Fun and Games (6 page)

“So I’d know if anyone was coming. God, I feel like I’m dreaming. None of this is happening. I keep hoping I’m going to wake up in front of the TV.”

Hardie nodded. He knew exactly what she meant.

Hardie followed Lane back through the house to the bathroom. It was a compromise; Hardie wanted to stay on the top floor, and Lane wanted to be in a room without any windows. Once inside, she closed the door, then pointed Hardie to the toilet. Very gracious of her. He saw her bloodied pants balled-up inside the sink, as well as a single shoe. Lane leaned against the sink, let her head tilt back. She exhaled heavily, then shuddered.

Now that he knew who she was, Hardie saw her in a different way. She had a
presence
about her. This was no complete stranger telling him a crazy story. It was someone he
sort of, kind of
knew, which made it difficult to completely dismiss what she was saying.

Hardie realized how ridiculous that was. He’d seen this woman act in silly comedies; he didn’t really know her.

But she was famous. Why would she lie?

(Because, duh, famous people were crazy!)

Lane Madden leaned in close and, through trembling lips, told him everything that had happened to her. The creepy race along Decker Canyon Road. The weird guy in the Chevy Malibu. The engineered accident on the 101. The forced speedball. The fistful of safety glass. The narrow escape to the edge of the 101.

“Now do you believe me? Does that sound like a series of coincidences?”

Hardie had to admit that, yeah, it sounded odd, even for L.A.

“What happened next?” he asked.

“I pulled myself over the fence and limped up toward Lake Hollywood. I used to come jogging up here, and I knew there were houses everywhere. I thought maybe I could yell for help or something.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Because I thought about the kind of people who were after me. They weren’t some carjackers or something. They were organized. They had a plan all worked out. What if I knocked on the door of some family—and the assholes who were after me hurt them, too? I couldn’t put innocent people at risk. So I kept running. I thought I could outrun them.”

“Limping all the way?”

“I did my best. You kind of forget about pain when people are trying to kill you.”

Hardie didn’t know L.A. geography all that well. Was it possible to limp from the 101 all the way up here? Seemed kind of implausible. Wasn’t there, like, a mountain in the way?

“So did they follow you?”

“God, yeah. Just when I thought I’d lost them, I’d see another one of them rounding the corner. It was spooky.”

She touched his leg, poking at him with her fingertips.

“That’s when I realized how they were tracking me—and this is what really freaked me out, because it shows you how freakin’ connected they all are.”

“How did they track you?”

“My ankle bracelet.”

Hardie stared at her for a moment, waiting for the rest of the story. When he realized that was the extent of her explanation, he squinted, tilted his head and said:

“Huh?”

“The ankle bracelet. You know… the kind the court gives you when you’ve fucked up one too many times?”

Blank look from Hardie. Lane smiled slightly and leaned back.

“You really don’t know about this? Like, this is the first you’re hearing of it? I thought pretty much the entire world knew I was wearing that damned thing. All of those jokes on those late-night shows, the pictures on the websites… God, they fucking love it, thinking they’re so clever, asking me to flash a little leg.”

“Were you under house arrest or something?”

“No… more as in, if I take so much as a sip of beer, some guy in a monitoring station somewhere will know it, and they’ll call the L.A. County prosecutor.”

Hardie nodded. “So you think they were able to track you with it.”

Lane tapped an index finger on her own temple. “I don’t
think
they did. I
know
they did. Because I smashed the fucking thing off with a rock, threw it away, and ran even faster. Haven’t seen them since. I came here to pull myself together.”

“So you just broke in.”

“Well… yeah.”

“What made you pick this house? Weren’t you worried about the people inside? You know, putting innocent lives at risk, and all of that?”

Lane took a breath.

“Look, I was coming around the bend down there—you know, turning up from Durand? And I saw the owner of this house step outside. He had luggage and his keys. He locked his door, put the keys in the mailbox, then drove away. I figured his house was empty. No one could get hurt. So I ran across the street and got the keys and let myself in and took a mic stand from the studio and hid in the downstairs bathroom and now we’re all caught up.”

“What time was this?”

“I don’t know—a couple of hours ago?”

That couldn’t be right. According to Virgil, the client—Andrew Lowenbruck—caught his flight late last night, not just a few hours ago. That was the whole reason for leaving the keys in the mailbox… right?

“So let me get this right—a couple of hours ago you saw the owner of this house leave?”

“Yes.”

“So you do know Andrew Lowenbruck?”

“Who?”

Hardie smiled. “The owner of this house.”

