It was Solana. In my house. In my loft, staring down at me while I slept. Fear spread through me slowly like ice. The cold moved out from my core all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes in the same way water gradually turns solid when a lake freezes over. How had she gotten in? I waited, wondering if the specter would resolve into an ordinary object—a jacket thrown over the railing, a garment bag hanging from the hinge on my closet door.
At first, my mind was blank with disbelief. There was no way—no way—she could have gained entry. Then I remembered Henry’s house key attached to a white cardboard tag with PITTS neatly printed on it by means of identification. Gus kept the key in his desk drawer, where I’d come upon it the first time I searched for Melanie’s phone number. Henry had told me there was a time when Gus had brought in the mail and watered the plants when Henry was out of town. Henry’s locks and mine were keyed the same, and when I thought about it, I couldn’t remember securing the burglar chain, which meant once she unlocked the door, there was nothing preventing her from coming in. What could be easier? I might just as well have left my front door ajar.
She must have sensed I was awake and looking at her. We stared at each other. There was no need for conversation. If she was armed with a weapon, this was the moment she’d strike, knowing I was aware of her, but powerless to fight. Instead, she moved away. I saw her turn toward the spiral stairs and disappear. I sat straight up in bed, my heart banging. I pushed the covers aside and reached for my running shoes, shoving my bare feet into them. The lighted clock face shone bright again, numbers flashing. It was 3:05. Solana must have found the breaker box. Now the power was on and I skittered down the stairs. My front door stood open and I could hear her unhurried footsteps receding along the walk. There was an insolence in the leisurely way she left. She had all the time in the world.
I closed the door, turned the thumb lock, slid on the chain, and hurried into the downstairs bathroom. Through the window I could see a squared-off view of the street. I pressed my forehead against the glass, checking in both directions. There was no sign of her. I expected to hear a car start, but the quiet was unbroken. I sank down on the rim of the tub and rubbed my face with my hands.
Now that she was gone, I was more afraid than I’d been when she was there.
In the dark of the bathroom, I closed my eyes and projected myself into her head, seeing the situation as she must view it. First the tarantula, now this. What was she up to? If she wanted me dead—which she did without doubt—why hadn’t she acted while she had the chance?
Because she wanted to demonstrate her power over me. She was telling me she could walk through walls, that it would never be safe for me to close my eyes. Wherever I went and whatever I did, I’d be vulnerable. At work, at home, I was at her mercy, alive purely at her whim, but possibly not for long. What were the other messages embedded in the first?
Starting with the obvious, she wasn’t in Mexico. She’d left the car near the border so we’d assume she’d fled. Instead, she’d doubled back. By what means? I hadn’t heard a car start, but she could have parked two blocks away and made the rest of the trip to and from my bedside on foot. The problem from her perspective was that buying or renting a car required personal identification. Peggy Klein had snatched her driver’s license and without that she was screwed. She couldn’t be certain her face, her name, and her various aliases hadn’t been burning up the wires. For all she knew, the minute she tried to use her phony credit cards, she’d announce her location and law enforcement would close in.
In the weeks she’d been gone, she probably hadn’t applied for work, which meant she was living on cash. Even if she found a way to bypass the issue of ID, buying or renting a car would eat up valuable resources. Once she killed me, she’d have to lie low, which meant she’d have to save her cash reserves to support herself until she found someone new to prey on. Those matters took patience and careful planning. She hadn’t had time enough to set up a new life. So how had she managed to get here?
By bus or by train. Traveling by bus was cheap and largely anonymous. Traveling by train would allow her to disembark a scant three blocks from where I lived.
First thing the next morning, I told Henry about my night visitor and my theory of how she’d gotten in. After that, I called a locksmith and had my locks changed. Henry and Gus had their locks changed as well. I also called Cheney and told him what had happened so he could put the word out on his end. I’d given him photographs of Solana so the officers on every shift would be familiar with her face.
Once again, my nerves were on edge. I pressed Lonnie about getting the judge’s order signed so I could have my guns back in my possession. I don’t know how he did it, but I had the order in hand and retrieved them from the gun shop that afternoon. I didn’t picture myself walking around like a gunslinger, armed to the teeth, but I had to do something to make myself feel safe.
Wednesday morning when I returned from my run, there was a photograph taped to my front door. Solana again. What now? Frowning, I pulled it free. I let myself in, locked the door behind me, and turned on the desk lamp. I studied the image, knowing what it was. She’d snapped a picture of me the day before somewhere along my jogging route. I recognized the dark blue sweats I’d worn. It had been nippy out and I’d wrapped a lime green scarf around my neck, the first and only time. It must have been late in the run because my face was flushed and I was breathing through my mouth. In the background, I could see part of a building with a streetlamp in front. The angle was odd, but I couldn’t think what that meant. The message was clear enough. Even the run, which had been my salvation, was under siege. I sat down on the couch and put a hand over my mouth. My fingers were cold and I found myself shaking my head. I couldn’t live this way. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life on red alert. I stared at the photo and another thought occurred to me. She wanted me to find her. She was showing me where she was, but she wouldn’t make it easy. Being sly was her way of maintaining the upper hand. Wherever she was, all she had to do was wait while I was forced to do the legwork. The challenge was to see if I was smart enough to track her down. If not, she’d send me another clue. What I couldn’t “get” was her game plan. She had something in mind, but I couldn’t read her well enough to figure out what it was. It was an interesting display of power. I had more at stake than she did, but she had nothing to lose.
