“Hey, Hank,” Neal greeted. He was wearing a white shirt, narrow gray tie, and wool slacks. His taffy-blond hair was mussed uncharacteristically as if he hadn’t run a comb through it that morning. “Did you meet everyone?”
“I did.” Hank sipped his scotch. “I’ve got to confess, I thought it was you and me.”
“This is the LA team.” Neal was grinning, a secret in his eyes. “They handle some of our special operations. Counterparts to Salim and his group back East. April and Gretchen have collected some of our most promising specimens.”
“Specimens?” Hank asked.
“Like you were doing out here. At the time it seemed like you were a more logical choice to go after Anaya.”
“You might say we’re proactive,” Gretchen declared. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“Uh, no.” Hank tried to keep his face neutral. God, what was she? The Wicked Witch of the West’s evil doppleganger?
“Our mutual problem,” Neal said as he took a seat, “in this instance is Christal Anaya.” He glanced at Hank. “She was a pretty good investigator, wasn’t she?”
Hank took a chair across from the coffee table, choosing the spot so that he would be in April’s immediate line of sight. He smiled, affecting a knowing attitude. “Christal Anaya is one of the best field agents I’ve ever worked with. She has an uncanny ability to fill in missing data. It’s … I don’t know, almost like magic. The first time you hear her begin to fit things together, you’d swear she was nuts, but as the data begin to come in, you discover she’s been right all along.”
“Intuitive?” Neal asked.
“Spooky intuitive,” Hank agreed. Then he smiled, using the boyish one that women found so attractive. “You know, her grandmother was a witch.”
“What?” Gretchen asked in a grating voice. “That’s absurd.”
Hank glanced first at Neal, then at April. The woman was watching him with level gray eyes, her fine face betraying nothing. He shrugged. “Say what you will, but there are times when you work around Christal that you can’t help but wonder. She does have an ability that almost goes beyond science when it comes to solving cases.”
“So,” Neal mused, “if she’s digging at our corporate secrets, do you think it’s a good bet that she’ll figure them out?”
Hank shifted, affecting complete assurance. “If Christal were sniffing around doors that I wanted kept closed, yeah, I’d be worried.”
April shot a communicative glance at Neal and arched her eyebrow as if to say, “I told you so.”
Neal, for his part, frowned and laced his fingers together. “Maybe it’s lucky for us that Hank’s here.”
“I just hope I can help.”
“Do we know where she is?” Gretchen asked pointedly. “I’m tired of putting up with the bitch.”
“I’m on it,” Hank added. “It’s just a matter of—”
“We’ve got her,” Neal replied softly. “She’s staying at a Marriott Residence Inn near here. Word is that she’s checking out next week. My sources say that she’s probably going to be looking for an apartment on her off time.”
Hank started, jerking up straight. “How the hell do you know that? I’ve been chasing my ass off trying to get a line on her.”
Neal’s smile was the Cheshire cat kind. “It’s all right, Hank. We’ve got our sources. When you tailed Anaya to Colorado, you brought the seriousness of the situation to our attention.”
“Thanks for telling me,” he said dryly.
“I just tapped my source this morning,” Neal added. “It’s not one I use except in extreme circumstances.”
“Maybe you should read your memos,” Gretchen muttered. “We’ve bumped into Anaya twice now. It was all in the reports.”
“But nothing that would have indicated a direct threat to Genesis Athena,” April amended, obviously to Gretchen’s displeasure. “Our contacts with her have been in what we assumed to be the parameters of her job with LBA.”
“What about de Clerk’s?” Gretchen shot back. “Why the hell was she there? Huh? His security was supposed to be off that night.”
“It was,” April snapped. “I think he made a date with her and forgot.”
Hank watched the interplay with interest, but Neal stopped it when he raised his hands. “Forget it, ladies. I’ve checked. It’s a matter of the right hand not knowing what the left was doing. So, forget it Let’s move on to Friday night.”
