Tennant and his squad had searched every public space in the Century Plaza Hotel. Amanda Pierce was nowhere-unless she had checked in.
Tennant returned to the lobby and asked the desk clerk if he had seen a woman matching Pierce’s description enter the hotel within the past ninety minutes. Answer: No.
Outside, the two valets stood pondering the unmarked bureau cars. Tennant asked them the same question.
One of them had seen her. A cab had dropped her off. She’d started to walk toward the hotel-then when the cab was gone, she’d retraced her steps. He’d thought it was kind of weird.
'Where’d she go?' Tennant barked.
'Nowhere. That’s the thing. She got into another taxi.'
Tennant closed his eyes. She had known the first cab might be traced, so she’d led her pursuit to the wrong hotel.
'Did you see what kind it was?' he asked hopelessly.
'What kind?'
'Checker Cab, Yellow Cab?'
'Sorry, sir. I didn’t notice.'
'Do any security cameras cover this area?'
'This is a hotel, not a jail.'
Not a jail. Of course it was not a jail. The way things were going, Amanda Pierce would never get anywhere near a jail.
Tennant turned to face J amp;B, Wilkins, and Dante, all gathered behind him. They’d heard everything. He tried to marshal his thoughts, to think of a plan of action, some order to give, but nothing came to him.
'She could be anywhere in the city,' Bickerstaff said, his voice hollow.
'We lost her,' Jarvis added.
Possibly for the first time in his life, Jack Tennant felt like an old man. 'We lost her,' he echoed, turning away.
14
It was after one-thirty A.M. when Donald Stevenson finally asked if she would like to see the Malibu view from his room. She said yes, of course she would. He smiled, thinking he’d scored a conquest, when all he’d actually done was ensure that the Malibu view was the last sight he would ever see.
The kill would be quick and quiet, and she would leave him there to be discovered, eventually, by the housekeeping service, while she took his wallet-cash, credit cards, bank card-and the keys to his rental car. There might be other valuables in his luggage. She would take whatever she could get, then relocate to another part of the city, someplace in the broad, flat interior, far from the sea. From the safe haven of a motel, she would try to arrange a new meeting.
Her plan could be salvaged. Despite setbacks, the chance of success remained high. All that was necessary was for Donald Stevenson of Aurora, Illinois, to die tonight, and for Amanda Pierce this was no hardship at all.
They rode the elevator to the sixteenth floor. He led her to room 1625 and unlocked it with his card key. The drapes trembled in a breeze from the balcony. The room was cool, almost chilly, lit by a single bedside lamp.
Pierce stepped inside, then hesitated, reluctant to let go of her suitcase. But it would look odd if she continued to hold it. Carefully she placed it on a desk chair and joined Stevenson at the sliding door.
'You can see all the way up the coast,' he said with a theatrical gesture at the panorama framed in the glass.
'You’re right. It’s a great view.'
'You on the other side of the hotel?'
'Uh, yes.'
'They stuck you with a view of the street. Next time you’re in town, ask for this view specifically.'
Looking away, she studied the room. She noticed a suitcase on a folding table, a coat in the closet, a ten- dollar tip already left out for the maid. She reminded herself to take the ten dollars when she departed with his wallet and keys. No point in wasting it on the help.
'Want something from the minibar?' he asked.
'No, thank you.'
She touched her belt buckle, thinking she could do it now, end this goddamn game. But the open balcony door worried her. If he cried out, his scream might carry on the night air.
'It’s a little cool in here,' she said, hugging herself.
'Oh. Sorry.'
She nearly went for him while he locked the door and fastened the drapes. But her fingers fumbled with the belt buckle-perhaps she was more nervous than she had been willing to admit-and before she could work the mechanism, he had turned to face her again.
'You’re a beautiful woman,' he said.
She smiled. 'Every woman is beautiful at two in the morning.'
'Don’t say that. I’m being serious here. I mean…look at you…You’re just…wow.'
She wasn’t sure what to say in response, and it didn’t matter, because suddenly he was drawing her near and pressing his mouth on hers, gently at first, then with mounting heat, and she felt a rush of pleasure in her body that was almost dizzying.
'Lucy,' he said, his voice a whisper.
She hadn’t planned to go all the way with this guy. Still, she was prepared to do what was necessary. She needed Donald Stevenson dead, and if she couldn’t kill him now, she would have her chance once he’d gotten his rocks off.
'There a problem?' he asked, watching her, and she realized she hadn’t moved or spoken.
'Not at all,' she said, and with one deft hand she unbuttoned her blouse and shrugged it off, letting him see her white bra and the small hills of her breasts.
She expected him to say something stupidly sentimental, but instead he just reached out and pulled her with him onto the queen-size bed, rolling on the floral spread. Slowly he stroked the cup over her left breast. His fingers were gentle, surprisingly dexterous-long fingers, she observed, with prominent joints and clearly defined blue veins. He did not rush to unhook the bra. He let his hand trace careless circles on the underside of her breast in a slow, teasing motion that tickled and made her warm.
Finally he reached behind her and unclasped the bra, letting it fall away. Her breasts, paler than the surrounding flesh, rose and fell with her breathing.
He was stroking her breast again, then cupping his hand to lightly squeeze…releasing the pressure almost before she felt it…then again, lingering a moment longer before the next release…again and again, finally drawing his fingers along the smooth sides of her breast and pressing his palm against the nipple and turning his hand slowly, and now the room was turning also, the bed in motion, the ceiling rotating like the blade of a fan, and she heard a moan tremble out of her throat, soft as a bird’s call.
And still he hadn’t undressed, hadn’t even removed his jacket, even as he stripped the clothes from her. She understood that this was how he wanted it to be-himself fully dressed, while she was naked.
He leaned closer on the bed and kissed her-not on the mouth, as she expected, but on her right eyebrow, then on her left, then on each eyelid, the bridge of her nose, its tip, and then lowering to her mouth but bypassing it for her chin, her neck, the hollow of her throat, everywhere but her lips, which wanted the kiss now, wanted it and waited as he pressed his mouth to her cleavage, her belly, and then he lifted his head and gave her the kiss she needed, his lips on hers, her mouth opening and their tongues meeting with a shock that was almost electric.
'It’s better,' he said when he pulled gently free, 'if you wait for it. If I make you wait. Don’t you think?'
Other men had never made her wait. But he was right. It was better.
'The Hindus know about love,' he was saying as he moved his fingers slowly through her hair and brought a rush of tingles to her scalp. 'They wrote a sutra on it, dedicated to Kama, the god of love. Have you read that
