In Cold Blonde (21 page)

“No,” Ryan
said, instinctively.  “Fuck the Lotto.  This is too important. 
I’ll help.”

“Don’t be
silly, Ryan, I can do this alone.  And you don’t really mean that, do
you?  Fuck the Lotto?”  Please say yes, Syd thought.

Ryan did
feel guilty leaving Syd alone to work.  All his adult life, work was
priority one.  But, at the same time, he was only a few hours from getting
the Lotto money and surprisingly found himself focused on all the things that
could go wrong.  What if he loses the ticket?  What if the tow truck
driver shows up at the presentation?  What if the 7-Eleven clerk is there
and says Ryan didn’t buy the ticket?  What if they find the video of the
tow truck driver buying the ticket?  What if he oversleeps?  What if
he has a car accident in the morning and misses the presentation?  What if
Anne steals the money from him?

What
if?  What if?  What if?

The growing obsession
should have been enough warning to Ryan that his life would probably be much
better off if he
didn’t
take the money.  If he
never
took
the money. 

But he was
far too gone for that. 

In spite of
himself, Ryan was dreaming about first edition books and hand crafted
desks.  He’d noticed all the
things
in the Devlin house: the plush
carpets, state of the art appliances, beautiful furniture.  And the
familiar smells of freshly polished furniture and fresh flowers.  Sights, sounds
and smells that all reminded Ryan of his father’s house. 

Ryan may not
have cared much about money growing up, but living in luxury sure leaves a
mark.  His childhood memories of that house were like comfort food for the
brain.  His bedroom was filled with toys as a boy, gadgets and the latest
computers as a teenager.  His meals were prepared by Vivian, their black
housekeeper.  And with the musical chair nature of his father’s wives, Vivian
was the only constant female influence on young Ryan’s life.  The house
was always clean, the bathrooms spotless, windows and mirrors sparkled, and
furniture glistened.  Each new wife would want to redecorate, so the carpets,
drapes, pictures and furniture changed as fast as his father’s wedding
rings.  But it was always home. 

After his father
lost all his money and went to jail, Ryan rejected that part of his life. 
It wouldn’t take much time on a shrink’s couch to find out how betrayed Ryan
felt by his father’s fraud.  His father putting money before everything,
including Ryan.   So Ryan enjoyed his monastic life of a small
apartment and forty-year-old car.  Money wasn’t an issue because he didn’t
have any, didn’t make any, and didn’t want any.

But that was
all a lie, Ryan realized.  It had to be because Ryan found himself more
and more obsessed with the Lotto ticket.  How it could change his life,
how it was going to change the life of so many of his friends and family.

So the
answer to Syd’s simple question,
You don’t really mean that, do you? 
Fuck the Lotto?
was simple.  “No, Syd, I don’t mean it.  It’s
become too important to too many people.”

Like your
money grubbing ex-wife, Anne, thought Syd.  And Tony Ramirez and his
mother’s meatballs, Chen and his mother’s mortgage, Katz’s fishing boat, your
fucking stepbrother’s horses and sadly, you too, my dear Ryan. 

But Syd said
none of this.  What she did say was, “Exactly.  So go to your meeting
with Anne; I’ll call you if I come up with something.  And I think I
better sleep at home, tonight,” Syd said.  “I promised Eleanor I’d meet
her for dinner and it might go late.”  Eleanor had been Syd’s partner at
Vice, and they got together every couple of weeks.

“Okay,” Ryan
said.  “But I’ll miss you.” 

“Me too,
you.”  But Syd wasn’t planning on meeting Eleanor for dinner.  She
had other plans for this evening.

Plans she
hoped Ryan never found out about.

Blake Hunter
rarely dated.   There were much easier ways to get laid and he couldn’t
stand the hassle of wining, dining and being charming just to get into some
girls panties.  Hookers were expensive, but as actor Charlie Sheen said, “I
don’t pay them for sex, I pay them to leave.” 

Blake
hated
being stuck with some girl in his bed all night, then having to be civil in
the morning, giving them coffee or a muffin and, worst of all, driving them
home. 

He hadn’t
had a real girlfriend since college and that was just fine.  A long-term
relationship wasn’t on his radar right now.  And though plenty of young
girls wanted to date him – he was, after all, the Prince of the paparazzi
and therefore able to get ambitious actresses plenty of face time in the
world’s most-read magazines – Blake decided it just wasn’t worth the
effort.  For a thousand bucks, he could do whatever he wanted to whatever
flavor of luscious young lady he desired; professional women who were only there
to satisfy their client with every sensual trick they knew, and having relieved
him of all his precious bodily fluids, would happily leave.

So Blake’s
deigning to have the blonde in the red bathing suit come back tonight was
unusual.  No doubt he could order up a girl just like her from Millie, his
madam.  But there was something intriguing about the girl, and it was
always fun to actually seduce a woman.  It was thrilling when a woman
surrendered herself to you with genuine passion.  Besides, the blonde was
not only going to cook him dinner but she was driving herself over, so getting
rid of her should be easy.

