The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes (30 page)

Bennett hit pause and leaned back in D’Agostino’s ergonomically correct chair. On the laptop, Daniel Hayes was frozen. The pistol butt protruded from his belt. Bennett clicked his tongue against his lip, looked out the window, where the Valley spilled out in all its earth-tone glory. It looked better at night.

He could send someone else. Little Suzie hadn’t worked off her debt just by making a run out to the pier. And no way, no
way
would she try ripping him off.

On the other hand, Daniel and Laney probably wouldn’t give her the necklace. If they wanted to take their turn trying to kill him, they wouldn’t give up the only thing that would bring him there.

He could make an end run on the whole thing. Maybe snatch Laney’s actor friend. Call them at the last minute, make the guy whimper into the phone, give them a new venue. But it would mean yet another body, and more police attention. Besides, why bother? He knew what they were up to. A secret plan wasn’t much good once the secret was out.

When was the last time you did, amigo?
He rubbed at his eyes, yawned deeply. Lifting his shirt, he pulled out the Sig Sauer, opened the glove box, stowed it inside. Then he put the Smith and Wesson snub-nose he’d taken from his desk drawer beside it. The two guns looked ominous in the dim light.

Hope we don’t get pulled over.
He must have snatched a few hours of sleep toward dawn, because he’d dreamed again. The concrete canyon, the darkness, the guilty terror. And a new dream too, Sophie screaming, but when she opened her mouth, the sound that came out was the roar of jet engines. He’d come to propped in the desk chair, his feet on the windowsill. Stiff and sore and too tired to move, he’d just sat there, let himself drift.
For some reason, he’d been thinking of last Christmas. Some years they flew to Chicago to see her family, but the visits were always glum and awkward times. His father-in-law was a mechanic, a man who fixed broken things. He didn’t know what to make of a life spent creating something so ephemeral as entertainment. And her brother had the conversational skill of a watermelon.
So last year they’d decided to stay home. They’d slept late, lounged over coffee and scripts. Her first Christmas gift for him, she’d looked up from the other end of the couch, said, “Want me to be Emily for you, baby?” They’d piled into the bedroom laughing, and she’d stayed in character, made love to him like Emily Sweet, her moves and mannerisms and moans all her but just a little different, and it had been so hot they’d both finished fast and coated in sweat. They spent the afternoon watching movies and reading and cooking an elaborate supper. She was a mostly-vegetarian, but had always wanted to roast a chicken, and it had turned out weirdly picture-perfect, crispy and golden brown. They’d eaten with their hands, fingers shining with grease, pairing it with store-bought eggnog spiked with rum, a combination that had flattened them both, left them food-stoned but warm and happy. Around nine they’d shared a joint in the backyard, sitting beneath the avocado tree he’d strung Christmas lights in, staring up at what stars they could see and holding hands.
He’d found himself caught in a labyrinth of dope thought, one of those Gordian knot moments where he couldn’t quite put his finger on what had brought him to this exact spot. The long chain of events, forged one decision at a time, that had led them from the places they were born to the softness of this Malibu evening. He’d tried to explain it to her, what he was thinking, how improbable it was. How impossible. If his mother hadn’t married that asshole, or if his high school girlfriend hadn’t dumped him, he might have ended up in a suburb of Little Rock. If Laney’s car hadn’t dropped its muffler in West Hollywood, she would never have pulled over at the Midas where he was having his own changed out, giving them half an hour to chat in the waiting room over terrible coffee, his heart thumping as he tried to work up the nerve to ask her out. How, when viewed mathematically, their coming together was a near impossibility, a miracle of chance.
“It’s like tossing a dart,” he’d said. “There’s nothing amazing about it. You throw and it sticks somewhere. But if you try and backtrack every factor that led there, the force of the throw and the angle and the air resistance, all of it had to be perfect, just exactly right, for it to end up where it did.”
She’d rolled her head sideways, smiled, said, “You’re funny when you’re stoned.”
“I’m funny when I’m not stoned too.”
“Meh.” And she’d laughed, and he’d joined her, and that had been perfect too. It was like those French philosophers’ ideas of love and life, the sense that there was nothing real but what you chose. That when most people talked about love they really meant habit, whereas maybe love wasn’t about commitment—it was about choice, about choosing to be with the person you were with, and choosing it every moment.
Then he’d realized he was really,
really
hungry, and they’d gone inside and stripped the rest of the flesh from the chicken before collapsing into bed.
It was only after he’d been smiling for a long time that he realized he remembered it. Fully and completely. His past was coming back to him. The thought was enormously comforting for about ten seconds, and then he’d thought of Bennett, and wondered if he would have the chance for the rest of it to trickle in.
And since then, he’d been thinking about the future. About the visit to the house, and about tonight. About killing Bennett and getting away with it, so that there would even be a future.
Enough with the past. Enough with the future. The now is what you have. Focus on it.
He looked over at Laney. She was staring out the window and chewing on a cuticle.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what? I got us into this, not you.”
“For . . . everything. For all the things I should be sorry for. All the moments I wasted, and the stupid fights, and working too many hours, the drinking that made you worry. All of it.”
“Don’t be. I’m not sorry for anything that happened between us. Not one minute of it.”
“Sucker.”
“Yep.” She drove with one hand, rubbed at her neck with the other. “Honestly, I just wish this was over. It’s the waiting that’s killing me. Hours to go, maybe our last, and I can’t let myself enjoy them. It’s like that first week shooting
Candy Girls
.”
He laughed. “You barfed every morning. I thought maybe you were pregnant.”
“I barfed in the afternoons too. You carried gum for me. I was so sure they were going to fire me and bring Evangeline Lilly back in. Remember?”
“You know what? I do. I also remember that you nailed it. Nervous or not, you went out there and
killed
.”
The word was out of his mouth before he could think about it. Jesus Christ, for a guy good with language, what a boneheaded choice. He spoke fast to cover it up, saying, “Think we can get into Lux now?”
“They’ll probably have some staff prepping for the party.”
“Then let’s go.” He gestured at the glove compartment. “Having those two on us is making me nervous.”
Plus, it will distract us from the thought we’re both having:
So long to wait. But if this doesn’t work, such a short time to live.

