Hollywood Hills (41 page)

All the way to the apartment he thought of what he was going to say to Megan Burke, who had left him rotting in that filthy jail with smelly savages who'd terrified him. She hadn't tried to post bail, she hadn't come to his arraignment, and she hadn't done shit to help him, despite all he had done for her during the year they'd been together. He had shared his life and everything he owned with that cunt! He had never laid an angry hand on her, but he thought that just might change when he got home. It would all depend on what she had to say for herself.

When he got home, he found out what she had to say for herself. It was on the note. And beside the note were his cell phone, her key, and $1,900. He read the note three times, his rage mounting. Her clothes and bag were gone and so was her cat.

He snatched the money off the table, put it in his pocket, and phoned Wilbur. He was jonesing bad and needed something t
o s
mooth him out so he could think. So he could do what he had to do. The bitch had robbed him and he was going to find her if he had to check every motel in Hollywood. He'd get her when she went to Pablo's to score, or maybe when she called Wilbur for some ox. He'd slip Wilbur a President Grant to tip him off as to where she was staying with his fucking money.

When Jonas looked behind the sofa, he was shocked. The paintings were gone! She had even stolen his paintings. His outrage turned to fury. He felt like he might keel over in a faint. He wished she'd left her cat there so he could kill it.

There was only one thing she could have done with them. She must've kept her schoolgirl promise and returned them to the gallery owner. And now she was out there spending Jonas's money. She'd probably already spent a few grand on ox and was holed up somewhere chasing dragons with some other stupid bastard who was dumb enough to take her in. Well, somebody was going to pay for how he'd been screwed. She'd pay dearly if and when he found her. But until then he wasn't taking this like some screwed-over pussy. He was going out and getting what was coming to him.

Wilbur didn't answer, so he got in his car and drove to the cybercafe, where he saw a guy named Beatle who he used to buy crystal meth from, back before Megan, back when he was a tweaker. Beatle used to run a chop shop and would do anything for meth. He was now so strung out, he'd kill you for your liver if he could find a buyer for it. He could slam a gram and think nothing of it.

Jonas gave Beatle a pair of Jacksons, and Beatle showed teeth like jagged licorice drops, and he said, "Dude, you bought yourself a meth run on my shit pipe. Follow me to my crib."

They went to his nearby rat hole of an apartment, and Jonas smoked crystal meth once again. It was nothing like smoking ox, but it was better than nothing. He remembered how he used to love it, but now he hated it. After riding the ox, meth seemed like nothing but a lowlife drug smelling like cat piss. Nowadays he was wa
y b
etter than this. Still, it beat jonesing, so he smoked a lot of it. And when he was finished, he found that it made him feel agitated. It made him feel paranoid. It made him feel wild!

When he was about to leave Beatle's apartment, the tweaker showed him eyes as empty as a haunted house and said, "Don't trip, potato chip."

It was just after 2 P
. M
. when Megan and her Sikh taxi driver walked from his parked taxi to the front door of the Wickland Gallery. Megan was wearing a long-sleeved red jersey, jeans, and tennis shoes, and was carrying a tattered suitcase in one hand and in the other hand an airline-approved cat carrier with Cuddles inside it. The tall, bearded Sikh wore a cobalt-blue turban, a guayabera shirt, khakis, and sandals, and carried the two blanket-wrapped paintings, one under each arm.

Megan opened the door and saw Nigel Wickland waiting at Ruth's desk in the main room of the gallery. He was as elegant as ever in a double-breasted navy pinstripe, a white button-down shirt, and a rose-colored silk necktie. He looked very tense, and there was even a tic working the corner of his left eye.

Nigel stood and said to the Sikh, "You can lean those items against the wall."

The Sikh looked at Megan, who nodded to him. Only then did the taxi driver comply. Then she handed the Sikh the cat carrier and said, "Arjan, please wait just outside the door with Cuddles. I'll be in here no more than fifteen minutes."

