Fast Friends Page 8

  “Lady, are you okay?” The guy was shaking.

  She forced a nod, but it was like moving a rusted lever. And still, inside, she could feel the icy terror of the loft and Jay’s body sliding down hers to the floor. She had to focus, now. She moved a hand toward the clerk, held it out so he could not avoid taking it in his though the movement was clearly foreign to him. But it worked. The warmth of his hand, the touch of skin drew her away from her frigid inner body to the skin, the room, the present. Just in time. Another man—security, she knew how to spot them—strode through the doorway. “It’s okay,” she said. “I was having a nightmare.”

  Security looked from her to the clerk. “Yeah, well, what’s he—”

  “He came up to remind me about my pig.” She gave him a weak smile. Her face still felt frozen. It was the best she could do. “I really appreciate that accommodation. Watching him for an hour makes a big difference. It’s the reason my firm uses this hotel. But, I guess management’s already told you that.” She let go of the clerk’s hand, pushed back the bedspread and swung her legs to the floor so the security man could see she was dressed. “I appreciate your concern.” She shot him her best dismissive smile. If Jay were here he’d shake the man’s hand, give him a fifty and shut the door. This guy’d have to make do with a smile.

  As soon as the door closed behind him the clerk drew himself up to his full five foot eight. “Lady, this isn’t your room. It isn’t even your friend’s room anymore. She checked out hours ago. You can’t camp in here and—”

  She didn’t get up or even look at him. Putting a hand gently on his arm she said sweetly, “Hotels don’t just fire clerks for breaking in on unaccompanied women, they blackball them. I just saved your bacon, honey.”

  “Yeah, but you still can’t—”

  She stood, stretched, caught him out of the corner of her eye watching her stretch. “I didn’t intend to sleep. I’ve had a hard day. What time is it?”

  “Nine fifteen.”

  “Nine fifteen at night? Omigod. It was just three in the afternoon. Felton, is he—”

  “The pig?”

  “Miniature pig. Is he—”

  “Hungry, is what he is. What he was. He ate an entire tray of custards.”

  “Oh, no. Did it make him sick?” The look on his face said she’d asked the wrong question. She revised. “Is your kitchen okay?”

  “Yeah after half the maintenance crew swabbed it out.”

  She rejected her first rejoinder. “Oh, I am sorry.”

  He nodded the most minimal of acceptances. “Lady, you and your pig, you can’t stay here.”

  “Of course.” She glanced around the beige room for Jay’s leather jacket. “I’m going to go to the airport and see my friend off.”

  There was a flicker of oddness on his bland face. Another woman would have missed that, but Liza was a natural at reading people. She could react to their thoughts before they knew they had them. It was how she’d survived. What made him doubt her plan? There was no way to avoid asking, “Did Ms. Baines leave me a message?”

  “Nope.” A smug nope.

  “She just left?”

  “Well, not just.”

  Liza clenched her teeth hard. The incidents of the day came back to her now like a line of drunks staggering home, the last one herself kicking Ellen out of her own room and goading her out of town. Cold shot through her; She was so alone, without Jay, without even Ellen. Her throat tightened.

  She dug her fingernails into her palms. Think about Ellen. Be glad she’s getting away.

  She took a breath to bring herself back to the situation at hand, sat back on the bed and patted the spot next to her. “Okay, tell me what happened.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Of course you do. What happened?”

  “She went with Larry Best.”

  “The tall guy I met in the lobby? The letch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was she going?”

  “To the bar next door…”

  “And?”

  “A hotel room he found for her.”

  “Which means his room?” Whew! What about the boring railroad guy? She really didn’t know Ellen Baines at all.

  The clerk shrugged.

  “Where is his room?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Yes, you know that, too. Where?”

  “I can’t tell you—”

  She turned to face him head on. There was no charm in this look of hers. “You broke into my room. The security guard found you holding my hand. You were intimidating me. I was too scared to tell him the truth. You……” There was no need to go farther. The color had drained from his face, leaving it the same shade as his uniform and him one five foot eight beige capsule of frustration. “Where did he take her?”