Gretchen leaned down and picked up a cardboard folder. This she opened, taking a diagram out and spreading it on the table. It looked like a floor plan to Hank. He could see a unit, parking lot, stairs, windows, and doors marked. A big green mass was labeled TREE.
“This is Anaya’s room at the Residence Inn,” Gretchen began. “It’s a piece of cake. We can leave the vehicle in the lot here.” She pointed to the parking lot. “I’ve already called the manager. Two of the units on either side of Anaya’s will be empty on Friday night. I took the liberty of renting them. The third room in the building”—she indicated the room diagonally—“is already rented, so we’ll have to keep the noise down.”
Gretchen seemed to be enjoying this.
She continued, “We can enter at any time. The lock takes a standard magnetic card. The tree beside the walk will provide us with some cover from the main office. Even if we’re seen, no one is going to pay much attention.”
Hank leaned forward. “Let me get this straight. We’re going to break into Christal’s room?”
Neal looked up. “Do you have a problem with that?”
Hank pursed his lips, aware that April was watching him with hawklike intensity. Did he dare let her think he was bothered by a little thing like breaking and entering? Besides, it was a hotel! And better yet, it was his chance to show Christal that she shouldn’t be prying away at one of their clients!
He smiled as he imagined Christal’s face when he stepped out into the room. “I think it would be wise to do this when she’s gone. If you walk up and ring the bell, Christal’s not going to let you in.”
Neal’s expression was neutral. “According to my source, Sheela Marks and her cast are going to be at Dan Tana’s for most of the evening. Anaya shouldn’t be off shift until sometime in the very early morning, but we should be ready early—just in case.”
“Good.” Hank leaned forward, looking at the diagram. “Then I suggest that we have coffee ready when she walks in the door. Not only that, but we need someone outside, to follow her up the stairs in case something tips her off and she bolts.” He pointed. “This unit next to hers shares the same stairway, right?”
“Yes,” Gretchen told him distrustfully.
“Good. And we’ve rented it?”
“Yes.”
“Then when Christal opens her door, it wouldn’t be out of line for someone to step out right across from her as a blocker in the event she runs.”
“I like that,” April said as she leaned forward. “Good call, Hank.”
Gretchen looked even more sour.
“That’s it, then,” Neal said, and glanced up at Hank. “Anything else about Anaya that I should know?”
Hank shrugged. “She’s going to be really pissed about this. You’d better not count on her just taking a warning and backing off. She’s not that kind of agent.”
Neal’s lips puckered, and he nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind. Any other questions? No? Then I’ll see you at eight tomorrow. We’ll do a drive-by and check in to our next-door rental as soon as we know Anaya’s gone. See you then.”
They all stood, Hank feeling good about himself. He was headed to the door, his mind knotted on Christal and how she was going to take a rebuke from strangers.
“Abrams?” April asked, matching his step. “You got time for a drink?”
Something about her appealed to him. Maybe it was the danger that lurked in the corners of her dry smile. Or perhaps she was just a damn good-looking woman, and she was coming on to him. Or was it the hint of challenge that
lay so deep in her smoldering gray eyes?
“Sure. They make a mean margarita here. Or, if you prefer, we could go somewhere else.”
“I know someplace private.”
Hank bowed. “It’ll be my pleasure.”
As they walked out into the hall, she gave her head a slight tilt. It reminded him of Lauren Bacall. “You never know,” she said, “we might both enjoy it.”
A weary Sheela rubbed the back of her neck as she walked from the studio to her trailer. The lot was hot, baking under the sun. She had heard that a peculiar high-pressure system had built over the Mojave, that it was kicking the scorching desert air back over LA.
The weather guy didn’t know what high pressure was.
A headache ground away at the back of her brain, and her eyes burned, perhaps from the smog, or perhaps from the fatigue that lay so heavily in her bones, blood, muscle, and soul.
She had finished her last scene, God willing, if some editor didn’t find a flaw that would cause Bernard to recall her.
But that would be sometime in the amorphous future. On beyond zebra, in another lifetime that started after she woke up from a zombie’s somnolence that would start after the festivities on Friday.