“No, no idea. Why do you keep asking me that question? Everybody in Hollywood doesn’t, like, know each other.”

It was an old cop trick. Asking the same question over and over again. You’d be surprised how many people answer it differently the second, third, fourth time around.

Hardie watched Lane carefully. He was no mastermind interrogator—as a matter of fact, he’d never interrogated anybody before. That wasn’t his job. He’d observed Nate do it countless times. Nate claimed that Hardie’s observations were invaluable, and that he was good to have in the room. Hardie knew that was crap. Nate Parish was the genius detective with a mind like a lynx. He wondered what Nate would make of the actress and her story.

Actually, Hardie wondered what Nate would make of the whole situation. No doubt he’d have it figured out in 10.7 seconds. He was like goddamned Sherlock Holmes, plucking a few details out of the air and piecing them together into a logical, hard reality.

Not Hardie.

Not with his slow, lizard-like brain.

Lane reached out and touched his hand. “Hey, I’m not boring you or anything?”

“No. Just thinking. Keep going.”

“So I waited in here. I was hoping they’d give up, and later I’d have a chance to go for help. But apparently they’re still out there. And now they know I’m in here.”

“You think so?”

“I don’t know… no. I think if they knew for sure, they’d come kicking in the doors. But then they probably saw your car, and—”

“Ms. Madden—”

“You can call me Lane, you know.”

“Okay, Lane. I’ve saved the million-dollar question for last. Why do you think these people want to kill you?”

She hesitated. “I have no idea. All I know is, they’re serious.”

“You have no idea at all?”

“Isn’t that what I said? I was out late last night driving, just to clear my head—and I hadn’t been drinking, thank you very much, you can ask my manager, Haley. And then,
boom,
they came out of nowhere.”

Hardie considered this.

“Let me see your arm.”

“Why?”

“Just let me see where they injected you.”

She obediently made a tight little fist and extended her arm, showing him the crook of her elbow. Hardie looked. There was a needle mark, as well as some bruising around it. She’d been injected hard, and some veins had collapsed around the site. Still, she could have done it herself. Like shooting up before/during/after a Hollywood party.

“Mind if I touch you?”

Lane smirked. “You’ve already put me in a bear-hug death grip and sat on me. Now you’re asking if I mind if you touch me?”

“Just thinking of the lawsuit. Don’t want you and your lawyers tacking on extra items.”

Lane raised a right hand.

“I give you permission to touch me, Mr. Hardie.”

“Call me Charlie.”

Hardie gently took her by the wrist and rotated her arm inward. So strange to touch her. So strange to touch another female human being, actually. When was the last time he’d done that? He examined her arm quickly. No finger-shaped bruises. No other marks at all, except for random scrapes and cuts.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Just wondering why a speedball.”

“Because they probably wanted my death to look like an accident. Like I was some dumb two-bit cokehead actress who went out cruising late and ended up rear-ending some poor father of three or something.”

“Why go through all that trouble?”

Lane looked at him. “I told you, I don’t know. Why did that deranged idiot shoot John Lennon?”

Hardie tried to keep an open mind, swear to God he did. But even the slow, lazy lizard part of his brain was screaming BULLSHIT at every turn.

The kind of killers Hardie encountered back in Philly were idiot scumbag husbands who beat their wives with baseball bats and tried to dump their bodies in storage lockers registered to their real names. Gangbangers looking to make a name for themselves, undercutting one another with cheaper and cheaper hits to the point where you could take out a witness in a major drug case for about the price of a fucking iPod. Drug-gang hitmen, Russian-mob enforcers. The killers he knew didn’t work in coordinated packs, and they certainly didn’t try to make their work look like an accident. That was the whole point. A death was not supposed to be an Act of God—it was meant as an Act of Vladmir, To Teach You Not to Steal From His Stash.

“Let me take a look outside and see if I can’t put your mind at ease, huh? And then we can get to a hospital.”

“No. No fucking way. That’s what they want. God knows what they’ll do to you the moment you set foot outside. Don’t you understand? These people operate on a completely different level.”

Hardie muttered:

“They.”

Factboy gathered more intel on Charles D. Hardie. Slowly, it painted an interesting, if kind of sad and deadbeatish, kind of picture.

Hardie had been filing tax returns as a “house sitter” for the past twenty-three months.

He didn’t make much.

The address on the rental agency turned out to be for a house that had been on the market for twenty-seven months.

The house was crap.

Debit-card statements revealed that he lived in hotels or the places he watched.

