“East Hollywood Hills.”
Frazier clawed his unshaven cheek. “Okay, we caught a break. Maybe we’ll get a second one. What’s DeCorso’s status?”
“He’s in position, waiting for authorization.”
Frazier closed his eyes again. “Wake me up when the Pentagon calls back.”
Elder was lining up his drive on the eighteenth hole. Back-dropping the green was a thirty-seven-foot-high waterfall, a magnificent way to finish a round. “What do you think,” he asked the Wynn exec. “Driver?”
“Oh yeah, let the big dog play, Nelson. You’ve been crushing it all day.”
“You know, if I par this, it’ll be the best round I ever shot.”
Hearing this, the fire captain and the CEO edged a little closer to check out the ball path.
“For Christ’s sake! Don’t jinx yourself!” the Wynn guy yelped.
Elder’s backswing was slow and flawless, and at the top of the arc-a moment before a bullet ripped through his skull, splattering the foursome with blood and brains-it occurred to him that life was extremely good.
DeCorso confirmed the kill through his sniper scope, then efficiently broke the weapon down, tossed it in a suit bag, and exited the eleventh floor hotel room with its desirable view of the pristine golf course.
When they got back to their suite, Kerry wanted to make love, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He begged off, blaming the sun, and retreated to take a shower. She kept nattering through the door, too excited to stop talking, while he let the powerful shower drown out the sound of his crying.
The Realtor had told Kerry that Cut, the restaurant in their hotel, was to die for, a comment that made him wince. She pleaded to go there for dinner, and anything she wanted, he was going to give her, though his fervent desire was to hide in their room.
She looked stunning in her red dress, and when they made their entry, heads turned to see if she was a celebrity. Mark carried his briefcase, so the betting-man scenario was an actress meeting her agent or lawyer. This skinny fellow was surely too homely to be her date, unless, of course, he was filthy rich.
They were seated at a window table under a massive skylight, which by dessert time would bring the moonlight flooding into the room.
She wanted to talk of nothing but the house. It was a dream come true-no, more than that, because, she exclaimed, she never dreamed such a place even existed. It was so high up it felt like being in a spaceship, like the UFO she’d seen as a girl. She was like a kid with her questions: when was he going to quit his job, when were they going to move, what kind of furniture would they buy, when should she start acting lessons, when was he going to start writing again? He would shrug or answer monosyllabically and stare out the window, and she’d race to the next thought.
Suddenly she stopped talking, which made him look up. “Why are you so sad?” she asked.
“I’m not.”
“Yes you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
She didn’t look convinced but let it pass and said, “Well, I’m happy. This is the best day of my whole life. If I hadn’t met you, I’d be-well, I wouldn’t be here! Thank you, Mark Shackleton.”
She blew him a kittenish kiss that broke through and made him smile. “That’s better!” she purred.
Her phone rang from inside her bag.
“Your phone!” he said. “Why is it on?” He scared her with his panicky expression.
“Gina needed a number if they accepted our offer.” She was fumbling for it. “That’s probably her!”
“How long has it been on!” he moaned.
“I don’t know. A few hours. Don’t worry, the battery’s fine.” She clicked ANSWER. “Hello?” She looked disappointed and confused. “It’s for you!” she said, handing it to him.
He caught his breath and held it to his ear. The voice was male, authoritative, cruel. “Listen to me, Shackleton. This is Malcolm Frazier. I want you to walk out of the restaurant and go back to your room and wait for the watchers to pick you up. I’m sure you checked the database. Today is not your day. It was Nelson Elder’s day and he’s gone. It’s Kerry Hightower’s day. It’s not your day. But that doesn’t mean we can’t hurt you badly and make you wish that it were. We need to find out how you did it. This doesn’t have to be hard.”
“She doesn’t know anything,” Mark said in a pleading whisper, turning his body away.
“It doesn’t matter what you say. It’s her day. So, stand up and leave, right now. Do you understand me?”
He didn’t respond for several heartbeats.
“Shackleton?”
He shut the phone and pushed his chair back.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“It’s nothing.” He was breathing hard. His face was twisted.
“Is it about your auntie?”
“Yes. I’ve got to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” He fought to keep himself together, unable to look at her.
“My poor baby,” she said soothingly. “I’m worried about you. I want you to be as happy as me. You hurry back to your Kerry-bear, okay?”
He picked up his briefcase and walked away, a man to the gallows, small shuffling steps, head bowed. As he reached the lobby he heard the sound of breaking glass followed by two full agonizing seconds of silence, then piercing female screams and thunderous male shouts.
The restaurant and lobby were a whir of bodies, running, scrambling, pushing. Mark kept walking like a zombie straight out the Wilshire entrance, where a car was idling at the curb, waiting for the valet. The parking attendant wanted to see what was going on in the lobby and made for the revolving doors.
Without giving it any thought, Mark automatically got in the driver’s seat of the idling car and drove off into the warm Beverly Hills evening, trying to see through his tears.
JULY 31, 2009
M arilyn Monroe had stayed there, and Liz Taylor, Fred Astaire, Jack Nicholson, Nicole Kidman, Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp, and others whom he forgot because he wasn’t paying attention to the bellman who could see he wanted to be alone and watched him leave quickly without the customary grand tour.
To the bellman, the guest looked confused and disheveled. His only bag was a briefcase. But they got all types of rich druggies and eccentrics, and for a tip, the mumbling fellow had stripped a hundred off a wad so it was all good.
Mark woke up, disoriented after a deep sleep, but despite the cannon fire in his head, he quickly snapped to reality and closed his eyes again in despair. He was aware of a few sounds: the low hum of an air conditioner, a bird chirping outside the window, his hair rubbing between the cotton sheets and his ear. He felt the downward draft from a ceiling fan. His mouth was so desiccated, there didn’t seem to be a molecule of moisture to lubricate his tongue.
It was the kind of suite that provided guests with quart-sized bottles of premium liquor. On the desk was a half-empty vodka bottle, strong effective medicine for his memory problem-he’d drunk one glass after another until he stopped remembering. Apparently, he undressed and turned off the lights, some basic reflex intact.
The filtered light coming through the living room door was infusing color into the pastel decor. A palette of peach, mauve, and sage came into focus. Kerry would have loved this place, he thought, rolling his face into the down pillow.
He had driven the purloined car only a few blocks when he decided he was too tired to run. He pulled over, parked on a quiet residential stretch of North Crescent, got out and drifted aimlessly without a plan. He was too numb to realize he was more conspicuous in Beverly Hills as a pedestrian than as a driver of a stolen BMW. Some period of time passed. He found himself staring at a chartreuse sign with three-dimensional white script letters