The cast party was a thespian’s tradition that reached back into the dim and distant past. A celebration of the hard work, the good times and bad, that had occasioned a group of strangers to become a short-term family.
I’m done! She smiled wearily and looked down at her purse. The amphetamines lay unused, but for a couple of tablets. She was still in control. Her body might have felt like scorched toast, but her self-discipline had held.
The pills in her purse mocked her. She could feel them, whispering, calling, chiding her. Relief lay just a swallow away. She’d be fresh again, ready to take on the world instead of being this brain-dead hulk of ambulatory tissue.
Sleep is almost yours.
She waved as she passed a flock of extras dressed as Civil War Confederates and rounded the corner that led to her lot trailer. The awning cast a solitary square of shade over the lawn chairs and small table. The muted puttering of the air conditioners rose from the long line of trailers.
Sheela plodded up to the steps and opened her door—then sighed wearily as she stepped inside and waved halfheartedly at Rex, who sat at the table in the small booth.
“We’re finished,” she told him. “I wrapped my last scene. Bernard’s doing some short intercuts with the extras, and then he’ll get what he can out of Manny, but that’s not my problem anymore.” She grinned. “So, it’s Thursday afternoon, and I’m headed home to fall face-first into bed.”
Rex smiled. “Glad to hear that. You and I have some things to talk about.”
“Not now, Rex. I can’t think … let alone pay attention.”
He tapped the two screenplays on the table. “Did you get a chance to go through either of these?”
“Get real!”
“We need an answer. Tony thinks you ought to bail on the Petrie property and go with Bruckheimer. I tend to agree. The role suits you better.”
“I want some time off,” she said as she slumped into the booth across from him. “Rex, I’m roadkill. It took everything I had to get through Jagged Cat. I can’t keep up with this schedule.”
He tilted his head. “I thought I got you something for that.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out the little pill bottle. “I took three. I don’t like them.”
His flat stare bored into her. “Sheela, do you know what it means to be on the A-list?” He tapped the screenplays again. “I’ve talked to the producers. You’ve got your choice. Twenty million up front, or fifteen percent of the box office. Your decision.”
“Rex, I …” She shook her head. “They start preproduction next week, right?”
“Bruckheimer wants you on Thursday for a preliminary meeting. Petrie has his scheduled for Friday.”
She closed her eyes, whispering, “I just can’t do it.”
She could feel his eyes, hard, unbending. “Sheela,” he said softly, “I’ve gotta know which one.”
“Neither,” she told him as she nerved herself to look him in the eye. “Tell Jerry if he’ll wait for a month, I’ll do it.”
“What?” Rex snapped. “You want me to tell Bruckheimer to put a two-hundred-million-dollar project on hold while you take a nap?”
“You heard me!” The shrill note in her voice surprised her. She hesitated, rubbing her masklike face. Her skin felt wooden from the caking of makeup. “God, I’m sorry, Rex. I don’t mean to be a shrew.”
He smiled, half-forgiving. “It’s okay, Sheela. Yeah, get some rest. I’ll drop by tomorrow and we’ll make a final decision. About nine, then?”
She gave him an empty look. “Why are you pushing this?”
He stood, collecting his papers. “Because you’re hot. Come on. You’re in your thirties now. This is Hollywood, babe. Get it? You’ve got ten years. That’s it. When you hit forty, you’re history. By the time you turn forty-one, they’re gonna need an archaeologist to dig you up.”
She blinked, feeling the twinge of fear.
“Hey,” Rex relented as he snapped his briefcase closed on the papers. “It’s okay. We just gotta make hay while the cutting’s good.” He pointed to the pill bottle. “They’re there if you need them.” A smile. “You can rest next decade, right?”
“Yeah, right” Shit, the way she felt now, she wasn’t going to wake up until she was forty-three.
“Sheela,” Rex cooed in a gentler voice, “it’s not just you that we’re talking about. Crying ‘Me! Me! Me!’ won’t cut it.”
