It was a gift.
He waved to her, then pulled away. The sun poured down, and Daniel rolled the windows open and turned on the radio. He hadn’t had much use for it in the past few days, but now he wanted music, loud rock and roll filled with joy. He flipped around until he found something with a pounding guitar and crisp snare, a singer yelling about being only seventeen and holding back his screams, about him and his girlfriend burning the sheets down to the seams. He cranked the volume, banged out the beat on the steering wheel as he merged onto the 10.
For the first time he could remember, he felt okay. Better than. The questions that had been clawing at his brain would have answers. No more running. No more fear. He would finally be able to face things. The relief was tremendous. All that sprinting and hiding and shadowy panic, it had been like a straitjacket that tightened every time he squirmed. He glanced in the rearview—traffic light behind him, a couple of imports, a big white van—and pressed down on the accelerator. The road open before him, a good song, and a plan. He sang along, surprised to find that he knew the lyrics: Your memory bla-zes through me, burning everything, like gasoline, like gasoline, like gasoline.
The song ended, and a DJ came on. Daniel turned the volume down, then realized he was doing almost ninety. Whoa there. He braked to a steady sixty.
Okay. So.
Back to the Ambassador. Get settled. Take a shower, make sure he looked sane for Sophie’s lawyer. Then spend the afternoon reviewing the laptop. He’d barely scratched the surface. There might be some sort of clue, an e-mail from Laney maybe, that would help them figure out what the deal was. Whatever had happened, it had the elements of a classic conspiracy plot—shadowy men with guns, a missing diamond necklace worth more than a house—and as a storyteller, he knew those things came with a backstory.
The radio settled on an old Cracker tune, Being with you girl, like being low, hey hey hey like being stoned. He turned the volume back up, but watched his speed this time, glanced in the mirror as he signaled.
It was only after he had moved into the next lane that he realized the white van was still behind him.
So what? Where else would it be?
But then, he’d been going pretty fast for a couple of minutes. The van had kept pace. And when he had slowed down, so had it. Daniel kept his eyes flickering between the road in front and the mirror. Couldn’t make out much; it was a big panel van, the kind landscapers and cleaning crews favored, not unlike a million others. There was a long and vicious dent in the side, evidence of some past collision. The distance kept him from making out the driver’s features, but he wore a baseball cap and sunglasses.
Let’s see. Daniel signaled right again, then took the next exit, north on Fairfax. The van followed. Daniel snapped the radio off, turned right on Venice. The van stayed with him.
His happy mood vanished like fog. Someone was following him. Not the police. Even if the van was the world’s lousiest undercover vehicle, they would have had plenty of time to box him with squad cars. Who, then?
He was so calm. That was the worst part. I think he could have done anything to me, and then gone on about his day. Not felt a thing about it.
Daniel’s fingers clenched the wheel, his palms wet. The man who had broken into Sophie’s house and held her at gunpoint. The one who had been searching for him, asking about a diamond necklace.
The man who had killed his wife.
The light at Hauser was red, and he slowed, then pulled into the left turn lane. Again, the van followed.
Okay. Simple. Wait for a break in traffic, then instead of going left, floor it. Race across the intersection. Other cars will block the van in. By the time the light changes, you’ll be long gone.
How could the guy have found him? Los Angeles was huge. The chances that they’d randomly bumped into one another were incalculably small. Daniel’s spine felt like an ice cube had been run down it. This asshole must have picked him up at Sophie’s. Which meant he’d go back there if Daniel lost him. And this time, he wouldn’t just scare her.
I think he could have done anything to me, and then gone on about his day. Not felt a thing about it.
No. No chance.
The light turned green, and Daniel moved forward. Two cars between him and the van. You need a plan. You can not, can not, let any harm come to Sophie. Besides, this man murdered your wife. Wouldn’t you rather chase him than run from him? So think. You’re the writer.
Write something.
5
Belinda was smiling.
Staking out Sophie’s house had been a calculated guess. The lawyer had sent Daniel a pile of messages, telling him to come see her, to do it soon. But even Belinda hadn’t imagined it would happen that fast. Hell, she and Daniel Hayes might both have been reading his e-mail at the same time.
She stayed a few cars behind Daniel’s BMW, kept her speed steady as he wound up Hauser, then turned left on Third. He signaled again almost immediately, then pulled into the parking lot of the old Farmers Market. Against the blue of the sky, the white clapboard clock tower looked ridiculously picturesque, more appropriate for rural Maine than the outskirts of Beverly Hills. It was early yet, and the parking lot was only half-full. She let Hayes get ahead of her, chose a spot near the entrance. She took the gun from behind her back, set it on her lap. Through the windshield, she saw Daniel get out of his car and saunter toward the entrance, bright Hawaiian shirt easy to track. He moved like a man without a care.
Go after him here? Not ideal. There were too many people about, too many prying eyes. Probably some security cameras inside too. Belinda killed the engine and leaned back. Daniel wasn’t going anywhere without his car. She’d wait, then follow him somewhere she could approach him alone. She eyed the people walking in and out: a mother with a kid, a couple of teenage girls, a well-dressed man moving lightly. Belinda squinted. Was that—
She snatched up the gun and threw open the door of the van.
5
Bennett walked quickly, but not so quickly anyone noticed. The gate to the Farmers Market was open, throngs of people inside, and Daniel Hayes had strolled in like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Asshole. Every cop in the state looking for him, and here he was in a populated place. If someone recognized him, it was game over.
Ah well. The soul of tactics was flexibility in your approach to a goal. The best chess players saw the whole board fresh every move, and reacted accordingly. Which was why he’d figured that even if Sophie wasn’t lying to him, she was still worth watching, and that had paid out. He’d just have to adapt again. Follow the guy, lure him out of sight—the man didn’t know what he looked like, after all—and take him.
Then go somewhere quiet and convince Daniel to give him what he wanted.