Blake worked
at his computer, checking shots of Jennifer Lopez nipple slip while getting out
of a swimming pool, when he noticed the time, six fifty-five.  Shit, she
was due at seven.  He saved his work on Photoshop and hurried into the
bedroom.  He grabbed the remote, clicked on the TV and started changing
clothes as the news wrapped up.  He was in his closet slipping out of
shorts and into a pair of khakis, sandals and a Grateful Dead tee shirt when
his synapses plowed through the meaningless blah blah blah of the newscast and
focused in on the words “…Adam Devlin’s murder...” 

Blake stepped
into the bedroom in time to see the surveillance video from the Bel Air Regent
Hotel and hear: “Police say this woman is a suspect in not only Adam Devlin’s
murder, but also the murder of Colin Wood two nights ago and Orange County
attorney Zachary Stone earlier this week.  If you know the identity or
whereabouts of this Lady in Red, please call the number at the bottom of your
screen.”

Blake hit
the pause button, freezing the image on his DVR.

Adam Devlin
was dead, too?  Murdered just like Colin?  Blake had spoken to Adam
just six months ago.  One of Adam’s clients, a beautiful ice skater with
four Olympic Gold Medals and a squeaky-clean-girl-next-door rep that had netted
her millions in endorsements had been photographed giving the finger to an obnoxious
paparazzi, Joel, as a matter of fact, Blake’s number one shooter. 

Adam called Blake,
asked him to kill the picture as a favor.  Blake always liked Adam; they
had great times in high school.  So Blake did his old friend a favor and
killed the picture.  Now Adam was dead, too.  What the fuck was going
on? 

Blake
studied the frozen image of the blonde on his TV and a cold chill ran through
him.   It looked like that girl he met this morning in the red
bikini.  Her hair was down in the video and pulled back in a ponytail
today, but it sure looked like the same girl who washed up on his beach.

Then with a
jolt the implications rocked him.  She’d killed Adam and Colin and now she
wanted to kill him. 

Kill him!

But who the
hell was she?  He studied her face.  He didn’t recognize her, though
he remembered thinking there was something familiar about her when they first
talked.

Then he
thought about her victims; Colin, Adam and an Orange County attorney… and then
it hit him.  Zachary Stone was the lawyer who handled the payoff to that
girl from high school, Annie, Angie, no wait, Alice.  Alice Waterman.

He studied
the picture again.  That woman looked
nothing
like Alice Waterman.   Well,
not that he really remembered what that slut looked like.  But wasn’t she
brunette and chunky?  He could quickly check the video he made that
night.  He kept it, of course; he kept everything he shot. 

But if she
dyed her hair and lost weight… He studied the surveillance shot one more time,
it could be her. 

Could be, hell,
it
must
be her, otherwise why would she be killing everyone who was
there that night? 

And what was
with the damsel in distress act this morning?  She must have been
researching him.  Knew where he lived, knew he liked to run in the
mornings.  She had to have been waiting for him in that kayak, waiting for
him to take his run on the beach so he’d be able to
rescue
her.

But then why
didn’t she kill him this morning?  And then he remembered standing with
her in the kitchen making her some more coffee and getting her an apple. 
She was standing behind him; he pictured the kitchen, the counter…the spice
rack…the jar of utensils…and the knives.  She was standing in front of the
fucking knives! 

He vaguely
remembered sensing movement behind him when he bent over to get her that apple,
but then Joel and the guys suddenly walked in.

Was she
going to kill him then?  Had the guys interrupted her, saving his life?

Now Blake
was starting to get mad.

That
bitch.  She tried to kill him this morning, failed, so she was coming back
tonight to finish the job.  He picked up his phone, started punching in
the number on the bottom of the TV screen, then stopped as an idea struck
him.  A brainstorm, actually.

There may be
an incredible opportunity here. 

It would be
risky; she was a killer, after all.  But she didn’t know that he knew who
she was.  And that should buy him both time and opportunity.

The doorbell
rang.  She was here.  Decision time.  The more he thought about
his plan, the more he liked it.  He hung up the phone.        

Alice drove
her Prius to Malibu.  It was a gift from her parents when she got out of
the Institute a month ago.  She hated taking gifts from them since they
were all bought with the blood money.

She’d driven
by Blake’s house twice, looking for any sign of police.  She saw
none.  Relieved she was still a couple of steps ahead of the cops, she
pulled into Blake’s driveway.

She’d chosen
a red skirt that was just a little too short and a white tank top that was a
little too tight.  She’d had sex with Adam and given head to Colin but she
wanted nothing to do with this sleazebag.  She didn’t mind tempting him,
but she sure as hell wasn’t going to sleep with him.

She’d come
prepared.  The scalpel was washed.  Her .25 Colt was cleaned and
loaded.  And she had a grocery bag filled with the makings for
dinner.  Pasta, sauce, bread, premixed salad from Whole Foods and a low
calorie Italian dressing.

She almost
made a mistake this morning.  She was just going to kill him and be done
with it.  But it occurred to her that Blake was the one shooting the video
on that terrible night.  She’d really like to finally see that
video.  Find out once and for all what really happened to her.  So
she was going to flirt, and cook and pry and hopefully find out where he kept his
old videos.    And then finally, with her gun pressed to his
forehead, as he was begging for his life, she might even get an apology.

