The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes (7 page)

Bennett shook his head and gave up on the chopsticks. Stupid invention. Snagging the salmon between thumb and forefinger, he dunked it in the soy again and popped it in his mouth, closing his eyes to savor the way the fatty fish melted as he chewed. He followed it with a sip of sake, gone lukewarm now. When he wiped his fingers, he smeared prints on the linen napkin.

The taste of fall was in the air, but the afternoon was still warm enough to sit on the patio of Takami, twenty-one stories above the stark clatter of downtown L.A. The small outdoor area was packed, mostly men and women in sharp suits and pricy watches. He leaned back, took in the buzz of conversation.

“. . . market is overextended. I’m telling you, we’re headed for a double-dip, and that’s if we’re
lucky .
. .”
“. . . it’s yoga, but you do it at 105 degrees. Thing is, you’re sweating a lot, and then bending over and spreading your legs, and, well . . .”
“. . . shot one pilot, now she thinks she’s Jennifer Freaking Aniston . . .”
“. . . the problem with looking for your glasses is that you don’t have your glasses on while you’re looking . . .”
“. . . you know they’re sleeping together. Which is so stupid. How does
that
work? I mean, she has everything, and yet . . .”
It was funny how noisy the world was if you listened. So many sounds the human brain filtered out. Talk was the water people swam through, constant, crucial, and unnoticed. There were so many things you could learn if you just listened.
Everybody had multiple identities. They were different people alone than with friends, different with friends than with family. There was the part of them that sinned, that did things they knew were shameful; and then there was the part of them that judged that same behavior in others. The loving wife who had an affair was two people. One of them was carefully constructed. The other was an animal howl. One feared the chaos of night; the other was desperate to believe the world was hers to light aflame.
That’s how it worked. She could be honestly devoted to husband and children, because the woman getting plowed in a motel room was a different person.
People liked to pretend that wasn’t true, and that was how he made his living.
“Can I get you anything else, sir? Maybe some green-tea ice cream?”
Bennett shook his head. “Just the check.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, dialed the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department number from memory, then punched an extension.
When the man answered, Bennett said, “Do you know who this is?”
There was a long pause, and then the man said, “Yes.”
“You don’t sound happy to hear from me.”
“Fuck off.”
Bennett smiled. “Well brother, you’ve got brevity on your side. I need you to look something up for me.”
“And I need a blowjob from—”
“Do you really want to go down that road?”
“The statute of limitations is up.”
“Maybe legally.”
There was another pause, then, “What do you want?” “I need an inventory manifest from a crime scene.”
“Which one?”
Bennett told him. Then he started counting backward in his head.
Five, four, three, two . . .
“Were you involved?”
“Not personally. This is a favor for a friend.”
“You don’t have friends, Bennett. You’re a cockroach, crawling in and out of everybody’s dark places.”
“Very poetic. I’ll wait.” The waitress brought the check, and he nodded to her. He laid down cash enough cover the tab and 18 percent—leave 10 percent or 30 and you might be remembered— then put his foot up on the opposite chair and enjoyed the view.
“I give you this, we’re through.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it. Don’t call me again.”
“You got my word.”
“Owner’s manual. Canvas shopping bags. Jumper cables. GPS. Zagat’s, Los Angeles, 2007 edition. Sunglasses. Pepper spray. Lipstick. Mascara. Hand lotion.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing else.”
“No.”
“And no purse?”
“Did I fucking say purse? No? So then there wasn’t a fucking—”
Bennett hung up. He tucked the phone away, then stood and pushed in his chair. The sound of conversation was replaced by music as he stepped inside the restaurant, some lyric-less lounge crap. A pretty hostess thanked him for coming.
He pressed the button for the elevator, rocked back on his heels.
It’s still out there.
Let’s go look for it.

It wasn’t the most expensive block of Malibu real estate. Not even close, really, considering the wealth concentrated in this little section of heaven half an hour west of Los Angeles. But that was a relative way of looking at things. The house, modern and bright, hidden behind a security fence, cost more than something ten times the size in the parts of the country where Belinda Nichols had grown up.

She was parked down the block, sitting in the back of a van she’d bought the day before. The classified ad had described it perfectly: “1995 Dodge Caravan, solid not pretty, $2200/obo.” She’d offered $1500, not because she cared about the money but because not haggling would have made her more memorable. They’d settled on $1800; Belinda had counted bills into his hand, he’d passed her the keys, and voilà, she was the proud owner of a piece of shit. “Not pretty” was an understatement; the thing had been used hard, the exterior a dull white except for the crumpled side where a collision had banged the metal inward and left long tears of naked steel glinting through.

