping here?" Clarissa demanded.
"What is this place?"
"My friend's place," Virginia replied as she
opened the cab door. "Wait for me," she instructed the cab driver.
"I'll just be a few minutes."
"Virginia, you don't expect me to stay
here?"
"Come with me," said Virginia. "Now, Clarissa.
I don't have time to waste with your whining. I have to get
back."
Clarissa glared defiantly at Virginia. "If
this is your idea of a joke..."
"Get out of the cab," Virginia ordered.
Clarissa turned her face away. "They're holding a room for you.
You'll be safer in there than out here. Take it or leave it. Look,
I don't care if you go in there or not. You don't like it, fine.
This cab is taking me home. Now, get out."
Virginia reached across Clarissa and pushed
her door open. Clarissa shrank back into the seat, arms folded
protectively across her chest.
"I can't, damn it," Clarissa cried. "I can't
stay here."
"You'll be dead by morning if Morgan finds
you," Virginia's voice was suddenly placating and smooth. "Think,
Clarissa. He knows every place that you would go. He's probably got
his men checking every one of your friends, every place you hang
out. He won't find you here. He wouldn't even look in a place like
this."
"It's filthy," Clarissa spat hotly.
"Its government run. They keep it clean inside
for the homeless. It's a shelter."
"The homeless? Oh my, God, Virginia....I
can't."
"It's only for a day or two. I'm going to wire
your brother Andrew in the morning. By night after next, you'll be
winging your way to the Middle East and away from
Morgan."
"I can't do this."
"Fine, okay. I've done all I can for you. I
found you a place where Morgan won't look, I've given you the
clothes so that you won't be discovered. You're dead, Clarissa.
Driver, Bel Air, please."