  “The Orestes, on Nob Hill.” He paused and she knew he was trying to decide whether to reveal something more. His face shifted not into a gotcha smirk but a more neutral expression. He hadn’t given her the full story, but that was okay. This kind of story she could figure out on her own.

  “Don’t worry, lady, she’ll be back. Her car’s still here. I know, the key is at the desk.”

  The next move was clear but Liza let a beat pass. “Okay, I’m going to let you free of this whole thing. I’ll take her the car. Come on, let’s go so the maids can get this room done.” She grabbed her things, finger-combed her hair and kept moving.

  The elevator car came before she could pull her hand off the button. A couple in thick turtlenecks and suede jackets cut short their conversation and Liza and her clerk joined the silence.

  In the four-floor ride she ran through three dead-end scenarios about the car key but when she reached the check-in counter the transaction required nothing more than putting out her hand. “Don’t tell them I’m coming.”

  For the first time the clerk smiled. “No, ma’am.”

  She noted the pause before his smug answer and it made her uneasy. But her best move was to move. She picked up Felton, a sated, sleepy pig, and took the stairs to the garage.

  She almost walked past the shiny black Camaro in slot 4. Ellen chose that? Her view of Ellen was really out of date. She unlocked the door, slid behind the wheel, and nestled Felton on her lap. Larry Best was a viper, but any woman with any common sense would spot that right off. Would Ellen? Ellen? Liza had brushed her out of the room so fast she hadn’t really looked at her. But now, recalling the slender woman in the sharp black dress, she wondered just how out of date her image of Ellen was. No one would mistake this Ellen for the awkward St. Enid’s girl. This woman wasted no time picking up a guy in San Francisco. She was sure out to make the most of her weekend away from her boyfriend. This woman wasn’t her Ellen anymore. Liza scooped up the little black and white pig and sobbed. Tears gushed down her face, over the back of the pig, onto her hands. The loss of Ellen meshed with Jay’s death with the loss of everything she had been. She felt as if she’d never be safe again.

  Felton squealed.

  “Sorry, boy, I didn’t mean to squeeze you.” She put him on the other seat, wiped her eyes and stared ahead at the cement wall, at the long empty roll of the future. It was almost a relief to think about just the next move. Gotta drive, but where? This car was essentially hers now. The last thing Ellen would be thinking of would be the car. If she did, Larry Best would assure her it was fine where it was. He was not a guy to be slowed down by parking limits. In San Francisco a car wasn’t a necessity, it was a nuisance. Even this sporty number would be a terror for a woman like Ellen who didn’t know how to drive on hills. Ellen wouldn’t come for it at least until tomorrow, maybe not for days.

  Guilt—fear?—stabbed her. But, really, what could she do about Ellen? She could hardly follow an adult woman to a man’s hotel room. The best thing she could do for Ellen was to put distance between them.

  She pulled Felton closer and scratched his wiry head. He wrinkled his snout and rooted gently against her stomach. She had a full
tank of gas and a car no one would trace to her.

  Sixteen

  AS THE BLACK CAMARO disappeared into traffic a tiny smile tweaked the tiny mouth of Rosewood Hotel clerk, Daniel Kurtz. Liza Silvestri thought she could manipulate him. Think again, bitch.

  All his life he’d been the nerd women ignored while they preened for the likes of Larry Best. Liza Silvestri thought she was so clever. Not this time. She thought Larry Best was just looking out for her friend, anxious to make sure she got a good meal. Fat chance. She thought he hadn’t seen the TV report on the loft murder; thought he didn’t know who she was. He shrugged with pleasure; she shouldn’t have been such a bitch.

  Daniel Kurtz dialed the Los Angeles Police Department and what surprised him was how quickly he was transferred to an Assistant to the Commissioner.

  “Bentec here.”

  “You’re handling the investigation of the guy who was shot in the loft?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Larry Best.” The name switch just popped out of his head. Cool.

  “From?”

  “Come on, Inspector, I know you can pull up my number.”

  “Make it easy for me, Larry.”

  Kurtz read off the hotel number.

  “So, Larry, what do you have for me?”

  “The wife.”

  “Really. Terrific. Just hold her there—”

  “It’s not that simple. Hey, is there a reward? I mean this is a murder and all.”