She’d bought it as a disposable home, a place to work out of while she settled things. Her main concern had been utility, a place for a sleeping bag so she didn’t leave a trail of hotel records. But the P.O.S. was turning out to be a perfect cover. It would have looked out of place in Malibu, except that all these beautiful, expensive homes needed someone to clean them, to care for their landscaping and maintain their pools. The private security firm that covered the area had twice passed while she’d been parked here, and hadn’t touched the brakes on either occasion.

Her stomach was tight, her nerves raw, but she made herself sit still, stare out the windshield. Taking time to check things out, to make sure that she wasn’t forgetting anything. The importance of preparation was something Bennett had taught her. He was a monster, but he was good at what he did, and there was a lot she could learn from him.

A battered pickup with a yard crew rolled by, Hispanic dudes in the back balancing among lawn mowers and leaf blowers. Four minutes later, someone’s security gate opened, and a Saab pulled out, driven by a woman talking on a cell phone. A bit after that, a nanny pushed a stroller up the block. Everything was quiet. No sign of the police.

Flipping down the visor mirror, she took a last look at herself. The port wine stain that spilled across her eye and down one cheek was brighter today, an angrier red. Her features were even, eyes big, nose small, and without the stain, she might have been a beauty. But the birthmark,
naevus flammeus
, was all anyone ever saw. Ask Gorbachev.

She gathered blond California-Girl hair, twisting it into a ponytail and securing it with a white scrunchie. Her clothes were bulky, work gear bought at a resale shop, and hid the toned muscles of her body. She took a slow breath, met her own eyes in the mirror.

You’re no longer Belinda Nichols. You’re Lila Bannister. You’ve got a blond dye-job that isn’t fooling anyone and two kids at home. You’d rather live in one of these houses than take care of them, rather be a movie star than a cleaning lady, but if wishes were horses, someone would need to muck out the stables. Your ex-husband is long gone, but your boyfriend is a decent man, has a job with the phone company. Saturday nights the two of you drink margaritas on your porch. During good-money months you put aside a little for a rainy day, but minor squalls seem to hit frequently: dental bills, repairs on the Dodge, Mom’s nursing home. Still, you have each other, and work, and these days that’s a blessing. Life is all right.

Lila Bannister turned the ignition, holding it as the van cranked, cranked, cranked, and caught. She went past the house, then around the block, one last check. All calm. Then she turned back onto Wandermere, drove past the lawn crew she’d seen earlier, and pulled up to Daniel Hayes’s house.

There was a security gate blocking the front, and a stanchion with a call button and a keypad. Lila rolled down her window, warm Malibu air flowing in, and leaned out to punch the code. There was the sound of a chain drawing tight, and the gate slid aside. She pulled through and followed the curve of the drive to the house. Her palms were sweaty, and she wiped them on her pants, then killed the engine.

Lila hopped out of the van, the door squealing as she pushed it open. It was November, and though the flowers were gone, the air still smelled sweet. She opened the back and took out a watering can and a duffel bag. Humming softly to herself, she walked up the porch steps to the front door. She knew no one was home, but a housekeeper would ring the bell before walking in, so she did the same. Stood on the porch, feeling the sun on her back, the tension in her calves. After fifteen or twenty seconds, she dug in the bag, came out with a key ring, and slotted one in. The door opened, and Lila walked inside, closing the door behind her.

The moment the door closed, Belinda Nichols dropped the duffel bag of cleaning products and the watering can. She took a quick lap of the first floor, just being cautious, doing what Bennett would have done. Someone had been drinking; the kitchen counter had a couple of bottles of whiskey in various stages of emptiness. The trash stank, and there were dishes in the sink. Belinda took it all in, then went back to the foyer and climbed the stairs to the second floor.

The master bedroom was flooded with sunlight and the bed was neatly made, but there was an air of lingering sadness. Belinda shook her head, then walked to the nightstand and pulled open the drawer.