I showered and dressed in sweats and running shoes. For breakfast, I ate cold cereal. I washed the bowl and spoon and set them in the rack to dry. I went upstairs and took out my fanny pack. I left the key picks in their compact leather folder but removed the pick gun to make room for the H&K, which I loaded and tucked in its place. I left the house with Solana’s photo of me in hand. The other snapshots I carried were of her. I walked my route—down Cabana, left on State. I kept an eye on the passing landscape, trying to identify the point from which the photo had been taken. It looked like the eye of the camera was angled downward, but not by much. If she’d been out in the open, I would have seen her. During a run, I keep my focus on the run itself, but not to the exclusion of all else. I was usually out before the sun came up, and as empty as the streets appeared to be, there were always other people about and not all of them good. I was interested in being fit, but not at the cost of being foolish.
I was torn between a natural desire to be thorough and a need to get to the point. I compromised by walking half the route. My hunch was that her location was on the beach side of the freeway. The buildings along the upper part of State had a very different look to them than the one in the photograph. I’d taken this route for weeks and it surprised me how different the streets looked when I traveled at a walking pace. Retail stores were still closed, but the popular sidewalk cafés were filled. People were heading off to the gym or returning to their cars, damp from their workouts.
At the intersection of Neil and State, I turned and retraced my steps. It helped that there weren’t that many lampposts—two to every block. I scanne
d the buildings as high as the second floor, checking fire escapes and balconies where she might have hidden. I looked for windows located at a level that would reproduce the angle from which the snapshot had been taken. I’d almost reached the railroad tracks by then and I was running short of geography. It was the section of building she’d caught in the frame that finally tipped me off. It was the T-shirt shop across the street. The skirting beneath the plate-glass window was quite distinct now that I looked at it. Slowly I walked on until the slice of background matched the picture. Then I turned and looked behind me. The Paramount Hotel.
I checked the window visible just above the marquee. It was a corner room, probably large because I could see a deep balcony that wrapped around both sides of the building at that point. Maybe the original hotel had had a restaurant up there, with French doors that opened onto the balcony so patrons could enjoy the morning air at breakfast and, later, the setting sun at the cocktail hour.
I went into the lobby through the front doors. The remodel had been done with an impeccable eye for detail. The architect had managed to capture the old glamour without sacrificing current standards of elegance. It looked like all the old brass fixtures were still in place, burnished to a high shine. I knew this to be untrue as the originals had been looted in the days just after the hotel closed. Murals in muted tones covered the walls, with scenes depicting the fashionable set in residence at the Paramount Hotel in the 1940s. The doorman was on hand, as well as numerous bellhops toting luggage for the patrons checking in. A party of rail-thin women in jaunty hats played a hand of bridge in one corner of the lobby. Two of the four had foxtail furs tossed over their suit jackets with the big shoulder pads. There was no hint that a war was going on except for the scarcity of men. The patio and pool area had been brushed in, the images lifted from old photographs. I could see six cabanas on the far side of the pool, which was flanked with ponytail palms and the larger, more graceful queen palms. What I hadn’t realized, peering at the construction through the barrier, was that the pool extended under a glass wall into the lobby itself. The lobby portion was largely decorative, but the overall effect was nice. In the mural there were vintage automobiles parked at the street and no hint of the various tourist-oriented businesses that now stretched along State. Just to the right, there was a wide carpeted stair in trompe l’oeil curving up to the mezzanine. I turned and saw the same stairway in reality.
I went up and at the top turned to my right so that I was facing the street. What I’d imagined was a restaurant or lounge was actually a lavish corner suite. The brass number on the door was an ornate 2. I could hear a television set blaring inside. I went to the window at the end of the hall and looked out. Solana must have snapped the picture from a window in the suite because the perspective was slightly off from the place where I stood.
I went down the wide stairs to the lobby. The desk clerk was in his thirties with a thin, bony face and hair slicked back with pomade in a style I’d seen only in photographs taken during the ’40s. His suit had a retro look to it as well. “Good morning. May I help you?” he said. His nails had the shine of a recent manicure.
“Yes. I’m interested in the suite on the mezzanine,” I said, and gestured toward the stairs.
“That’s the Ava Gardner Suite. It’s occupied at the moment. How soon would you need the reservation?”
“Actually, I don’t. I think a friend of mine checked in and I thought I’d pop in and surprise her.”
“She asked not to be disturbed.”
I frowned slightly. “That doesn’t sound like her. Usually she has a steady stream of visitors. Of course, she’s in the process of divorcing and maybe she’s worried her ex will try tracking her down. Can you tell me what name she used. Her married name was Brody.”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t give you that information. It’s against hotel policy. The privacy of our guests is our first priority.”