The Sikh nodded again and left the gallery, taking Cuddles with him. Nigel could see him through the gallery window, standing on the pavement with the pet carrier firmly in his grasp.

Nigel gave Megan a lopsided smile and said, "Yes, I see that you are well protected. But you have nothing to fear from me. Not anymore. In many ways you have done me a favor."

"By eliminating your partner?"

He didn't respond to that but said, "Let's go back to my office to complete our business."

Nigel picked up a wrapped painting in each hand, and Megan followed him to his office, and this time she did not feel frightened when he closed the door.

"Have a seat," he said, indicating a client chair in front of his desk.

She sat and put her suitcase flat on the floor and opened it. He looked at the suitcase and said, "I'm afraid I can't fill up a bag that big, but I have your entire bonus as requested. Although first I'd like to examine my merchandise."

He opened a door from his office that led to a storage room with a large sliding door leading from there to the alley. The cargo van was parked inside the storage room, and there were gallery supplies on shelves and benches. Nigel Wickland entered and turned on a light over one of the benches. He cut the duct tape and unwrapped the largest bundle. He lifted the painting and held it under the light, inspecting it closely. Megan stood in the doorway of the storage room and watched him.

"Ah, yes," he said. "The Woman by the Water. Isn't she lovely?" He carefully rewrapped the painting and then unwrapped the second one, holding it under the light, and nodded with a smile on his face.

"Satisfied?" Megan said.

Nigel said, "I am, indeed."

He rewrapped Flowers on the Hillside and opened the side door of the van, putting both bundled paintings inside on the floor. Then he closed the door of the van and said, "Now let's complete our business before your turbaned friend comes in here and dispatches me with his dagger."

They went back to Nigel's desk, where he opened a deep bottom drawer and removed a shipping carton without a lid. He placed it on his desk and said, "Go ahead and count it. I already have."

Megan picked up a packet of hundred-dollar bills, her heart beating in her ears, and counted. When she got to fifty, she stopped and fanned through the rest of the packet. Then she fanned through each of the other packets without counting. It was too staggering an amount of money. She said, "It looks okay. I trust you, Mr. Wickland."

Nigel emitted a burst of nervous laughter at that, and even Megan had to giggle. Then she put each packet into her large suitcase among a jumble of underwear, jeans, two books, T-shirts, and tank tops. When she was finished, she closed and locked the suitcase with a small luggage key.

"Yes, that should get through an airport baggage scanner with no problem," Nigel said. "I'll bet you'll be waiting anxiously for it to come down the carousel when you reach your destination, wherever that is."

Megan smiled without comment. Then she simply picked up the suitcase, opened the door of his office, and walked across the display room of the gallery to the Wilshire Boulevard door.

Before she opened it, Nigel called to her, saying, "Have a good life, Valerie. Your ambition has been for me a blessing in disguise."

She didn't respond but wiggled her fingers at him in a final farewell. When she got outside, the Sikh took her suitcase, and she carried the pet carrier to the taxi for the ride to LAX. Megan Burke was so overjoyed that she decided to increase Arjan's tip to $200.

And on that ride to the airport, with her hand inside the pet carrier stroking her cat, Megan Burke tried to take with her something positive from her two years away from home. But the addiction that had resulted in her physical, emotional, and moral decline had obliterated all positives. And then she thought, no, there was one gift that Hollywood, California, had given her. It came when she had walked into the animal rescue facility fourteen months ago. Hollywood had given her Cuddles the calico cat.

Chapter
Twenty-five.

RALEIGH DIBBLE HAD taken the longest shower of his life. He never wanted to leave the hot water. When he did, he went to the bathroom sink and shaved with a new blade and did as good a job as he could in combing his thinning hair. He laid out his best sport shirt and newest chinos. He even brushed the lint from his best blazer and ran a cloth over his old loafers. He'd seen movies of men who were facing momentous events in their lives who took such care, sometimes before putting a gun to their heads and pulling the trigger.

