Fast Friends Page 4

  Empty.

  Empty except for two women behind rental car counters. She hesitated, eyeing them for any sign they’d been alerted about the false alarm. Their identical expressions said: It’s the middle of the night; finally my shift is almost over; take your problem to her. Liza chose the counter closest to the outside door and filled out the paperwork.

  Half an hour later she was headed north out of L.A., her purse stuffed between the seats, the gun butt within reach. “It was a good sign, this car,” she assured Felton. Not such a great sign to have used her own credit card, but there’d been no choice.

  If she could put enough distance between herself and L.A., that wouldn’t matter. She wanted to drive so fast, yesterday would never catch up with her. In the anonymous car she felt almost safe. Like she did driving home to Malibu. The low, white house in Malibu had cloaked her with its reliability. But even it had never been enough to dislodge the claw that had grabbed her stomach for as long as she could remember.

  Every afternoon in junior high when the last bell rang it began to dig in. With each step of her walk home it had pierced deeper. By the time she’d rounded the last corner she’d been doubled over, hand on her gut, head hanging. She’d had to stop and force her head up, and look down the street at her house to see if this was one of the times the furniture would be piled at the curb and the sheriff walking away from the door.

  As much as she’d loved Jay she hadn’t minded him being gone for weeks at a time. She had luxuriated in the silent house, filled with peace and certainty, without the shrieking laughter, the shrieking cries, the tears, hours upon hours of slurred regrets, the threats, the blood-caked bruises, breaking bottles, the smell of bourbon flowing from rug and chair, sweating through the pores of her parents, the town’s drunks. In Jay’s house in Malibu she had loved picking up the phone without fearing an angry neighbor, her acrid grandmother, or the police.

  When she’d married Jay, she’d sworn not to think about those miserable years again. And Jay had understood. In their three years together he never asked. He hadn’t complained, blamed, bemoaned, or bruised.

  A happy interlude. Gone. Done. Over.

  She was so cold. The rental car was cold. “Jay is dead,” she forced herself to say aloud. Even if she wanted to she couldn’t call Bentec at the police department. He wouldn’t believe she knew nothing more about Jay’s business than the title he put on his 1040.

  “So what?” His business couldn’t matter now. In business if you screwed up you got fired. You didn’t get tracked down like a deer and shot.

  Thoughts were coming too fast. She couldn’t…she couldn’t—anything. She told herself she’d pick up Ellen and they’d drive to the Richland grade and eat ham sandwiches like she and Jay did and everything would be all right.

  The thought of Ellen calmed her. Ellen would know the safe thing to do. Everything would be okay when Ellen got here. It was Ellen who’d come up with the school motto: “St. Enid’s, Never Think Outside the Lines.” Liza smiled. Thinking safely inside the lines, that was just what she needed now. But that last time she saw her, at the reunion in Portland last month, Ellen was so aloof, and it was clear she didn’t like Jay. Still, she was coming now and that was what mattered.

  Outside the night seemed darker than night ever is, the road narrower, the pavement rougher. She stared hard ahead, relieved to focus on the drive. The road was narrower. Only two lanes going north. She watched for signs overhead, signs to the right, signs that would confirm her suspicion she’d taken the wrong arm on an interchange, that she was not on the 5, the fast road north, but had veered off onto the old road, I-99, that lurched through Fresno, Atwater, Modesto, Manteca. By the time she spotted a 99 sign, she was resigned. The road would take her to San Francisco, just more slowly. She had the time.

  Still, it was not a good sign. It was not even enough to blot out the question of just what made Ellen dislike—no, not dislike—be suspicious of Jay. So Jay had been talking to her boyfriend, the old guy with the railroad, so what? St. Enid’s reunions didn’t offer much. She was lucky Jay had found anything at all to interest him.

  Why did Jay agree to go?

  But he didn’t agree to go; he wanted to go. She had no interest in St. Enid’s alumnae; there were no school memories she wanted to savor. Jay was the one who’d found the invitation in the mail, who’d insisted it would be a campy addition to the weekend. The reunion and the gun show in Idaho were just addenda to whatever he was up there for. And the picnic had been his gift to her for enduring the gun show.

