Prodigal Son Page 3

  He finally pinned down the suspicion fluttering beneath all the noise.

  What if they weren’t deputy marshals at all?

  He stopped at the far edge of the lot. Clicked off his flashlight. Stood in the darkness to let the full weight of his misgivings land.

  He cursed himself for not digging deeper before now. Had he not wanted to admit that something felt wrong? After all, they’d offered him a thousand reasons to deceive himself.

  He took the slip of paper from where he’d crammed it in his pocket and stared at the digits. He didn’t want to check. Not at all.

  But he had to.

  He called information, asked to be put through to the Marshals Service office downtown.

  Dispatch answered, a woman with a pack-a-day voice who sounded not entirely awake.

  “Yeah, hi,” he said. “I was given a phone number by a deputy who … uh, might not have been a deputy. If I read it to you, can you tell me if … uh, if it’s real?”

  “I can’t disclose any phone numbers of federal employees,” she said.

  “Right. I get that. I’m giving you a number.” He rattled it off quickly, before she could cut him off. “I just need to know if it’s someone impersonating one of you guys. Before I give up any classified information.”

  She grunted. Said nothing.

  But he could hear the keyboard rattling away.

  In the ensuing pause, a set of headlights swept into the lot way across the maze of wrecked cars, throwing wild shadows over the twisted metal. He couldn’t see the vehicle, not directly, just the refracted beams needling through the gloom.

  He felt his heartbeat kick up a notch, fluttering the side of his neck. The vehicle crept toward the heart of the yard.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but that number isn’t registered to the Service,” the woman said. “And it’s not listed in the database as a personal number for any of our—”

  He hung up. Sucked in a lungful of frigid night air.

  The headlights eased toward the kiosk. Halted. A dinging announced an open door.

  Duran edged out from a row of cars and peered up the makeshift aisle.

  A Prius was parked by the wrecked Bronco. The driver’s door was open, the dome light throwing a globe of yellow. At first Duran didn’t see anyone.

  Then a movement brought his attention to the Bronco. A broad-shouldered guy—Hargreave?—had ducked through the passenger door of the truck and was leaning over the dashboard.

  “Hey!” Duran shouted. “Hey!”

  The guy slid out of the Bronco, took a few steps in front of the Prius, and stood backlit by the headlights’ glow, a perfect black cutout. His hands were at his sides, his head cocked with either curiosity or concern.

  Duran jogged a few steps toward him. “You should get out of here. These guys are after you. They fooled me—I’m sorry, but—”

  The faintest hum reached his ears. About thirty yards away from Hargreave, safely back from the throw of light from the kiosk, Duran halted.

  Hargreave turned, half his silhouette catching the headlights’ blaze, a vertical seam splitting his body.

  The hum grew louder, rising in pitch.

  Hargreave twitched once, violently.

  There was the briefest moment of calm.

  And then a jet spurted from his neck, two feet high.

  It took Duran a moment to assemble what he was seeing, to make the pieces fit.

  Blood.

  Carotid.

  As if Hargreave had been jabbed by a scalpel.

  Except there was no scalpel. And no hand to hold it.

  Hargreave clamped a palm to the side of his neck. His fingers trisecting the jet, three streams spraying through.

  His knees buckled.

  He sagged to the ground.

  He curled up in a loose fetal position. His knees twitched on the asphalt once, twice, and then stilled. A wet circle dilated beneath his head, as mesmerizing as an oil slick. The headlights laid a blanket of light over his hunched form.

  No one had been near him.

  Nothing had touched him.

  There’d been no gunshot, no projectile, no pop of a mini-explosion.

  It was impossible, and yet Duran had seen it with his own eyes.

  He was the only person in the lot. He was the only person on the security footage. Which meant he’d be the only person to blame.

  From the darkness he stared at the limp form, his flesh prickling. It was incredible how quickly a life could be extinguished.

  A jerking inhale shuddered through him. His senses had revved into overdrive. His skin on fire. The breeze chilling the wetness in his eyes. Even at thirty yards, he swore he could smell blood, taste the iron in the air. He pictured the two fake deputies with their well-dressed confidence, how the security monitors had fritzed out in perfect concert, a display of tech genius or dark magic.