“What if I showed you a photograph? You could at least confirm that it’s my friend? I’d hate to bang on the door if I’m making a mistake.”
“Why don’t you give me your name and I’ll ring her?”
“But that would spoil the surprise.” I brought my fanny pack around from the back to the front and unzipped the smaller of the two compartments. I took out the photo of Solana and put it on the counter.
“I’m afraid I can’t help,” he said. He was careful to maintain eye contact, but I knew he couldn’t resist a peek. His eyes flicked down.
I said nothing, but I gazed at him steadily.
“Anyway, she has company at the moment. A gentleman just went up.”
So much for his respect for her privacy. “A gentleman?”
“A handsome white-haired fellow, tall, very trim. I’d say he was in his eighties.”
“Did he give you his name?”
“He didn’t have to. She called down and said she was expecting a Mr. Pitts and when he arrived I should send him right up, which is what I did.”
I could feel the color leave my face. “I want you to call the police and I want you to do it right now.”
He looked at me, a quizzical smile playing across his lips, as though this were a hoax being filmed by hidden cameras to test his response. “Call the police? That’s what the gentleman said. Are you two serious?”
“Shit! Just do it. Ask for a detective named Cheney Phillips. Can you remember that?”
“Of course,” he said, primly. “I’m not stupid.”
I stood there. He hesitated and then reached for the phone.
I moved away from the desk and took the stairs two at a time. Why would she have called Henry? And what could she have said that would get him over here? When I approached the Ava Gardner Suite for the second time, the volume on the blaring television had been turned down. The modernization and restoration of the hotel, happily from my perspective, hadn’t included the installation of card-operated locks. I didn’t recognize the lock brand, but how different could it be? I unzipped my fanny pack and took out the leather folder with its five picks. I’d have preferred the cover of loud music and talk, but I couldn’t take the chance. I was just about to set to work when the door opened and I saw Solana standing there.
She said, “I can save you the effort. Why don’t you come in? The desk clerk phoned to tell me you were on your way.”
The fuck-head, I thought. I stepped into the room. She closed the door behind me and secured the burglar chain.
This was the sitting room. Doors on the left stood open revealing two separate bedrooms and a bathroom done in an old-fashioned white marble streaked with gray. Henry was out cold, lying on the plump upholstered sofa with an IV line in his arm, the needle taped in place. His color was still good and I could see the steady rise and fall of his chest. What worried me was the loaded syringe lying on the coffee table beside a crystal bowl filled with roses.
The French doors stood open, sheers lifted by a breeze. I could see the newly planted palms near the flagstone patio surrounding the pool. The terracing was still under construction, but it looked like work had been completed on the pool, which was now in the process of being filled. Solana allowed me time to get my bearings, enjoying the fear that must have been written in my face.
“What have you done to him?”
“Sedated him. He was upset when he realized you weren’t here.”
“Why would he think I was here?”
“Because I called him and told him so. I said you’d come to the hotel and attacked me. I said I’d hurt you very badly and now you were close to death and begging me to let you see him. He didn’t believe me at first, but I insisted and he was afraid of being wrong. I told him I’d put a tap on his phone line and if he called the police, you’d be dead before he hung up. He was very quick, knocking on my door in less than fifteen minutes.”
“What did you inject him with?”
“I’m sure the name of the drug would be meaningless to you. It’s used to render a patient immobile before
surgery. I hit him with something else first, an injection in his thigh. Very fast-acting. He went down like a tree toppling in a high wind. He doesn’t seem to be conscious, but I can assure you he is. He can hear everything. He just can’t move.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Just the pleasure of watching your face as he dies,” she said. “You took away the love of my life and now I’ll take yours. Ah. But first let me have your fanny pack. Gus told me you own a gun. It wouldn’t surprise me if you had it with you.”
“I don’t, but you’re welcome to look.” I unbuckled the pack and held it out to her. When she reached for it, I grabbed her by the arm and jerked her toward me. She lost her balance and toppled forward as I brought my right knee up to meet her face. There was a lovely popping sound that I hoped was her nose. Sure enough, blood poured down her face. Her eyelids fluttered briefly and she sprawled to her knees, her hands thrown out in front of her as she tried catching herself. I kicked her in the side and stomped on one of her outstretched hands. I snatched the syringe from the coffee table and crushed it with my heel. I stood beside Henry and pulled the tape from his arm. I wanted that IV line out of him.
Solana saw what I was doing and came after me in a flying tackle. I stumbled backward onto the coffee table and dragged her with me. The coffee table tipped over. The bowl of roses bounced on the carpet and settled upright, the roses still perfectly arranged. I grabbed the crystal bowl by the rim and hit her on her upper arm, which loosened her grip. I flipped over to my hands and knees and she launched herself at me again. She hung on, while I rammed her in the side repeatedly with my elbow. I kicked back at her, catching her on the thigh, inflicting as much damage as I could with the heel of my running shoe.