By 4 P
. M
., he was across the street from the Wickland Gallery, having first ascertained that the lights were on inside and the gallery was open for business.

Jonas Claymore was on a meth ride that he hadn't been on in more than a year. He was driving in frenzy from east Hollywood to Beverly Hills through rush-hour traffic. His central nervous system had come unwired and his hands were out of control. He kept touching the instruments in the VW bug. He'd make sure the headlights were not on and the emergency brake was not on and the radio controls were working and the heater switch was off. Every time he finished he'd do it all over again. His hands didn't belong to him anymore. They just kept fiddling and fretting in perpetual motion.

He knew how much he needed some ox to get himself unde
r c
ontrol, but there was no time to waste. He fantasized that Megan Burke might be there when he arrived. He would deal with her if he found her there. Oh yes, he would. They were laughing at him, Megan and that gallery guy who had his paintings. She'd stolen them from him. They'd been his to dispose of as he chose, but she'd clowned him. Now they were both laughing at him.

He had to remind himself to slow down and obey the traffic laws. He couldn't afford to get stopped by the cops again. It was bizarre, but everyone he saw on the streets looked like an undercover cop, and they all seemed to be watching him. But they couldn't stop him from doing what he had to do. Nobody could.

Jonas only wished he'd had time to talk to Wilbur to see if he could sell him a burner. He'd never had one before, but he was sure he'd handle one okay. Maybe a pistol like all the cops carried on CSI. But he hadn't had time to strap up. All he had was the large carving knife that was riding inside his waistband, the handle of it digging into his sunken belly. It would be enough because he was starting to feel invincible.

Five minutes before its scheduled closing, Raleigh Dibble crossed Wilshire Boulevard and entered the Wickland Gallery. He didn't see the woman at her desk, so he walked back to Nigel's office just as Nigel was coming out of the little restroom.

"Surprise," Raleigh said, and sat in the client chair, trying to stay cool.

Nigel frowned and said, "I didn't hear you come in. What'r
e y
ou doing here? You should know better than to come here again." "Oh, your assistant told you I was here the other day?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you call me to complain about that, Nigel?"

Nigel sat on the corner of his desk and said, "What good would that have done? I've tried everything in my power to persuade you to be patient until the thieves contact us. What more can I do?"

"I've forgotten your employee's name," Raleigh said.

"Ruth is her name. You look tense, Raleigh. Can I get you a cup of coffee? Tea, perhaps?"

Raleigh said, "Did Ruth tell you what we talked about when I came looking for you yesterday?"

"Yes, she said you inquired whether a man came here asking to talk to me personally."

"Did you understand why I asked that?"

"Of course," Nigel said. "You think that I'm doing business with the man who phoned me and that I'm concealing it from you."

"Yes, that's right," Raleigh said, thinking, Calm. Stay calm.

"Well, it's silly, Raleigh," Nigel said. "We may never hear from them at all, and if that's the case, I'm the only one who's out any expenses."

"There's nothing to worry about, then?" Raleigh said.

"Nothing," Nigel said. "Leona will never notice what we did, and I will proceed with assisting her to crate and store the replicated pictures when the time comes."

"I see," Raleigh said. "Then it was just a big swing and a miss, our whole caper?"

"In your baseball terms? Yes, that's what it was. I'm sorry for you and I'm sorry for me. I spent money on this plan, if you'll remember."

"Yes, I certainly do remember," Raleigh said. "More money than I knew about."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Raleigh's demeanor changed and he said, "I'm referring to the money you paid your accomplices to screw me after you used me up."

"The pressure's become too much for you," Nigel said, standing up from his perch on the corner of his desk and walking around to his desk chair.

"I don't think so," Raleigh said. "I know that you hired tw
o p
eople from the get-go to pull that bogus theft of your van so that you could cut me right out of the picture. After I helped you switch the paintings, I was taken right out of it, as neat as you please."