Read Online The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes by Marcus Sakey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marcus Sakey
Ads: Link
the opposite chair and enjoyed the view.
“I give you this, we’re through.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it. Don’t call me again.”
“You got my word.”
“Owner’s manual. Canvas shopping bags. Jumper cables. GPS. Zagat’s, Los Angeles, 2007 edition. Sunglasses. Pepper spray. Lipstick. Mascara. Hand lotion.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing else.”
“No.”
“And no purse?”
“Did I fucking say purse? No? So then there wasn’t a fucking—”
Bennett hung up. He tucked the phone away, then stood and pushed in his chair. The sound of conversation was replaced by music as he stepped inside the restaurant, some lyric-less lounge crap. A pretty hostess thanked him for coming.
He pressed the button for the elevator, rocked back on his heels.
It’s still out there.
Let’s go look for it.
5
It wasn’t the most expensive block of Malibu real estate. Not even close, really, considering the wealth concentrated in this little section of heaven half an hour west of Los Angeles. But that was a relative way of looking at things. The house, modern and bright, hidden behind a security fence, cost more than something ten times the size in the parts of the country where Belinda Nichols had grown up.
She was parked down the block, sitting in the back of a van she’d bought the day before. The classified ad had described it perfectly: “1995 Dodge Caravan, solid not pretty, $2200/obo.” She’d offered $1500, not because she cared about the money but because not haggling would have made her more memorable. They’d settled on $1800; Belinda had counted bills into his hand, he’d passed her the keys, and voilà, she was the proud owner of a piece of shit. “Not pretty” was an understatement; the thing had been used hard, the exterior a dull white except for the crumpled side where a collision had banged the metal inward and left long tears of naked steel glinting through.
She’d bought it as a disposable home, a place to work out of while she settled things. Her main concern had been utility, a place for a sleeping bag so she didn’t leave a trail of hotel records. But the P.O.S. was turning out to be a perfect cover. It would have looked out of place in Malibu, except that all these beautiful, expensive homes needed someone to clean them, to care for their landscaping and maintain their pools. The private security firm that covered the area had twice passed while she’d been parked here, and hadn’t touched the brakes on either occasion.
Her stomach was tight, her nerves raw, but she made herself sit still, stare out the windshield. Taking time to check things out, to make sure that she wasn’t forgetting anything. The importance of preparation was something Bennett had taught her. He was a monster, but he was good at what he did, and there was a lot she could learn from him.
A battered pickup with a yard crew rolled by, Hispanic dudes in the back balancing among lawn mowers and leaf blowers. Four minutes later, someone’s security gate opened, and a Saab pulled out, driven by a woman talking on a cell phone. A bit after that, a nanny pushed a stroller up the block. Everything was quiet. No sign of the police.
Flipping down the visor mirror, she took a last look at herself. The port wine stain that spilled across her eye and down one cheek was brighter today, an angrier red. Her features were even, eyes big, nose small, and without the stain, she might have been a beauty. But the birthmark, naevus flammeus , was all anyone ever saw. Ask Gorbachev.
She gathered blond California-Girl hair, twisting it into a ponytail and securing it with a white scrunchie. Her clothes were bulky, work gear bought at a resale shop, and hid the toned muscles of her body. She took a slow breath, met her own eyes in the mirror.
You’re no longer Belinda Nichols. You’re Lila Bannister. You’ve got a blond dye-job that isn’t fooling anyone and two kids at home. You’d rather live in one of these houses than take care
“I give you this, we’re through.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it. Don’t call me again.”
“You got my word.”
“Owner’s manual. Canvas shopping bags. Jumper cables. GPS. Zagat’s, Los Angeles, 2007 edition. Sunglasses. Pepper spray. Lipstick. Mascara. Hand lotion.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing else.”
“No.”
“And no purse?”
“Did I fucking say purse? No? So then there wasn’t a fucking—”
Bennett hung up. He tucked the phone away, then stood and pushed in his chair. The sound of conversation was replaced by music as he stepped inside the restaurant, some lyric-less lounge crap. A pretty hostess thanked him for coming.
He pressed the button for the elevator, rocked back on his heels.
It’s still out there.
Let’s go look for it.
5
It wasn’t the most expensive block of Malibu real estate. Not even close, really, considering the wealth concentrated in this little section of heaven half an hour west of Los Angeles. But that was a relative way of looking at things. The house, modern and bright, hidden behind a security fence, cost more than something ten times the size in the parts of the country where Belinda Nichols had grown up.
She was parked down the block, sitting in the back of a van she’d bought the day before. The classified ad had described it perfectly: “1995 Dodge Caravan, solid not pretty, $2200/obo.” She’d offered $1500, not because she cared about the money but because not haggling would have made her more memorable. They’d settled on $1800; Belinda had counted bills into his hand, he’d passed her the keys, and voilà, she was the proud owner of a piece of shit. “Not pretty” was an understatement; the thing had been used hard, the exterior a dull white except for the crumpled side where a collision had banged the metal inward and left long tears of naked steel glinting through.
She’d bought it as a disposable home, a place to work out of while she settled things. Her main concern had been utility, a place for a sleeping bag so she didn’t leave a trail of hotel records. But the P.O.S. was turning out to be a perfect cover. It would have looked out of place in Malibu, except that all these beautiful, expensive homes needed someone to clean them, to care for their landscaping and maintain their pools. The private security firm that covered the area had twice passed while she’d been parked here, and hadn’t touched the brakes on either occasion.
Her stomach was tight, her nerves raw, but she made herself sit still, stare out the windshield. Taking time to check things out, to make sure that she wasn’t forgetting anything. The importance of preparation was something Bennett had taught her. He was a monster, but he was good at what he did, and there was a lot she could learn from him.
A battered pickup with a yard crew rolled by, Hispanic dudes in the back balancing among lawn mowers and leaf blowers. Four minutes later, someone’s security gate opened, and a Saab pulled out, driven by a woman talking on a cell phone. A bit after that, a nanny pushed a stroller up the block. Everything was quiet. No sign of the police.
Flipping down the visor mirror, she took a last look at herself. The port wine stain that spilled across her eye and down one cheek was brighter today, an angrier red. Her features were even, eyes big, nose small, and without the stain, she might have been a beauty. But the birthmark, naevus flammeus , was all anyone ever saw. Ask Gorbachev.
She gathered blond California-Girl hair, twisting it into a ponytail and securing it with a white scrunchie. Her clothes were bulky, work gear bought at a resale shop, and hid the toned muscles of her body. She took a slow breath, met her own eyes in the mirror.
You’re no longer Belinda Nichols. You’re Lila Bannister. You’ve got a blond dye-job that isn’t fooling anyone and two kids at home. You’d rather live in one of these houses than take care
Similar Books
