“And your father found out?”
Rick nodded. “We couldn’t pay the mortgage and the bank called him. Now he’s threatened to go the police and the California Bar Association unless we resign from the firm immediately.” Rick waited a moment to let his words soak in. Then he continued, “So, let’s be very clear, Anne wants to run your foundation because she doesn’t have a job. And Anne wants you back in her life because she doesn’t have any money. That’s all Anne cares about, it’s all she’s ever cared about, money.”
Ryan didn’t want to believe it. He’d held Anne in his arms, looked into her eyes. He saw love there, the same adoration he remembered from college, he was sure of it.
Rick saw the denial in Ryan’s face. “Let me ask you a question,” Rick said. “How did Anne first reconnect with you?”
Great question, Ryan thought. And the answer should convince Rick that Anne’s motives aren’t as diabolical as the lawyer imagines. “At my office, at the Hollywood Station. She was there on business for another client and dropped by to say hello.”
Rick shook his head with an expression that said you dumb son of a bitch. “Anne is a corporate litigator, Ryan. She does her business in boardrooms and courtrooms. She has never represented a criminal case. I doubt she’d ever been in a police station until she accidently bumped into you. Accidently bumped into you the same day as the lead story on every newscast is about lucky cop, Ryan Magee, winning forty-seven million dollars.”
“Thirty-four after taxes,” Ryan mumbled, shell-shocked.
“Look, I’m sorry to be telling you all this. I could have kept my mouth shut, I know. But she played you for a sucker once, played us both for suckers. Just don’t let her do it again.” Rick Rogers stood up, and started to walk away.
“Wait,” Ryan said, still desperately trying to hold onto Anne’s version of the truth. “I met Anne for drinks last night and she told me your law firm has represented a number of Lotto winners. Is that true?”
Rick looked sympathetically at Ryan. “Sorry, Detective. Rogers, Middleton and Roberts has never represented a Lotto winner.” And with that, Rick left.
Ryan sat there, the implications of Anne’s manipulations and lies flooding his brain. She’d pursued him, no doubt about it. From her appearance in the bullpen to her phone call later that day suggesting drinks at Musso and Frank. And tonight, picking Trader Vic’s instead of any of the hotel’s other restaurants or bars. Trader Vic’s where they had their alcohol-fueled love fest. Then she discovered she accidently left the papers in her room.
Premeditated. All of it.
And Ryan fell for it
A roar filled Ryan’s ears. Ryan was embarrassed, humiliated. He suddenly stood up, walked toward the elevators. He was going to go back up to the room and confront her. He wanted to say something to her, to hurt her as much as her betrayal had hurt him. He pressed the Up button and the elevator door opened.
But instead of walking in, Ryan just stood there, imagining himself standing in her open doorway, saying what exactly? You lying bitch? You hurt my feelings? Fuck the foundation and fuck you?
Just what the hell was he supposed to say at a time like this?
And didn’t he risk making a bigger fool of himself than he had already?
The elevator door closed.
Ryan knew that sometimes the best thing to do was nothing, and this was clearly one of those times. Let it go, for now. Go home and think about it.
Ryan turned around and headed for the parking lot.
Meanwhile, happy as she ever remembered being, Anne ran a bath. The suite had a Jacuzzi tub and Anne loved luxuriating as jets of hot water pummeled her body. The hotel provided a bathing salt, which she liberally sprinkled into foaming water. And then Anne remembered the phone call she’d ignored when Ryan first arrived at Trader Vic’s.
The tub had a little more time to fill up so she pulled out her cell phone and checked her messages. She had one from Travis Taylor. His message asked her to call him. She did. He answered on the first ring. “Travis Taylor.”
“It’s Anne Rogers, Travis, I hope it’s not too late.”
“Sleep is for sissies.”
Anne laughed. “You’ve got some news on Syd Curtis?”
“I do. Syd Curtis is quite a remarkable young woman. She’s from Kansas City, not Riverside. She ran away from home when she was seventeen, came straight to Hollywood. She’s been connected to a pimp named Ernesto Sian so I suspect she was a hooker at one time. But here’s where it gets interesting, I tracked down Syd’s mother and spoke to her. I pretended to be one of Syd’s classmates and wondered whatever happened it her. Get this, her mother hasn’t heard from Syd since the day she left almost ten years ago.”
“She doesn’t know she’s a cop?”
“She doesn’t even know if Syd’s alive or dead.”
The more Anne heard, the happier she got. Anne wondered if Ryan knew all this? Somehow she doubted it. “Did you tell the mother Syd was alive?”
“No. Not sure there’s an angle in it yet. I’ve got some more work to do, but here’s the bottom line. We can prove she lied on her LAPD application so we’ve already got enough evidence to get her fired. And I’ve got a feeling I’m going to find another surprise or two. I’ll call you tomorrow with another update.”
“Great work, Travis, thank you.” Anne hung up. She was hoping Travis would get enough dirt to drive a wedge between Ryan and Syd. Well, he’d found a whole lot more. She was a teenage runaway and a hooker? Fabulous. And lying on her LAPD application was the icing on the cake. All Anne would have to do is leak Travis’ report to the press and Syd would be kicked off the force and out of their lives forever.
But then another thought struck Anne. A much better one. She’d confront Syd with Travis’s report and make her an offer she couldn’t refuse. Ask for a transfer out of Homicide and out of the Hollywood division. Something in the Valley maybe, or South Central. Something far away from Ryan. Ask for a transfer or Anne would leak the report to the press. And if Syd told Ryan about Anne’s blackmail, Anne would leak it to the press. Syd would have no choice.
Now the only question became when to spring the surprise on Syd.
Anne stepped into the tub and settled beneath the churning water. She sighed happily as the hot water swallowed her. And then the answer came — she’d talk to Syd tomorrow, at the lottery presentation. Syd was sure to be there, and what better way was there for Anne to cap off what was certain to be one of the best days of her life than by checkmating that perky redhead.
FORTY-SEVEN
It was only forty degrees outside but Ryan had the top down. The heater was on and kept his feet warm, but the crisp air whisked the heat away from Ryan’s upper body and face, so he was cold. Freezing actually, but that was fine. He wanted to be uncomfortable. He wanted to suffer.
A familiar ache filled his heart. The perfect world Anne had helped construct in Ryan’s imagination — living happily ever after with the girl of his dreams, millions of dollars in the bank and running a foundation for the needy — was suddenly gone. What was he supposed to do now about the lottery money, about the foundation, about Syd?
Syd.
Jesus, before Ryan was waylaid by Rick Rogers he was checking his Voicemail. Ryan took out his cell phone, brought up Syd’s message.
“Hey Ryan, it’s me,” Syd’s recorded voice said. “Three boys raped Alice that night: Colin, Adam and a guy named Blake Hunter. He lives in Malibu, 22756 Pacific Coast Highway. It’s nine forty-five now, I should be there in less than an hour. Call me.”