  What was he up there for? She didn’t know. Of course, she didn’t know. Why didn’t you ask, Ellen would say. Liza’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. The big bushy plants on the center divider waved threateningly, lurching nearer when the headlights hit them. The road was too narrow, only two lanes; it was too easy to be followed here.

  Why didn’t she ask? Ellen didn’t understand what it was like to not have to worry about keeping secrets, to not watch your every word as if it were coming from the mouth of a stranger who wasn’t sharp enough be trusted. Ellen Baines had no way of understanding the joy of drinking a glass of wine without ratcheting her guard tighter, the relief of letting a lover see her body in the light and knowing he would ask no questions. Respecting Jay’s reserve had been a small price for it. “Venture capitalist” had been a good enough description of Jay’s work for cocktail talk. Helping start-ups get started sufficed for the business and professional set. Making it possible for orphan drugs to reach the sick took care of the liberals. What goddamn difference did it make if he chose not to discuss his business with her?

  Because he was dead. Because killers had shot him, shot at her, followed her all the way to Malibu trying to kill her.

  “Oh, shit!” Her face went hot with shame. She’d called Ellen without thinking. How could she have been so needy? So utterly selfish? If she got Ellen out here, Ellen could end up dead, too. How could she do this to Ellen? How could she do it to Mrs. Baines? Tears slipped down her cheeks. Of course she couldn’t. She had to stop her. The skin around her eyes flushed at the thought of doing without Ellen, the thought of going on alone with killers after her. “I have to,” she insisted aloud.

  Ahead was a Food Gas sign. Liza yanked the wheel right, onto the off ramp and pulled up in front of the restaurant.

  She raced for the double doors, in through the foyer. There were two phones and two men using them. She ducked into the safety of the ladies’ room and pulled the stall door closed behind her.

  When she came out of the stall a haggard middle-aged woman in clothes just like hers was staring at her…in the mirror. She hardly recognized the drawn gray-skinned face with the long blond hair. She was twenty-eight years old; she’d always been beautiful. Now she looked like an outtake from a B movie. Definitely a woman witnesses would remember if the killers came asking.

  Warily, she eyed the food court. The counters were filled mostly with men. Again, she realized she had no idea what Jay’s killers looked like. She bought popcorn and chocolate, looking over her shoulder as the clerk took an eternity to pick her change out of the cubicles in her drawer. Clutching the money, she ran to the phone, almost dropping her handful of change as she felt around in her pocket for the card with Ellen’s number.

  Relief washed over her when Ellen said, “Hello.”

  “Ellen, don’t come. I’m sorry. Listen, I’ll explain…” It was not Ellen on the phone; it was her message recording. It announced she was out of town.

  As Liza hung up, a wave of relief washed over her, followed by a sickening wave of guilt. They pushed her outside. In the pre-dawn light she checked the sidewalk—empty but for a teenaged couple with a squirming baby—and raced for her blue car. She let Felton out, shivering as he snuffled and shat. She watched the restaurant door, checked the parked cars.

  The sky was no longer black, but gray; the air still night-cold. It was just before dawn, as it had been on the trips with Jay to the Sier
ra. She could almost hear Jay…She could hear Jay again. “Come on, Felton.” She plunked Felton back in the car, ran for the phone and dialed home. It rang three times and there he was, telling the world the Silvestris were away from the phone. There was that little laugh in his voice, as he said, “a-waaay from the phone” like he had in the loft at the end of delicious nights a-waaay from the phone. She could see his nose wrinkling, his dark blue eyes crinkling with his grin, feel him slipping his hand around her ribs.

  “You have one message.”

  Without thinking, she pushed the button.

  “Liza, Francis Bentec. Call me. There’s no hiding out. Don’t think you fooled me with that bit about heading to Mexico. I know where you’re going and what you’re driving—a blue Firebird. You’re over your head, Liza. Every patrol officer in L.A., every highway patrolman in the state is watching for you. I’ve got connections all over the state. There’s no way you can disappear. Call me.”

  She dropped the phone and ran for the car. It was getting light out and her little shadow of safety was gone.