She walked
to his door filled with hope.  Hope that she’d finally learn what those
boys did to her and hope that her bloody revenge would finally come to an
end.  Fixing a smile firmly in place, Alice rang the bell.

Blake opened
the door.  “Right on time,” Blake said, motioning her inside.

“My mother
taught me to never keep a man waiting,” she said walking in.

Blake eyed
the grocery bag.  “What’s for dinner?”

“My specialty,”
Alice said heading for the kitchen.  “Pasta.”  She dropped her purse
on a chair in the living room and giggled.  “To be honest, it’s about the
only thing I know how to cook.  But it’ll be good, I promise.”

“I love
pasta.” Blake said as he watched her unpack the food.  He studied her
face, tried to see Alice in there.  Couldn’t.  This woman has the
most dazzling green eyes, did Alice have green eyes?  He didn’t think
so.  Contacts? 

“So,” he
said, joining her in the kitchen.  “Before you start cooking,” he said
looking deeply into her eyes, “I insist we have a drink on the deck.  The
sun sets in a few minutes and, with that mountain of cumulous clouds on the
horizon, it should be spectacular.”

God, he’s
intense, Alice thought as Blake stared into her eyes.  And a little bit
creepy.  But she had a job to do so she raised a perfectly plucked
eyebrow, tilted her head and said, “Sounds wonderful.”

Yep,
contacts, Blake thought as he finally discerned a bit of the edge.  “You
go out on the deck and I’ll make us a drink.  What’ll you have?”

“Wine, white
if you have it.”

“I’ve got a Chardonnay
with your name on it.”

“Thank you,”
Alice said, sliding open the French doors and stepping outside.  It was
like stepping into a postcard.  The sea was calm and the sun hung like a
huge crimson sphere just above the surface.  Alice breathed in the air,
allowed herself to enjoy the smell of the sea, the sound of the surf, the
visual splendor of nature’s charismatic swan song. 

There was
this one doctor at the Institute who was experimenting with aural psychology
and would make her lie on a waterbed listening to sounds of the surf, waves
breaking and seagulls singing and watch her brainwaves.  He showed her the
results and they were amazing.  Her alpha wave went from a network of huge
hills and valleys to an almost smooth line.  She was revved up now and
could do with a little modulating, so Alice breathed deeply, closed her eyes
and let her ears take over.

Blake
watched the blonde from kitchen.  As soon as her back was to him, he inched
toward her purse.  He opened it and looked inside.  He moved a wallet
aside and saw a handgun.  It was small, easy to conceal.  Good.

With a quick
glance to make sure she still wasn’t looking, he snatched the gun, slipped it
into his pocket.  Then he put the wallet back in place, closed the purse
and walked to the Sub Zero.  The blonde’s eyes were closed.  She
looked peaceful, he thought. 

Enjoy it while
you can, baby.

He took out
a bottle of Cakebread chardonnay and set it on the counter.  Then he took
the gun and surreptitiously slipped it into the dishtowel drawer, shoving it
well back and out of sight.  He closed the drawer.

His eyes
went back to the blonde on the deck, still in her trance.  He had to admit
she was beautiful.  Hard to believe she’s killed three people.  He
didn’t want to become number four and thought briefly about calling 911. 
But, hell, he had her gun, what could she do to him?

He picked up
his Nikon D90 and started taking pictures of her.  She was in profile, and
looked spectacular silhouetted against the setting sun.  Her eyes were
closed and she had just a hint of a smile on her lips. 

Candid shots
of the notorious Lady in Red.  They would be worth a fortune in worldwide
sales.  But the stills were just the appetizer in Blake’s plan.  He
had something much more spectacular in mind.  He had the actual video of
the Lady in Red having sex with the men she would kill eleven years later!  

The
commercial implications were staggering.  Besides the millions of dollars
it could gross in DVD, internet and licensing sales, it would be a great way
for him to re-introduce himself to mainstream Hollywood.  Hollywood was a
sucker for comeback stories and what better comeback was there than capturing
the notorious Lady in Red?

He zoomed in
for an extreme close-up just as she opened her eyes, turned her head and looked
right at him.

CLICK. 
CLICK.  CLICK.

He took shot
after shot.  A dazzling smile lit up her face as the sunset scorched the
sky behind her.  Photographers wait hours for this kind of light.  It
was called the magic hour even though it usually only lasted about twenty
minutes each day as the sun set. 

“What are
you doing?” she asked.      

“Taking
pictures of a beautiful woman.  Do you mind?”

She thought
about it, decided she had nothing to lose at this point; he’d be dead soon and she
could take the camera.  On second thought, she might leave the camera for
the police to find, these pictures should look a lot better than those lousy surveillance
shots they’re showing on TV. So she posed, playfully.  “Not at all.”

CLICK. 
CLICK.  CLICK.

“Did you
ever model while you were in Denver?”  Since Blake knew her
wannabe
actress from Denver
story was bullshit, he thought it’d be fun to poke at
the lie.