He didn’t spend much. Movie rentals.

(Who the hell went to an actual store and rented movies anymore?)

All bills went to a PO Box in Philadelphia.

The person who paid for that box lived at 255 Dana Street, Abington, Pennsylvania.

So far, no connection between Madden and Hardie, outside of a few DVD rentals on Hardie’s debit card. Nothing from the past three years. But previously he’d rented some romantic comedies where Madden was featured in a supporting role:
How to Date a Zombie, The Hook-Up, Never the Bride.

(Factboy’s wife had made him sit through that last one. He wanted to use a fork on his eyeballs, just to escape the theater.)

Anyway, it was safe to assume that Hardie recognized her. Also safe to assume Madden had shared the events of the past few hours with him.

Factboy told all of this to Mann, who disconnected without a word of thanks or good job or anything. Good thing he wasn’t in this business for the ego-boosting. Factboy pretend-flushed, then rejoined his family, who were hot and cranky, and tired of waiting around for him.

Mann needed this production concluded immediately. Another, much bigger and more complex job on the other side of the mountain was pending. This silly little bitch was taking far too much time and money.

Somewhere in all of this, there would have to be a visit to an ophthalmologist. The mobile doc who’d patched it stressed he wasn’t an expert but thought it could be a severe corneal abrasion—definitely something that needed proper attention, not a quick fix. The wound burned and itched like crazy; it was all Mann could do not to scratch or rub around the edges.

Another reason to move things along.

The bright, warm sun helped distract Mann from the pain. She rubbed more sunscreen on her breasts, dried her hands with a white terry-cloth towel she’d found in the house.

Then a voice spoke into her ear. O’Neal.

“Heads up, y’all. We’ve got another guest.”

The driver of the Dodge Sprinter kept the engine idling as he engaged the parking brake. For a precarious moment, the van seemed like it would roll back down Alta Brea and crash into something that cost millions of dollars. But the brake held. The driver, in shorts and a company polo shirt, stood up and stepped into the back, wiping his face with a sleeve. He looked like he’d been up all night.

O’Neal spoke quietly: “Uh, anybody expecting a package?”

Mann, down below, said, “Keep watching.”

After a few seconds the driver emerged with a piece of luggage. He hopped out of the back, checked his computerized clipboard, typed in a few things, then popped out the long handle and started rolling the bag up to the house. The wheels bumped on the uneven paving blocks.

“Courier’s got a bag,” O’Neal said, “and he’s headed to the house. Repeat; headed right to the house.”

“Hang on a minute,” Mann said.

“We don’t have a minute. I need to know what you want.”

Mann said nothing.

Which pissed O’Neal off. Not that it mattered, killing the delivery guy. But it was one more detail, one more annoying errand extending this job into super-bugfuck-crazy overtime. If that was the case, then Mann should let him know right away. If not, O’Neal should have the opportunity to coax him away from the place. Jokes aside, this was literally a matter of life and death.

The delivery guy pushed the handle back down into the bag and steadied it against his leg.

“Okay, he’s there,” O’Neal said. “About to knock.”

Mann’s voice, in his ear:

“Good. Let him.”

8

I’m kind of a big deal.

—Will Ferrell,
Anchorman

T
HE KNOCKS
were rapid-fire gunshots that echoed loudly in the big, empty top floor. Hardie hated to admit it, but his entire body did an involuntary jolt. So did Lane’s. Their heads both whipped around at the same time. Hardie stood up from the toilet seat. He felt blood trickle down his chest.

“Okay,” Hardie said. “You stay here.”

Lane grabbed him by the wrist with both hands and pulled him toward her.

“No! This is where you leave, and then somebody kills you, and then they come in after me. Don’t you ever watch movies?”

Hardie rolled his eyes.

“Could be a neighbor, coming to see if the power’s out.”

“Could be the people, oh, I don’t know—trying to kill me! Look, neighbors don’t talk to one another up here. They certainly don’t go knocking on one another’s doors.”

“I’m not going to open the door. I’m just going to take a look through the peep-hole.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“What?”

“You put your eye up to that and they’ll shoot you through it. Blow the brains out of the back of your stupid fucking head!”

No, Hardie wanted to tell her. That is not how they do it. They don’t knock, they don’t get all clever with peepholes. They just pull up to your front door and shout your name and open fire and take away everything you’ve ever cared about…

“Wait here,” Hardie said.