  She drove with her gaze on the rearview mirror. She had to get out of California. Nevada was what?—a hundred miles to the east? Two, three hours over the mountains? The highway patrol didn’t patrol on switchbacks in the Sierra. She could be safe…

  Ellen was on her way. She couldn’t just abandon Ellen at San Francisco airport.

  At the first exit she turned off, away from the freeway and the highway patrol. She didn’t even take the old highway. Instead she headed north on city streets.

  Eight

  THE LITTLE BITCH WAS stonewalling. Just like her asshole husband, her dead asshole husband.

  Assistant to the Commissioner Francis T. Bentec took a breath and reminded himself that L.A. was his city. Every patrol officer was keeping eyes peeled. Sworn officers in San Francisco P.D., Sacramento, Redding, Eureka, in the highway patrol, county sheriff’s departments all over the state would be happy to redeem their chits from him, no questions asked. Things were under control.

  He stood at the door of his office, “a modest office,” Wyatt from the Times had described it, adding, “In the highly competitive arena of internal police politics it’s surprising—make that refreshing—to find a man who opts for a small office at the end of the corridor so he can be handy to his boss.” The office was small, plain, with no view but the delivery dock. It was around the corner, out of sight from Brown’s, the Commissioner’s. But Brown’s convenience had been the last, thing on Bentec’s mind when he chose the space. And now his search for a secluded office was paying off. No one had reason to wander into the corridor, to overhear, to wonder why the Assistant to the Commissioner was still here after 3 A.M. No one would take a break from his case and wander in to shoot the breeze and ask, “By the way, how come you inserted yourself in the Silvestri homicide?”

  Bentec leaned back. The chair cut into Bentec’s thorax and an hour in the gym each day, done as religiously as his mother going to Mass, didn’t provide enough muscle to cushion his back. He’d kept himself in shape even when it meant dragging into the gym after an all-night case. It hadn’t taken a genius to realize that hard bodies rise faster, at least in the world of policing. The Commissioner wasn’t about to front up a ball of flab for the TV cameras. At six foot, one-eighty-five, thick hair just graying at the temples—okay, a little help there—Frank Bentec was at ease in front of the cameras.

  The gym had been a small part of his campaign for Assistant. Assistant was a stepping stone to the Commissioner’s job, which would be a step to one of the real power politics jobs, or so he’d thought. Nineteen years, he’d spent dealing with scum, chancing his life against drug dealers armed better than a third world nation, armed way better than the Los Angeles Police Force. He’d watched them haul in millions, buy lawyers to break cases he’d busted his ass on. They answered to no one, while he reported to the Commissioner, Internal Affairs, the Civilian Police Review Commission, newspaper reporters, columnists, TV reporters and any old lady who called the department to bitch. He’d controlled himself, played the game, been the company boy. He’d gotten himself in line for Commissioner—just in time to see the Commissioner of the Police Department blamed for the Rodney King riots and bungling the O. J. Simpson case. The Commissioner was not a man of power, but a laughingstock.

  The day the verdict landed, he made his decision. Keeping an eye out for the right trade to accumulate cash and chits had taken time. He’d turned down drug deals that had landed other cops in the dock; he’d set up stings of syndicate leaders and ending up not with them owning him, but owing him. He’d watched his mouth and his back.

  And then Jay Silvestri appeared.

  The shipments were small at first. He’d diverted one of the forty containers of weapons headed for melt-down. The deal he had insisted on had been that Silvestri ship it south across the border where the weapons would disappear into the Mexican underworld and never come back to shoot Bentec in the butt. Silvestri paid fast and well. Business had prospered. But this last shipment was a huge jump up, a haul of weapons worthy of an Israeli attack force. Bentec’s share alone was five million.

  Two days—was it only two days ago?—Bentec had checked with Morales in Tijuana and discovered that Jay Silvestri’s supposed buyer down there was no longer in the market because he was no longer alive. When he called Silvestri the asshole’d blown him off. Silvestri was sending the shipment north. No destination, no buyer named. Just north. Six million dollars of weapons could be going to Santa Barbara for all he knew! They could be on the streets of L.A. the next time he stepped outside! He had to slap Silvestri back in line quick. Who could have predicted Silvestri pulling a gun out of his briefcase? Or his wife, the little Lolita, seeing it?

