And again.
5
The building was a rent-a-room in Studio City, a two-story reclaimed from an old dance hall and divided into offices. Nice enough place, the façade intact, and the original floors, the boards battered and wide. Bennett had scoped it, walking into the lobby with a pizza box in one hand. Marking the security camera mounted in the ceiling. Nothing fancy, your standard closed-circuit, likely feeding to a digital recording system, a stack-burner for DVD-RWs. There was a wall board with the list of tenants, and he counted seconds while examining it. Mostly small production companies—who in this town wasn’t a producer?—as well as a number of writers, a lowrent agent or two, a dentist. He found the name he was looking for, suite 106, then scanned quick for the occupant of 105. He was up to twenty-two seconds before a dude in a blue monkey suit stepped out of an unmarked office door, asked if he could be of service.
“Yeah, I’ve got a delivery for,” he faked looking at the ticket, “the Council for Colombian Imports?” He smiled. “That’s just got to be a joke, right?”
The security guard had grinned, said, “Suite 105. Down the hall, take a right, just past the bathrooms.”
“Thanks, brother.”
“No prob.”
He’d sauntered down the hall, taken the right, walked past the bathrooms, whistling. There was another camera at the corner, but just one to cover the whole hall. The doors were out of an old-time private eye movie, wooden frames with frosted glass panels, the occupant names lettered in gold. Suite 105, THE COUNCIL FOR COLOMBIAN IMPORTS. Suite 106, DANIEL HAYES. Bennett knocked on 105. A minute later, a cute little thing maybe five feet tall, all curls and dark eyes, opened the door. “Yes?”
“Afternoon, ma’am. I’m with Salami Jim’s; we’ve just opened, and to introduce ourselves, we’re sending free pizzas to our new neighbors.” He thrust the box at her, and she took it, as he knew she would. Predictable, people.
“I—thank you.”
“Hope you enjoy. Remember, Salami Jim has the sausage you love to swallow.” He started away.
“Wait.”
Bennett turned, and the cute little thing said, “Can I tip you?”
He smiled as he took the two crumpled bucks she pulled out. Why did women carry bills like they were notes passed in class, something they needed to stuff away quickly?
That was earlier. Now, after ten, he was parked in his truck across the street. The window for The Council for Colombian Imports had gone dark a couple of hours back. Daniel Hayes’s hadn’t ever been bright, but that was no surprise. Bennett pulled on a pair of driving gloves, slid the Colt in the back of his belt where his leather jacket would cover it, and got out of the truck.
The office building had a parking lot, and in the time he’d sat across the street, he’d seen a security guard—a different one this time, fat and sporting a mustache—stroll through it exactly once. Keeping his gait easy, Bennett crossed Ventura, walked into the lot. Despite the hour, there were half a dozen cars parked. A mixed bag, but the winner was a Mustang, an LED blinking red on the dashboard. He walked past the Dumpsters to a weed-covered ridge that ran along the side of the building. Counted windows, uno, dos, tres, cuatro, the Council for Colombian Imports’s, and then Daniel Hayes’s. It was double-paned and fixed, no sensors in the corner, aimed more at numbing street noise than security. Perfect.
In the dark, it took him five minutes to find a few decent-sized rocks. His first throw went long, overshot the Mustang by a couple of feet. Bennett wound up, lobbed another, this one denting the side of a Civic just shy of the Mustang. For Christ’s sake. He took a breath, shook out his arm, and tried again.
The rock smacked into the Mustang’s windshield. The alarm started, headlights flashing and horn honking, the sound and light seeming to carry the rock as it bounced away.
5
Wayne Reynolds had his feet up on the desk, sitting sideways to the computer, browser open to Apartments.com. It had a color-coded map of the city, overlays that tinted it gray and orange and purple.
Should just tint it shades of green.
The east side, or in the valley, there were places he could afford. But Marta wanted to leave their cookie-cutter two-bedroom in Crenshaw and head for the beach. Maybe Santa Monica, she’d said, like there was a chance of that. Like all you needed to live there was a taste for ocean breezes.
He clicked to the search, filled the maximum rent field with what they paid now. The results were . . . uninspiring.
“Garden apartment.” Code for “subterranean.”
“Efficiency” really meant “you like shitting and cooking in the same room?”
And “loft” in this case should have read “windowless bunker.”
Wayne sighed, reached for his sandwich—tuna with fat-free mayo and sprouts, Marta trying to help him on the diet—and took a joyless bite. Here was something, a one bedroom in Tarzana that didn’t look bad—
A horn started honking, once, twice, three times, steady. He glanced at the security monitor, saw that it was one of his. Jerry Logue’s Mustang. Damn. Wayne couldn’t see anyone in the lot. Probably just set off by the vibrations of a passing truck.
That’s the problem, Wayne, honey, you never take any initiative. If you want to get ahead . . . Marta’s voice from their fight last week.
He sighed, shrugged, stood up. Checked the Taser on his belt, grabbed the flashlight, walked out of the office. The lobby was quiet, the track lighting low, casting dramatic highlights and shadows. Wayne shouldered open the door, the ring of keys on his belt jingling. The night was cool, the sky above a wash of purple clouds.
The Mustang was blaring away, lights flashing. He put one hand in his pocket against the chill and swept the big Maglite around with the other. No one took off running. He reached the car, stood there for a second. Now what? Dust for prints?
No one in the lot that he could see. Traffic on Ventura was light. In the drugstore next door, a guy standing next to an Explorer was looking over, apparently drawn by the alarm. When he saw Wayne, the guy nodded, turned back to his truck.
Wayne bent down, shined the light underneath the Mustang. No one leapt out. He shrugged, kicked at the tire. The moment his foot touched it, the alarm shut off.
I am Magical! Wonder Wayne to the rescue. He turned off the flashlight and headed back inside, wondering about that place in Tarzana. Not exactly Santa Monica, but it would be a change at least, and that was probably what she really wanted. And with the economy the way it was, he might be able to bargain the price down.
It felt good to step back into the warmth of the lobby. He glanced at his watch. The next scheduled rounds weren’t for another twenty minutes. Still, may as well do them now; he was up, and dinner wasn’t much enticement.
Wayne looked down the hall, decided to hit the second floor first. He started for the elevator, heard Marta’s voice reminding him he could use the exercise, and took the stairs instead.