  And now Hargreave lay emptied out on the ground thirty yards away, felled by an invisible hand.

  Duran could barely hear the humming over the white-noise rush in his ears, but he sensed it clearly, a vibration in his teeth. It was still present in the air, thrown like a ventriloquist’s voice, hovering over Hargreave’s body, then buzzing around the kiosk. And then, inside, a faint sound amplified between the tight walls.

  Searching.

  Searching for him.

  He took a step forward. Crumpled the piece of paper in his fist, his palm slick with sweat. The next few steps came with excruciating slowness, his wobbling legs threatening to give way. Peering out from behind a dismembered minivan, he gasped in a few breaths. The faint disturbance in the air still seemed to be moving inside the kiosk.

  He sprang forward, darted to the kiosk, and slammed the door closed. Fighting the key from his pocket, he jammed it halfway into the lock, then reared back and kicked the shiny metal head. It snapped off, pinging around in the darkness.

  Already he was running for the perimeter.

  He braced for the sound of the hum pursuing him but heard nothing aside from his breath thundering in his ears.

  Sliding into the rear fence, he skinned his palms, tore the knee of his shitty security slacks. He shoved through the hole the possums used, stray spikes of chain-link gouging his spine.

  Squirming free, he shot a look over his shoulder but could make out nothing more through the diamonds of chain-link than the dark expanse of the lot.

  They’d seen his face.

  They knew his name.

  He was in some next-level deep shit.

  He careened into the nearest alley, his shoulder scraping the rough brick. His mind whirled through options and outcomes. He was starting to grasp just how utterly screwed he was. Tied to a murder. On the run.

  No one to turn to.

  5

  A Killing Tool

  Sweat cooling across his bare chest, Evan watched her doze off, running his fingers through her curly hair.

  Lying naked, bathed in the pale blue glow, she looked like a painting. The moonlight spill through the window painted her skin a flawless gold. One leg was drawn to the side, putting her hips on a slight tilt, the tilde of her waist dipping beneath the strokes of her ribs. The sheets gathered around her swirled like cake frosting. Her shoulders bore streaks from where he’d clutched her.

  From this particular angle in the uneven light, with her face turned away, she might have been someone else. For a moment Evan let his eyes feed him the lie.

  Then she lifted her head and nuzzled into his touch, her features coming clear, wide-set eyes, caramel skin, broad ski-jump nose.

  Not Mia Hall, the single-mother district attorney who lived in his building and occupied an outsize space in his thoughts.

  But Jeanette-Marie, a woman he’d met earlier that night at the Beverly Hills Hotel’s Polo Lounge. She’d been sipping Cîroc, a perfectly acceptable choice of vodka, and when he’d sat next to her and ordered Jewel of Russia Ultra, he’d caught her attention. Like him she was nicely into her thirties, and she ha
d the poise and grace to show for it.

  A grin pulled her mouth to one side. “That was … gymnastic.” She blew a corkscrew sprig of hair out of her eye. “What’s your name again?”

  Evan said, “David.”

  “Are you gonna call me?”

  He kept stroking her hair lazily, the back of her neck hot against his fingertips. “No,” he said, not unkindly.

  “That’s fine.” She stretched, catlike, content. “I’m so sick of bullshit. Thanks for being honest.”

  “Thank you for letting me spend time with you.”

  She cocked her head. “You’re a funny one, David. Polite and … hmm, formal, I guess. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I dig it.” She slid up and pulled on a lace camisole, which had landed slung over her headboard. “Can I make you something to eat?”

  “No thank you,” he said. “I can show myself out.”

  “You sure? You want an espresso, something?” She caught herself. “I’m sorry. Ugh. It’s just—women, we’re used to making ourselves useful.”

  “You don’t need to. You’re delightful doing nothing.”

  He was on his feet now, hunting for his boxer briefs on the white Carrara marble floor. His RoamZone, discarded near an overturned high heel, showed a missed call.