rom this angle,
Daniel and Laney looked like pieces on a chessboard. It was an image that pleased Bennett immensely. He’d found Lux no problem. The place was anything but subtle.

A former warehouse, it took up most of a city block. The exterior had been painted gold—not yellow, gold—and there was a huge cursive “L” hanging above the entrance. The front walk was wide enough to allow for a rope line or even a red carpet. At night, it probably looked opulent, but by the hard light of afternoon, the word was garish.

He’d arrived a couple of hours ago. After watching the video, he’d packed his gear and loaded the truck, then he’d spent an hour cleaning Jerry D’Agostino’s house. Used an entire tube of those premoistened disinfecting wipes, swiping down every hard surface, every spot that might have held a fingerprint. He’d run the dishwasher and vacuumed the whole place. There were no absolute certainties when it came to DNA, but he’d done the best he could. And after tonight it was bye-bye La La Land, hello sunny Mexico.

The building he stood atop was in the process of being converted to a club itself, and it had been the easiest thing in the world to walk in like he was inspecting it, passing Hispanics hanging drywall and Polacks wiring electricity, then climb the rear stairs. The roof afforded a panoramic view. To the north, the mirrored towers of financial companies bounced sunlight. To the east, he could make out the concrete canyon of the Los Angeles River basin, dry at this time of year. South was the 10, followed by a wasteland of industrial buildings.

And due west was Lux, gaudy as a showgirl, and in front of it, the PT Cruiser that Daniel had just climbed out of. Bennett squatted behind the lip of the roof, a three-foot abutment of brick. The sun warmed his shoulders and heated the tar of the roof to stickiness. Below him, Daniel turned a slow circle, one hand shielding his eyes. Satisfied they were alone, he gestured, and Laney climbed out of the car. The two of them hurried to the entrance.

Bennett took the parabolic mic from his bag, propped it on the brick, the dish pointed down at the front door. The earpiece crackled as he flipped the thing on, and then scraped with the sounds of their footsteps.

“Locked.” Daniel’s voice thin in his ear. The man banged on the door. Laney seemed ready to crawl out of her pretty skin. Her blond hair was limp and fried. She looked much better brunette, and without that shit around her eye.

After a moment, the door rattled and then opened a few inches. A burly guy with tattoos down both arms looked out at them. “Help you?”