  Liza Silvestri, little Liza Cummings, she was the lynchpin of the whole deal. Strange guy, Silvestri, he had thought every single time he’d dealt with him. More to him than the surface gloss. Not what you want in a business associate. Silvestri intrigued him, irritated him and made himself into the kind of challenge that Bentec had rarely found since his move to the Commissioner’s Office. Bentec liked a challenge, and he liked to win.

  To celebrate their first big deal, he had challenged Silvestri to get them a couple of top-of-the-line hookers, ladies not known to L.A.P.D. He’d been curious, he told himself. Wanted to see what was out there. Good way to create a bond with Silvestri, to check out how Silvestri handled himself. Silvestri had delivered two knock-outs, one Asian, one black, so hot Bentec thought he’d have a coronary making up his mind. When Silvestri let him have both he’d been like a kid at Christmas. He’d been so eager, it scared him.

  The second time Silvestri’s great magnanimous gesture pissed him off. Silvestri was winning. He made his choice and left Silvestri with the other whore. But what was the matter with the guy? How could he sit in the living room of the hotel suite, smoking and chatting while the second bedroom lay fallow? He wasn’t a fag. Why put himself through the agony? Was he so fucking controlled? Was he saving it for his wife? Bentec had done a double take. Maybe the guy really was saving it for his wife. That pleased him. The wife, men, she was his Achilles heel. He didn’t know yet that she was Liza Cummings.

  So he pushed Silvestri. The next time he insisted on using Silvestri’s house in Malibu, the wife’s house. He pressed him only so far—he was every bit as controlled as Silvestri—and didn’t try to use the connubial bedroom. He didn’t want Mrs. Silvestri to find a lipstick stain or a semen stain or any stain that would make her ask questions. Not yet, anyway. Not till he needed to pull the leash tighter on Silvestri. It was an elegant arrangement.

  Too elegant. He’d been so sure of his hand on the choke collar that he gave Silvestri extra slack about the buyer. The buyer insists on anonymity! Shit! Any other time he would have laughed that out of the water. But—admit it—he’d been so confident that with his elegant scheme nothing could go wrong.

  Until Silvestri’s wife pulled in the garage u
nexpectedly and he’d had to grab his pants and his whores and run for the beach, clambering into clothes as he went. In the flurry he’d kicked his nine-millimeter somewhere under the damned bed, where he’d have needed to be a gorilla to reach it.

  Then things went down one, two, three. First, he spotted Silvestri in his convertible with a knock-out blonde and he was only too pleased to pull alongside and command Silvestri to follow. Second, he discovered the blonde was Mrs. Silvestri, and that she had been the Lolita. For an instant he’d stood staring at the asp tattoo, thinking: Just how much of a threat was it going to be to expose adultery to a Lolita? Then he’d clicked on how useful the little lady’s seamy history could be to him. He was still staring at the tattoo, watching her squirm. For days after, he waited for a phone call from Silvestri, ready to hear him squirm. Instead, Silvestri had offered him the five million dollar deal.

  Now Silvestri was dead and his own nine-millimeter was lying under Silvestri’s guest bed. And Heron had panicked when he heard Liza burst out of the garage; he’d forgotten all about the gun and went flying after her. Heron’s second damned screw-up! Bentec smacked his fist into his desk. He had to find Liza Silvestri, to find the shipment’s arrival time in Richland. Without that he wasn’t going anywhere but to the gas chamber. And his own gun under Silvestri’s bed would put him there.

  Bentec took a minute to decide who to bring in on the search. Joe Potelli in Highway Patrol. Potelli had been the first guy outside L.A.P.D. he’d brought in on the deal. Allying with CHP had been the smart move then; it’d be the smart move now. He dialed.

  “Potelli here.” It was clear from Potelli’s voice that he’d woken him up—it was nearly four in the morning.

  “Hey, Joe. Frank Bentec, here. Remember the Pope Jewelry store case ten years ago or so?”

  “Jesus, Frank, it’s four o’clock in the fucking morning. Oh…” He’d be realizing Bentec wasn’t calling to shoot the breeze. He’d be waiting for the connection. “You mean with the hot little blonde Lolita?”