The gun that was supposed to be there wasn’t.
She stared for a moment, cataloging what she saw. Lip balm, lambskin condoms, a dish filled with coins, a Gregg Hurwitz novel. No gun. She lifted the book, just in case the gun was beneath it. It wasn’t, but something else was. A shiny steel ring. She picked it up, holding it between thumb and forefinger. It was light, and the inside was worn smooth.
What the hell? Why was Daniel Hayes’s wedding ring in the drawer instead of the pistol she’d come for?
What kind of game was he playing?
Belinda slid the ring into the front pocket of her work pants, then closed the drawer and headed for the office. Hayes’s desk was neither neat nor cluttered. A laptop sat in the center. She opened a drawer—papers, scissors, stamps, rubber bands, a package of blank DVDs—and there, in the back, found what she was looking for.
She looked at them. The squat little revolver would be easy to hide. But it didn’t look as effective as the other, which was black with a chrome slide and the words
_{SIG SAUER}
embossed on the textured grip. It had a sort of sportily efficient look to it, the kind of gun James Bond might carry if he decided he wanted variety. Belinda reached for it, then stopped, hand hovering and skin crawling. She hated guns.
Bennett’s voice rang in her mind. “Everybody sins, sister. To own them, all you have to do is see it.” A point he’d proven rather elegantly with her. Twice.

You really don’t have any choice
.
Belinda took the gun, feeling the heft of it, the way it fit her hand. Something squirmed in her stomach, but she pushed it away. Slid the gun into the other pocket of her pants. Daniel Hayes’s wedding ring in one pocket; his pistol in the other. There was a strange, ugly sort of symmetry there.
Time to go.
Downstairs, Belinda threw her shoulders back, hoisted the cleaning supplies, and opened the door. Then Lila Bannister stepped out into the light of a gorgeous afternoon. She paused to lock the front door. Tossed her supplies in the back of the van, thinking about the rest of her day, how she had two more houses to do before making dinner for her family. She had a new
Cooking Light
recipe for fish tacos she was looking forward to trying. Chat with the kids about school, watch an hour or two of tube, maybe a bath, and off to bed.
The gate swung open on an automatic sensor, and the white van with the dented side pulled out, wound down to the PCH, and vanished among the eastbound traffic.

Daniel was ragged, worn thin by lonely miles. The last days were blurs of scenery and sunlight, his belly sour from fast food and caffeine. Last night at some ungodly dark hour, he’d pulled the car off on a Utah side road, really just a path of dusty stone and sharpedged plants. Before he’d gone to sleep, he’d shut off the headlights and stepped out of the car to stare upward. Stars spilled vertiginously across the night sky, a lavish abundance, white and sharp in the desert air. Farther than he could conceive and closer than he could bear. For a moment, all his fear dropped away. He just stared upward, lost in that holy sea, and lifted by it.

Then he shoveled junk off the backseat of the car and collapsed. In his dream, Emily Sweet danced for him, her feet bare, singing something he couldn’t make out.

Later that morning he blew through Vegas: the Stratosphere, Caesars, the Riviera looming like monuments to lurid gods. There was a reason the tourist shots always showed Vegas at night, glowing like fireworks. By the bright light of early morning, the glitter seemed surreal and cheap. A hangover after a night of bad decisions.

And far quicker than a hangover, it vanished. But somewhere in the desert beyond Vegas, the feeling started.
Excitement.
With every numbingly dull mile he knocked down, it grew. A palpable feeling in his chest, a joyous bubbling warmth. He was almost home. The answer to every question was only a few hours away. He didn’t know what he would find, but atleast it would be
something
.
Shortly before noon, he merged from I-15 to the 10. Smooth, wide lanes bordered by concrete under an electric blue sky. It didn’t look that different from a lot of the country he’d covered in the last days: car dealerships and strip malls and chain hotels. But it felt right. The streets and towns had names he could taste like ice cream flavors— Covina, Pomona, Alhambra. Each more familiar than the last.
Half an hour later, when the Los Angeles skyline rose in the distance, the mirrored towers bearing the names of banks and insurance companies, the concrete basin of the river shining with shallow puddles, he felt his heart swell against his ribs. Traffic had slowed, and on his right was a convertible driven by a blonde whose hair stirred like a dream of summer; to his left, a guy yelled into a cell phone as he steered his Hummer. The Hollywood sign was just visible through a nicotine-yellow haze. Radio stations came and went like transmissions from the moon; billboards proclaimed that dieting sucked, suggested he get the lap band. It was November, and seventy degrees.
Los Angeles. Home.
He forced his attention back to the situation. The insurance card address was in Malibu, not L.A. proper. But the
Candy Girls
house was in Venice.
No, asshole, it’s not. It’s in a studio somewhere. The walls are façades and the sky is a light grid. Emily Sweet doesn’t exist. She’s just a symbol your messed-up brain designed to get you back to Los Angeles.
Well, bravo, two points for the subconscious. But no need to get ridiculous.
He flashed on an image, a dream, maybe? Emily Sweet standing