  Same number as the last three calls, starting with the country code of Argentina.

  The one time he’d picked up, he hadn’t liked what he’d heard.

  There was a time when a missed call to 1-855-2-NOWHERE would have been cause for concern. But he’d moved on to a normal life—or at least a simulacrum of what a normal life could be. A life that allowed for the Polo Lounge, women with broad ski-jump noses, and evenings that didn’t bring with them the promise of violence.

  He exhaled deeply, cracked his neck, breathing in perfume and sweat. Stretching his shoulders, he took in the warmth of the decor.

  The luxury bungalow floated above the Hollywood Hills, the massive bed centered in the great room between two pillar candles, each the width of a tank gun’s barrel. The open kitchen was modern-chic with a Moroccan-tile backsplash, sage-green cabinets, and a rough-sawn farm table. A white plastic trash bag, neatly knotted, leaned against a wood-paneled refrigerator. A substantial picture window looked down at the Sunset Strip, alive with traffic lights and tall-wall billboards displaying It Girls and Boys like larger-than-life jewels. Or perishables.

  He was distracted by that missed call. The woman behind it was proving to be persistent. What the hell did she want? Who had sent her?

  Jeanette-Marie studied him, her eyes glinting. “Okay. Lemme guess. You’re a … sous-chef.”

  Amused, he said, “Sure.”

  Evan had an average build, the better to blend in. Just an ordinary guy, not too handsome. He kept his muscles toned but not pronounced. When he was dressed, it was hard to discern just how fit he was.

  But he wasn’t dressed now.

  Jeanette-Marie had certainly seen him up close, but she scanned him once more with the benefit of greater perspective. “No—wait.” She snapped her fingers. “A trainer! Hang on, no, like a physical therapist?”

  He said, “Sure.”

  “Okay. A sous-chef–trainer–physical therapist. We’ll leave it at that.” Her smile was radiant, youthful. “What do you think I do?”

  “I think you’re a painter, educated at the Royal College of Art. You prefer to work in oils, and you teach part-time at UCLA.”

  Her lips pressed together, her brow furrowed with incredulity. “Um. How…?”

  He found his boxer briefs beneath a throw pillow that had lived up to its name. “You have calluses on the side of your left middle finger near the joint from holding a thin brush. Your shirt had paint stains on the cuff. Acrylics are water-based, so they would’ve washed out by now. So: oil. At the Polo Lounge—after you wouldn’t let me buy you a drink—you paid with a Bruin faculty credit-union card.”

  She pursed her lips, taking a moment to catch up to this. “Okay, fine. But the Royal College?”

  “You mentioned a favorite café on Prince Consort Road in London, which is right around the corner.”

  She was sitting perfectly upright now on the mattress, her hands in her lap. “Wow. You actually pay attention.”

  He unearthed one of his boots from beneath her flung-aside jacket. “Some people are worth paying attention to.”

  “God,” Jeanette-Marie said. “You are the opposite of my ex. You’re the un-ex. Given how things ended with him, you’re exactly who I needed for the night.”

  “It didn’t end well?”

  “Let’s see. I got the house, so that’s good. But he got the bank accounts. Which were numerous. He’s an I-banker, Harvard asshole. You know the type. Quite different from us Royal College assholes.” Her grin lightened her face once more. “Opposites attract. Until they don’t.”

  Evan thought of the scattering of freckles across Mia’s nose. That birthmark at her temple. The smell of her neck.

  He said, “Right.”

  “But when you fall for someone, it’s gonna be different, right? Every time. And then it’s not. It’s always not.” She pulled her curls up in the back, the moonlight striking the side of her neck. Evan paused to admire her.

  “I’m the common denominator, though,” she continued. “So I shouldn’t blame Donnie. I mean, on paper? He’s really good. I think I fell in love with my image of him, which is even more powerful than being in love with a real person, because, man, what it takes to knock the shine off an image.” She shook her head. “He’s harmless enough. Just a cheater and a dick. I knew it for longer than I wanted to know it. But being alone? It gets old, right?”

  Evan said, “Right.”