We’re with the publicity team for Too G.”
“Uh-huh?”
“The rest of the crew will be here later, but Too wanted us to

come by and take a look, make sure things were set up in the VIP room.”
“We’re not ready yet—”
“I know. But you mind if we just stroll through, take a look? That way we can tell the boss we did.”
The tattooed man shrugged, said, “Sure, I guess.” He stepped aside, held the door open. “Not really much to see.”
“That’s okay. I’m sure it will be—” The slamming door cut off the rest of whatever lie Daniel was telling.
Bennett took out the earpiece, glanced at his watch.
What’s your plan, kids?
He had a bet. A couple, actually. Bennett reached into the bag again, pulled out a sandwich wrapped in paper, tore it open, took a bite. Needed salt.
The necklace had looked every bit as spectacular in the video as it had when he’d gone into Harry Winston to pick it. As with a lot of jewelry at that price point, some of the value was in the craftsmanship and the style. But what had sold him on this piece was the number of high-quality stones, all about the same carat. If it felt too risky to sell the necklace as a whole, he could move it a diamond at a time. Even if he had to sell it cut-rate, it would still be worth three, three-fifty. More than enough to get him clean papers, a safe location, and operating expenses for his next move.
He’d just crumpled the paper around the crusts of his sandwich when the front door opened and Daniel and Laney walked out. They headed straight for the car. Bennett didn’t bother with the mic, just watched them drive down the block and around the corner. He waited ten minutes, then shouldered his bag and went downstairs. A foreman in a hard hat glanced at him, and Bennett nodded, kept walking.
It only took a couple of seconds of banging for the tattooed guy to open the front door. “Yeah?”
“Hi. Listen, I’m sorry to bug you, but I’m John Freyer’s assistant. The guy who was here a few minutes ago? The woman he was with, Belinda, she just called me, said the dumbass thinks he might have left his cell phone. You happen to find it?”
“No.”
“Mind if I take a look? Only be a minute.”
The guy shrugged. “Yeah, sure.” He stepped back, and Bennett followed him in.
The entrance hall was bright with houselights. There was a coat check to one side, and a winding staircase to the other. Double doors led to the main body of the club. An enormous chandelier of dripping crystal had been lowered almost to the ground, and a guy was fiddling with it, replacing lightbulbs. Thick fabric draped the walls. Liquor boxes were stacked five high, two set by the front, where Tattoo must have dropped them to open the door.
“Nice place,” Bennett said.
Tattoo grunted. “VIP’s upstairs, he probably left it there. There or the can.”
“Where’s that?”
Tattoo pointed to the bar area. “Halfway down, to the left.”
“Thanks. Listen, I don’t want to waste your time, go ahead with what you were doing. I’ll just be a minute.”
Bennett went up the curling staircase. The VIP room was a balcony overlooking the main floor. Couches and cushions were scattered about. The space was divided by huge black-and-white photos suspended from the ceiling. Steamy stuff, all tangled flesh and fabric tight across thighs and backs. A Hispanic woman maneuvered a vacuum, dodging photos and shoving chairs aside with her hips, headphones in her ears.
Would they hide it here?
He didn’t think so. Too many variables. The cleaning woman, the VIP-ers. With Daniel wanted and Laney supposed to be dead, they wouldn’t risk running into someone they knew. A costar, a C-lister, a paparazzi. The kind of folks who would hang out here.
Bennett went back downstairs, wandered through the main floor. It was a cavernous room hung with speakers. Bars ran the length of both sides, and Tattoo and another man were moving the liquor boxes behind them. Thousands of crystals hung like stars above the dance floor.
The men’s room had marble floors and a drop ceiling painted black. The faucets and towel dispensers and even the trash can were plated gold, or something meant to look like it. He checked the first stall, found nothing. Likewise the second and third.
In the fourth, duct taped behind the toilet tank, Bennett found the gun. He smiled. He did love predictable people.
Careful not to tear the tape, he peeled the edges from the bottom and freed the pistol. A Sig Sauer P250 Compact. A nice weapon: modular, precise, small. He ejected the round, caught it onehanded. Forty-five ACP. Excellent stopping power.
Not a bad little plan, Daniel’s. Get here early, plant the gun. Then he could walk through the metal detectors without a worry. When everything went down, Daniel would be armed and Bennett wouldn’t.
Unfortunately for them, they weren’t the only ones who’d seen
The Godfather
.
He could take the gun, but when they got here and found it missing, they’d panic. Better to keep them calm, let them think they were a step ahead of him.
Bennett slotted the round back into the magazine, then replaced the Sig and smoothed the tape down. Let them have it if it made them feel safe. Now that he knew what they were planning, the pistol wasn’t a threat. People who watched a lot of movies tended to equate holding a pistol to winning a fight. He knew better. Besides, he didn’t intend to let Daniel keep the gun long.
He stopped to wash his hands, dried them on his pants, and stepped out, whistling.
“You find it?” Tattoo stood behind the bar.
“Yeah,” Bennett said. “I found it.”
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