  “Larry, Larry. We’ll have the guilty party in jail by morning. I’m just looking for a clean case here. But, I’ll tell you what, I’ll pass the word to my buddies at Ess Eff that you’re a good guy.”

  Kurtz almost choked before getting out, “Don’t bother.”

  “Your choice, Larry. So, Mrs. Silvestri, where is she?”

  The cop was phony as they come, but Daniel didn’t care. It just added to the kick of it all. “In a black Camaro. California plates.” He read off the number.

  “But where is she?” The cop’s veneer was slipping.

  “She left here five minutes ago.”

  “Headed where? Didn’t you look?” The “asshole” was understood.

  For the first time Daniel was nervous. Then he reminded himself that for this phone call he wasn’t Daniel Kurtz but Larry Best. “Listen, cop, I told you what I know. Push me and I won’t give you the biggie.”

  It was a moment before he heard a voice so constricted it could have been a machine. “What is it, Larry?”

  “The biggie?”

  “Yes, Larry?”

  “The Camaro, it was rented in the name of Ellen Baines. Mrs. Silvestri stole it.”

  Seventeen

  SAN FRANCISCO, AN UNFAMILIAR city, made up of sharp hills and dead ends, situated at the tip of a peninsula, was the absolute worst place for a woman on the lam. Liza headed down, toward water—San Francisco Bay—and the bridge east to freedom.

  She swung a hard left, headed under the freeway and up onto the ramp and found herself emerging in the fast lane. Her shoulders were knotted tight and she could barely turn her head. The Bay Bridge was like a tunnel, drab, low-ceilinged. Cars whooshed by on either side. A murky yellow light pushed in from beyond the railings. She felt like she was driving to the center of the earth. It was ten at night. The cars were probably headed home. “Headed to the same place they were yesterday,” she said enviously. She tried to lighten up. “But, Felton, we’re on an adventure. Right, Felton? Tomorrow we could be anywhere, half way to Richland, Washington, right?”

  Felton gave a muffled snort. Disbelief? He was grunting in his sleep. She reached over and rubbed his back, and repeated, “Richland, Washington,” as if it were a magical chant. Richland grade were Jay’s last words; had he uttered them from more than sentiment?

  “Richland it is, then,” she said, aware of the quaver in her voice. She wouldn’t get over Jay for a long time, but she had to go on living. At least her hours of sleep had given her a boost. Or maybe the charge came from facing down the hotel clerk. She hadn’t done much of that when she was with Jay. Life with Jay was easy. Money oiled every creak. Her biggest challenge had been providing him ever more exotic and intriguing escapes from the pressures of work. Three months ago she’d rented an apartment and changed the theme each weekend. He’d loved that, the separate apartment just for sex. Then he’d rented the loft and hinted broadly that they could make the most of it before he remodeled it for an office. The first month she went on instinct, then she upped the ante, letting him give her a single word before he left on Monday. He’d grinned and said, “I do love word games.”

  “Star” had been last month. Jay had assumed she would create “Hollywood.” Later, he had told her that even before he’d got on the plane he’d known “Hollywood” would be too ordinary. He’d considered a constellation on a blue ceiling and discarded that concept somewhere over Colorado. Maybe, a note on the apartment door leading to a blanket on the beach? He was closer though he hadn’t realized it. She smiled at the memory. She brought the beach to the loft, covered half the reception room with sand and made the “ocean” of deep blue pasta stars for him to dive into as a champagne fountain provided the sound of the waves. He’d loved that, just as he’d loved the Point Pleasant beach house and the memories of Ingrid whatshername.

  The bridge ended; freeway began.

  She was not Jay Silvestri’s playful little wife anymore. She’d better remember who she was before: the girl with the tattoo on her tit; the girl who almost always knew how to stay one jump ahead.

  Ellen had had second thoughts the minute she hit the Rosewood Hotel steps, and third thoughts when Larry Best led her into the dark empty bar next door.