Hardie didn’t have a real weapon, and the kitchen was utterly disappointing. He opened a drawer and saw nothing more lethal than a bunch of plastic utensils from takeout joints, still sealed in plastic. Freeze or I’ll spork you to death, motherfucker. He’d feel better with something vaguely deadly in his hands. He checked another drawer, then another. Best Hardie could find was a little plastic corkscrew, ninety-nine cents at finer liquor emporiums everywhere. But not exactly deadly. The thing would probably shatter in his hands if he tried to use it.

There were three more knocks—just as loud as the first three.

Lane limped into the kitchen, steadied herself against a counter.

“Promise me you won’t open the door.”

Hardie slid the cover of the corkscrew into a hole on the base. He tucked it between his fingers. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. If things got ugly up close, at least he’d have a shiv.

“Promise me!” Lane repeated.

Hardie told her to please be quiet, and to go hide somewhere and leave him alone for a minute. Let him do his job. Which was protecting this house.

First Hardie checked the front windows, angling his head around so he could see the entranceway to the house. Was there someone— one of THEM!—crouched down, waiting to pounce? Or maybe a guy with a knife in the shrubs along the concrete pathway? Or maybe someone suspended above the doorway, Tom Cruise/
Mission Impossible
–style?

No.

Instead, Hardie could see a courier van, big-ass Dodge Sprinter, parked in front of the house. A delivery dude in polo shirt and shorts, clipboard in his hand. And Hardie’s missing bag, leaning up against the delivery guy’s leg.

Delivery Dude looked around, knocked again. He looked impatient and sweaty. Dude had the look of a hangover about him, and Hardie was pretty damn near an expert on them.

Lane appeared by his side. Scared the fuck out of him.

“Who is it?”

“Delivery guy,” Hardie said. “He’s got my bag.”

“What bag?”

Hardie craned his neck for a better look. Certainly seemed like his bag. The right color and design. The white airline tag stuck to the handle, fluttering in the breeze. And there was the telltale sign: a Spider-Man without a head. His boy had slapped a sticker on there years ago. The head came off; Spidey’s body was left behind, now fused to the fabric of the bag and drained of almost all color thanks to months of constant travel. Hardie left it there because it helped him ID his bag when it came off the carousel.

His bag. Brought by the airline, as promised.

Not
Them,
Delivery Dude.

Hardie walked back to the vestibule and squinted through the peephole mounted in the middle of the door for a better look. He was either a delivery guy or a hired killer. Us or
Them.
As if to answer, the guy called out—

“Delivery!”

—and knocked again, as if it were the last time.

Could he be one of
Them?
Lane said it would be easy for them to dress up in uniforms and pretend to be cops, or whoever they wanted. No big deal to scrounge up a big ugly truck, a clipboard, and a goofy-looking polo shirt. But then, where did his bag come from? What, was the airline in collusion with these killers?

No.

The very idea was ridiculous, and Lane Madden here—well, clearly she had some issues with reality. She wouldn’t be the first actress to have that kind of problem. Hardie felt lighter; this could all be over in a minute. Not only did Delivery Dude have his bag full of underwear and T-shirts, but he probably had a way of communicating with his dispatcher. LAPD could be up here in a matter of minutes, and then Lane Madden would become their problem. See you in the tabloids, honey.

(Delivery Dude could also have a Glock tucked into the waistband of his cargo shorts and be waiting for you to open the door to give him a clear target! Remember what happened last time someone called out for you, and you looked outside?)

“What are you doing?” Lane asked.

“Saving you from
Them.
”

“Goddamnit, no!”

Hardie put his hand on the door handle, took a breath, then pressed the latch with his thumb and pulled open the door.

The device mounted on the door frame was called a wasp’s nest.

Nothing fancy, really. You simply mounted it at face level, set the trigger mechanism, and then you were good to go. All the target had to do was open the door, and,
boom
—load in the face.

The load, though… now, that’s what made the wasp’s nest fancy.

The spray was a weaponized poison that rendered you unconscious within a second, then killed you about a minute later by temporarily shutting down the part of your brain that regulates your heart. After it finished its job, the poison broke down into little untraceable pieces of nothing. A coroner could order all the tox screens he wanted but wouldn’t find jack shit.

And the targets almost never saw it coming.

Something clicked and hissed—

PSSSSSSSSH

—and Hardie felt cold drops spray his face. Even before his brain could form the thought, his body knew something was Real Fucking Wrong. His hand fumbled with the door handle and he felt crazy-weak all of a sudden, overcome with chills and drowsiness, and he didn’t know what was happening, screaming NO NO NO at his mind as if he could talk it out of shutting down and