“Then why did you set it?” Hardie asked.
“So I’d know if anyone was coming. God, I feel like I’m dreaming. None of this is happening. I keep hoping I’m going to wake up in front of the TV.”
Hardie nodded. He knew exactly what she meant.
Hardie followed Lane back through the house to the bathroom. It was a compromise; Hardie wanted to stay on the top floor, and Lane wanted to be in a room without any windows. Once inside, she closed the door, then pointed Hardie to the toilet. Very gracious of her. He saw her bloodied pants balled-up inside the sink, as well as a single shoe. Lane leaned against the sink, let her head tilt back. She exhaled heavily, then shuddered.
Now that he knew who she was, Hardie saw her in a different way. She had a
Hardie realized how ridiculous that was. He’d seen this woman act in silly comedies; he didn’t really know her.
But she was famous. Why would she lie?
Lane Madden leaned in close and, through trembling lips, told him everything that had happened to her. The creepy race along Decker Canyon Road. The weird guy in the Chevy Malibu. The engineered accident on the 101. The forced speedball. The fistful of safety glass. The narrow escape to the edge of the 101.
“Now do you believe me? Does that sound like a series of coincidences?”
Hardie had to admit that, yeah, it sounded odd, even for L.A.
“What happened next?” he asked.
“I pulled myself over the fence and limped up toward Lake Hollywood. I used to come jogging up here, and I knew there were houses everywhere. I thought maybe I could yell for help or something.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“Because I thought about the kind of people who were after me. They weren’t some carjackers or something. They were organized. They had a plan all worked out. What if I knocked on the door of some family—and the assholes who were after me hurt them, too? I couldn’t put innocent people at risk. So I kept running. I thought I could outrun them.”
“Limping all the way?”
“I did my best. You kind of forget about pain when people are trying to kill you.”
Hardie didn’t know L.A. geography all that well. Was it possible to limp from the 101 all the way up here? Seemed kind of implausible. Wasn’t there, like, a mountain in the way?
“So did they follow you?”
“God, yeah. Just when I thought I’d lost them, I’d see another one of them rounding the corner. It was spooky.”
She touched his leg, poking at him with her fingertips.
“That’s when I realized how they were tracking me—and this is what really freaked me out, because it shows you how freakin’ connected they all are.”
“How did they track you?”
“My ankle bracelet.”
Hardie stared at her for a moment, waiting for the rest of the story. When he realized that was the extent of her explanation, he squinted, tilted his head and said:
“Huh?”
“The ankle bracelet. You know… the kind the court gives you when you’ve fucked up one too many times?”
Blank look from Hardie. Lane smiled slightly and leaned back.
“You really don’t know about this? Like, this is the first you’re hearing of it? I thought pretty much the entire world knew I was wearing that damned thing. All of those jokes on those late-night shows, the pictures on the websites… God, they fucking love it, thinking they’re so clever, asking me to flash a little leg.”
“Were you under house arrest or something?”
“No… more as in, if I take so much as a sip of beer, some guy in a monitoring station somewhere will know it, and they’ll call the L.A. County prosecutor.”
Hardie nodded. “So you think they were able to track you with it.”
Lane tapped an index finger on her own temple. “I don’t
“So you just broke in.”
“Well… yeah.”
“What made you pick this house? Weren’t you worried about the people inside? You know, putting innocent lives at risk, and all of that?”
Lane took a breath.
“Look, I was coming around the bend down there—you know, turning up from Durand? And I saw the owner of this house step outside. He had luggage and his keys. He locked his door, put the keys in the mailbox, then drove away. I figured his house was empty. No one could get hurt. So I ran across the street and got the keys and let myself in and took a mic stand from the studio and hid in the downstairs bathroom and now we’re all caught up.”
“What time was this?”
“I don’t know—a couple of hours ago?”
That couldn’t be right. According to Virgil, the client—Andrew Lowenbruck—caught his flight late last night, not just a few hours ago. That was the whole reason for leaving the keys in the mailbox… right?
“So let me get this right—a couple of hours ago you saw the owner of this house leave?”
“Yes.”
“So you do know Andrew Lowenbruck?”
“Who?”
Hardie smiled. “The owner of this house.”
“No, no idea. Why do you keep asking me that question? Everybody in Hollywood doesn’t, like, know each other.”
It was an old cop trick. Asking the same question over and over again. You’d be surprised how many people answer it differently the second, third, fourth time around.
Hardie watched Lane carefully. He was no mastermind interrogator—as a matter of fact, he’d never interrogated anybody before. That wasn’t his job. He’d observed Nate do it countless times. Nate claimed that Hardie’s observations were invaluable, and that he was good to have in the room. Hardie knew that was crap. Nate Parish was the genius detective with a mind like a lynx. He wondered what Nate would make of the actress and her story.
Actually, Hardie wondered what Nate would make of the whole situation. No doubt he’d have it figured out in 10.7 seconds. He was like goddamned Sherlock Holmes, plucking a few details out of the air and piecing them together into a logical, hard reality.
Not Hardie.
Not with his slow, lizard-like brain.
Lane reached out and touched his hand. “Hey, I’m not boring you or anything?”
“No. Just thinking. Keep going.”
“So I waited in here. I was hoping they’d give up, and later I’d have a chance to go for help. But apparently they’re still out there. And now they know I’m in here.”
“You think so?”
“I don’t know… no. I think if they knew for sure, they’d come kicking in the doors. But then they probably saw your car, and—”
“Ms. Madden—”