  “That’s what I miss. Even more than the sex. Someone to … you know, cook dinner once in a while, take out the trash.”

  Before he could respond, he heard the metallic purr of a key sliding into the front-door lock.

  “Oh, shit,” she said.

  The dead bolt retracted loudly, and the door swung open.

  A guy in a rumpled suit sauntered across the threshold. Three men at his back with flashing eyes and bad energy—simmering hostility tempered by a whiff of sheepishness. They looked well lubricated, their movements loosened with alcohol, and they stank of tequila. An inferior spirit.

  “Goddamn it, Donnie,” Jeanette-Marie said. “This isn’t your place anymore. Get out now. And give me your key or I’m changing the locks.”

  Donnie threw his arms wide. “Well, look what we have here. My fucking wife in my fucking house with a naked fucking guy.” He spoke with the careful articulation of the very drunk.

  She said, “Bad night at the strip clubs?”

  He glowered at her.

  “I said give me the key, Donnie. Now.”

  Still he didn’t answer. The front door was open, the wind carrying the thrum of a bass guitar from a club way down on the Strip. The smell of stale cigars came off the men’s clothes, poisoning the scent of night-blooming jasmine.

  She looked at Evan, and he watched the concern on her face migrate to fear. “I’m really sorry.”

  Evan shrugged.

  “Don’t you apologize to him,” Donnie said. “You look at me. Look at me, you fucking whore.”

  Evan grimaced. So much for evenings that didn’t hold the promise of violence.

  “Listen,” Jeanette-Marie said to Donnie, more cautiously now. “He’s just leaving. Let him go, and you and I, we’ll talk in the morning.”

  Donnie frowned, considering. “Okay. You know what? You’re right.” He held up his hands, retreated to the front door. Paused. His jaw flexed a few times, the shiny, clean-shaven skin of his cheek rippling. “Fuck it,” he said, and flipped the door shut.

  He swung back around to face them, his mouth shifting left, right.

  Jeanette-Marie appealed to the others. “Eric? Jim? Rich—c’mon. This isn’t you guys. You know that. What are you gonna do? Beat up some guy you don’t even know? What’
s that gonna accomplish?”

  Evan flipped aside a corner of the duvet with a bare foot and found his jeans. He usually wore cargo pants but had upgraded to dark 501s as a concession to the Polo Lounge.

  “Hey, motherfucker,” Donnie said. “Hey, you. You enjoy being in my bed? You enjoy being in my wife?”

  Evan picked up his jeans and sat down on the bed. “You really want me to answer that?”

  Donnie’s laugh turned into a sputter. He took a step forward, his friends fanning out behind him. “You’re an idiot. There are four of us.”

  “I see that,” Evan said. “Need me to wait while you get more?”

  They blinked at him.

  The biggest of the quartet—Rich—stripped off his suit jacket. “We’ll be enough.”

  Evan pulled on his jeans, one leg, then the other. One more irritated glance at the missed call with that 54 country code before he shoved the phone into his pocket. He finished dressing calmly, the men staring at him in disbelief. He buckled his belt and then held out his hands, palms up. “Okay,” he said. “Make an example out of me.”

  Rich struck a boxing stance, shifting his weight from side to side. Donnie dropped his right foot back, which along with the watch on his left wrist signaled that he was right-handed. He gave a target glance at Evan’s chin, telegraphing where he intended to strike. The two beta males filled out the semicircle at the edge of Evan’s peripheral vision.

  Jeanette-Marie’s bare feet hit the floor with a thump. “Donnie, you call this off right—”

  The big guy led first as Evan knew he would, a haymaker, all force, no nuance. Evan slapped the fist aside with an open-hand deflection, placed his insole behind Rich’s heel, and jerked the guy’s loafer sharply two feet forward. Rich went airborne, landing hard on his shoulder blades. His lungs expelled a grunt, the wind knocked clean out of him.

  Already Donnie was angling for the cheap shot, but Evan stepped aside and flicked his knuckles at the looming nose, shattering it neatly, a healthy spurt painting the front of Donnie’s designer shirt.