She could feel the sense of guilt come toppling down, like stones on a swimming woman.
Rex got halfway to the door and stopped, his briefcase under his arm. He turned, a pensive look on his face. “Tell me, this ‘time off’ thing … Did Lymon suggest it?”
She shrugged. “He’s worried about me.”
A flicker crossed his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure he is.”
Then Rex was gone.
Sheela rolled the bottle of pills between her fingers. If she only took one, she could finish the scripts this afternoon. She fought for a deep breath, feeling sick. Pieces of her were shrinking.
Going away.
Getting ever smaller.
Everyone depends on me. The whole fucking world.
28
Friday afternoon had started hot under a searing sun. Christal pulled her Chrysler into the circle drive and tried to park as inconspicuously as possible. She glanced at her watch, seeing that it was five till one. The vegetation cast cool pools of shade that barely masked the heat rolling down from the San Gabriels.
Christal took a moment to check herself in the mirror. Good, nothing in her teeth, and she looked presentable. Not bad for as rapidly as she’d gotten ready for this assignment.
“Christal?” Lymon had asked, curiosity in his voice. “I just got a call from Sheela. She wondered if I could send you over at one this afternoon. Said there were some things she wanted to discuss with you.”
When she’d prodded, Lymon had given no more details, but had sounded puzzled himself.
“Christal?” he had finished. “Be quick, huh? She’s got a heavy schedule tonight. Try not to take too much of her time. Let her get all the rest she can.”
So, here she had come, shuffling through the half-coagulated LA traffic to Sheela’s opulent mansion. She had checked in with neighborhood security and then buzzed in at Sheela’s gate.
Crystal emerged from her Chrysler and walked up to the huge wooden doors. She hadn’t even rung when Tomaso opened the right-hand portal and welcomed her.
“This way, Ms. Anaya,” Tomaso said, leading Christal not to the meeting room that she was familiar with but up the stairs. She lagged, trying to see the artwork. The familiar colors of the Southwest were warm and reassuring. A single glowing Reid Christie painting showed sunlight glowing off of bison backs. In another, by Santiago
Pérez, a colorful New Mexican rider dashed his horse below a saint-filled sky.
“I didn’t know Sheela had such an interest in this kind of art,” she offered as Tomaso led her past the closed doors to the end of the hallway.
“Yes, she tries to go to Santa Fe at least once a year.” Tomaso smiled, lifted a hand, and knocked before opening the door and announcing, “Ms. Anaya to see you, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Tomaso,” Sheela called as Christal stepped into the … what? Ante-bedroom? Christal stared at the huge TV, the books and videos. Looking straight back through the opened doors she could see Sheela’s huge bedroom; to the right she had a glimpse of the well-equipped dressing room.
“Christal!” Sheela rose from a chaise and crossed the floor to take her hands. “Thank you for coming.”
Christal started to smile, and hesitated, fixing on the puffiness in Sheela’s red-rimmed eyes. “Hey, you all right?”
“Tired as hell,” Sheela muttered. “Can I get you something? A drink? Have you eaten?”
“Yeah, I fixed a bite at my place. The Residence Inn is neat that way. Each of the suites has a kitchen. They’re little apartments, actually.”
Sheela motioned to the chair across from hers and resettled herself. “Did you see the news this morning? About what happened in Paris?”
Christal leaned forward in the overstuffed chair. “You mean about Princess Diana? Yeah.”
During the night, someone had broken into the forensic lab that curated specimens taken from the body of Diana, the princess of Wales, during the investigations after her fatal car crash in 1997. The Sûreté was investigating, and was particularly curious as to how a French radio station had been tipped off within hours of the break-in. News clips had shown outrage throughout England as the story broke. The Spencer family had already voiced their dismay. No statement had been forthcoming from the royal family on the matter.
“What do you think?” Sheela asked softly.
“I don’t know yet.” Christal made a gesture. “Maybe it’s related, maybe not. She wasn’t Hollywood. Not a film star like you and the others.”