Read Online Fun and Games by Duane Swierczynski - Free Book Online Page B

Over the past decades he’d studied faces, coaxing unwilling witnesses through countless descriptions, running his eyes over an endless stream of black-and-white photos in mugshot binders. He’d come to the conclusion that God was a shameless self-plagiarist, because he had no problem using the same molds over and over again. A lot of people resembled a lot of other people.
    “That’s her. I guess you’ve been told that before.”
    “All of my life.”
    “So what’s your name?”
    “Lane Madden.”
    Hardie started to laugh, but the sound died in his throat, because now that he looked at her and saw the stone sincerity in her eyes, he knew she was telling the truth. Holy shit. He’d been stabbed and beaten by Lane Madden. In any other circumstance, it’d be an amusing little story to share with the world. Hey, guess who rear-ended me on Beverly Boulevard! Winona Ryder! Now, though… not so much.
    Lane— Lane Madden? —looked up at him.
    “Can you please get off me?”
    Hardie was already shifting his weight off her body, embarrassed. Confused, but embarrassed. He’d been straddling a celebrity, not subduing a drugged-out teenager. Every cell in his body wanted to apologize. He felt her tense up beneath his thighs. Hardie tried to lighten things up.
    “You’re not going to try to stab me or punch me in the jaw again, are you?”
    “I’m going to assume for the moment,” Lane Madden said, “that you’re not one of Them. But let me say for the record, that if you are one of Them, and this is you playing dumb just so you can kill me later, then you’re a big fucking asshole.”
    “I promise I’m not going to kill you.”
    Hardie lifted one knee off the floor and eased himself off her body. Lane rolled over, coughed, then worked herself up into a sitting position, resting her back against a wall. They were near the media room—the oversize plasma screen, the DVDs, and leather couches. Hardie had this theory, two years running, that he was living in a kind of purgatory. This was further proof. All he wanted to do was watch a movie, crash on the couch, get his booze on.
    Now he was sitting on the floor of a house in the Hollywood Hills with a coked-up actress who thought people were trying to kill her.
    Hardie rubbed his head.
    “Did I walk into a movie set or something? Because that’s what it feels like all of a sudden.”
    “I wish. Believe me. Just promise me you won’t open that door, okay?”
    “There are no hidden cameras anywhere, right? This isn’t some reality show, is it? Because if it is, I’d really like to leave the set now.”
    “No. It’s not. This is all totally real.”
    “So, I’m guessing you know Lowenbruck?” Hardie asked.
    Lane took a moment to think about it. “Who?”
    “The composer. Guy who owns this house. You know him, right?”
    She looked around now, as if she just tuned in to the fact that, oh yeah, she was squatting in someone else’s home.
    “No. I found the keys in the mailbox, just like I said.”
    “How did you turn off the security system?”
    “I didn’t. I wasn’t on when I got here.”
    Nice one, Lowenbruck. Why not just prop the front door open a few inches, tape a note to it saying, NOBODY HERE. BURGLARS, HELP YOURSELVES.
    “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