  Rarely had she been so wrong. Larry Best wasn’t some smooth-talker out to snow her, he was just an incredibly nice guy. He had insisted she have a salad with her sandwich, and hot tea instead of liquor. Not once had he pressed her about her trip, her friend, or even her relation to the pig. He hadn’t waited demandingly for repartee she was too tired to create. He’d sat while she ate and entertained her with anecdotes about the city, the hotels, and the funny and bizarre things he came across in his security job for a block of small hotels and private parties. He could have been a younger, buffer, amusing Harry Cooper whose conversation strayed beyond the topic of railroads. When she admitted she should just turn around and fly back to Kansas City, he’d reminded her of the time change and the probability it was already too late to catch a flight tonight. And then to top it off he’d found her another hotel room.

  The suite at the new hotel, the Orestes, had Oriental carpet, two TVs, and a Jacuzzi. It was far and away the best hotel accommodations she’d ever had. She’d hesitated before asking Larry what it was going to cost her. San Francisco was an expensive city. But the question hadn’t been a problem, in fact it had been a bond.

  “Great, isn’t it?” Larry had said. “Best part is it’s a comp from my friend. If, out of the blue, a busload of tourists should arrive at midnight demanding expensive rooms, well, then you’d be camping at the Y. Otherwise, enjoy.”

  “Wow, this is terrific. You’ve been terrific.”

  Larry had hesitated. He’d still been standing half in the hall as if it would have been presumptuous to barge into the room he’d gotten her. “Say no if you’re too tired—I’ll understand and just feel like a jerk for asking—but there’s a reception at one of the great mansions in Pacific Heights tonight. I have to make a pass through to check on our security guys. I’d love to have you come. You’re already dressed for it.”

  She’d almost forgotten she was wearing the cocktail dress.

  “Security checking is awkward. I don’t want to stand out,” he hurried on. “I can’t talk to the security people without tipping them off, which would defeat the whole purpose. If I talk to any of the guests I have to come up with a story, and then get free because I’ve got other places to go. But arriving with a ‘date’ smooths all of that over. Then we’re in, chat
up a few people, eat some finger food, one swing across the dance floor and we’re history. I’ll have you back in your room before ten. It’d be worth going with any dolt just to see the place. But listen, I’ll understand if you can’t.”

  She was so tired; so cobwebby, but she couldn’t disappoint him, this Harry-only-better. Would she be so accommodating to a short, dumpy bore, she demanded silently? Was she responding from kindness or to flattery? Or maybe, just maybe, was she really attractive to this Liza-quality guy? Larry Best, a free hotel room, and a reception at a mansion, it seemed too good to be true.

  The yellow fog almost disappeared on the raised freeway as Liza passed by the big white hotel. Then the hills crowded in from both sides, the fog pooled murky yellow on the roadway, the lanes curved to the right, and the only option was a tunnel. No exit; no turn about. Her hands went stiff on the wheel as the car was drawn closer to the tubes, the drain pipes into the dark. “I’m not afraid,” she said aloud in the toughy voice she’d perfected years ago. She was not a fearful person; she’d learned to see through false danger. She’d fire-walked, skydived, and hit over a hundred on the winding canyon roads before she met Jay and could relax and feel safe. But now the tunnel loomed…Or was what loomed what Jay hadn’t told her? What she had chosen not to question.

  That night Bentec stared at her tattoo she was only worried about being exposed. Later, at dinner, she had asked Jay why the man asked—she didn’t say ordered—him to follow. Bentec was a cop arranging security on a business shipment, Jay’d said. She had nodded, and put it out of her mind, but at some level she’d known the picture was wrong, the colors reversed. A security employee does not order his employer to the side of the road.

  Traffic was slowing. She had to keep moving, driving, thinking, because there was something else wrong with that night Bentec saw the tattoo. She was down to thirty miles per hour, so slow she could see faces in the next lane. They were dark.

  “Oh. It’s my windows. They’re all tinted.” She smiled, safe in her dark, moving, box. The lanes to the left were closed, cars shunted into the right bore. The bore was directly ahead, a sooty, cement pipe. She entered the bore, focusing on the safety of the white line, then forcing herself to note out the cars passing in the next lane, to check the rearview mirror. Maybe she’d never go back to L.A. at all. She could pretend Jay was just on a business trip, like she did after her parents died, only with them she pretended they were in a rehab program and they’d emerge as the bright witty loving parents of her dreams.