The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes (35 page)

From the privacy of the upper balcony, Roger Waters observed Daniel Hayes and Laney Thayer. Saw them kiss, heard the man laugh. Watched as they got back in their expensive car and rolled the windows down. The last he saw of them, Daniel had his arm out the window, rolling like he didn’t have a care in the world.

They bought it. His little fiction had worked. Good. With Hayes’s conscience taken care of, the chance he’d come forward and confess to the murder was zilch. Who would give up the good life, the movie star wife and the house in Malibu, to get justice for a pedophile crack-dealing pimp? That would take a breed of asshole Waters didn’t know, and he had a pretty good catalog on assholes.
The fact that none of it was true, well, Hayes never needed to know that.
There’s no trail now. They’ll keep quiet. No silly martyrdom. No naïve attempts to clear the slate. They’ll keep quiet and count their blessings.
Which means there’s nothing to connect you to Sophie Zeigler.
His stomach roiled at that. If only he’d known what Bennett had in mind when he got that address.
Didn’t you? On some level?
It didn’t matter. Now he was clear. If Daniel had come forward, the whole story would have come out, all of it, and they would have used Sophie Zeigler’s murder as a justification for shooting Bennett. Which would have raised questions about how that fucker had found her.
Now there was nothing to tie Waters to her death.
Well, one thing. But he’d taken care of it.

he light out
the window was very bright. It seemed like the air was shimmering. There was a tree, a stunted sort of thing, spiny and awkward. Birds perched there, their song just audible through the glass.

The room was plain but clean. A thin plastic curtain screened the view of the hall. Fans in the machines hummed.
Somewhere out of sight, someone said something in Spanish, and someone else laughed.
The man in the bed stared at the ceiling tiles. The world had a Demerol fog to it. Thoughts were disconnected and lazy, drifting in and out, mingling as they chose.
How had he gotten here? He could almost remember, almost . . .
A guy in green scrubs stepped into his room, pulling the curtain aside brusquely. He had dark circles under his eyes and a five o’clock shadow. Too tired to be a doctor, too smug to be a nurse. A resident. The resident began checking the IV tubes, the level of fluid in the bag.
The man in the bed ignored him, chased the memory. It cleared a bit at a time, layers of tissue paper stripped away.
He remembered a voice. A man’s voice.
You just won’t fucking die, will you?
And something else. What? Something about fingers. And . . . angels?
It was important. Fingernails, fingers do the walking, fingerpicking—
Fingerprints.
I’ve got your fingerprints and your DNA and pictures of you.
Another layer of tissue paper tore away, revealing the face. Detective Roger Waters. His lips tight. The skin of his nose shiny.
You may own me, but now I own you too.
I get you across the border, we’re done. You don’t bother them or me ever again.
Los Angeles is off your fucking map, you hear me? Forever.
Ahh. Yes. That made sense.
“
Buenas tardes
,” the resident said, as if he’d just noticed there was a person in the bed. “How are you feeling?”
The man in the bed blinked away the memory, took in the resident’s face. Dark skin and dark hair. A good-looking guy, but there was something off about him. Not just the air of exhaustion, or the accented English. Something else.
His pupils. They were dilated.
Dilated pupils meant speed.
Dilated pupils on a resident meant someone was raiding the medical supply cabinet.
Interesting.
“
¿Señor?
” The resident cocked his head. “You are awake?” His voice quick and pinched.
“Oh yes, brother.” The man in the bed smiled. “I’m awake.”

I’m indebted to a number of people for this book. My deepest thanks to:
My agent Scott Miller, the
man
.
My editor Ben Sevier, who improves everything he touches.
The whole team at Dutton/NAL, especially Brian Tart, Sandra Harding, Christine Ball, Amanda Walker, Rich Hasselberger, Melissa Miller, Carrie Swetonic, and Jessica Horvath.
Dr. Cooper Bart Holmes and Dr. Gene Mindel for patiently sharing their expertise on dissociative fugue states.
My buddies Brett Battles and Gregg Hurwitz, who generously served as Los Angeles tour guides.
Mike Biller, who steered me right on MRI technology while also suggesting I get my own head examined.
Officer Jason Jacobson for schooling me on Tasers and catching a dozen firearms problems.
Phil Wang, formerly of the LASD, who helped me get my Sheriff’s Department facts straight.
Dana Kaye, my Maggie and more.
Sarah Self, the queen of Hollywood.
Gillian Flynn, Blake Crouch, Michael Cook, Tommy Heffron, and Alison Janssen, for their early reads and generous feedback.
Joe Konrath, who twice saved my butt on this one.

Sean Chercover, my creative partner and road dog. The booksellers and librarians—we love you.
Mom, Dad, and Matt, without whom I’d be lost.
And especially my wife g.g. Always, and for more reasons than

Marcus Sakey is the bestselling author of four previous novels, three of which are in development as films. His fiction has been nominated for or won an Anthony, Barry, Macavity, Strand Critic’s Circle, Reader’s Choice, Crimespree, Dilys, Crime Shot, Romantic Times, and ITW Thriller Award. He lives in Chicago with his wife. Visit his Web site at MarcusSakey.com, or follow him on Facebook and Twitter, where he posts under the clever handle @MarcusSakey.