The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes (25 page)

Dressed only in his underwear, Daniel leaned on the balcony railing. Below, Beverly Hills spread out in a dream of shiny affluence. Angelenos moved down the sidewalks, shopping bags in hand. A soft breeze tugged at the trees. Somewhere a horn honked.

He smiled and stretched. His body was warm with sunlight and sex. They’d made love again, slower this time, sweeter, their eyes locked, the whole experience filled with a glowing charge. He had lost everything, and then discovered that it wasn’t gone, only hidden. And now that he had found his way back to his life, he would never lose it again. His memory would return in time. His beautiful girl would stand with him, help him through. He wasn’t alone anymore.

Daniel wandered back into the suite, left the door open so the wind could tug at the curtain. Through the bathroom door he could hear the whir of the hair dryer. The room was gorgeous, tastefully modern and sumptuous in every detail. It beat the crap out of the Ambassador.

He snagged a robe from the closet, tied the belt as he walked to the door. A glance through the peephole showed a server holding a heavy tray at shoulder height. Daniel opened the door, and the man walked in. “Good afternoon, sir.”

The man nodded, carried the tray to the bed. When Daniel pulled out cash, the server shook his head. “The manager, Mr. River, took care of it, sir.”

After the man left, Daniel rapped on the bathroom door, told Laney the food had arrived. He lifted the heavy silver cover off her salad and his own meal, steak sandwich with blue cheese and caramelized onions. He used the bottle opener to pop one of the Sierra Nevadas and took a long, lovely swallow.

Laney walked out of the bathroom on a cloud of steam. Her robe was open, and her skin was bright pink. She caught him looking, smiled, and went to the tray. “Man, that sandwich looks great. Why did I order a salad?”

“I’ll share.”
“I love my husband.” She sat on the bed with one leg curled beneath her, and lifted half the sandwich, leaning over the tray to take a bite.
Daniel sat on the bed against the headboard. The steak was tender and bloody and dripping juice.
“So I got a call,” Laney said, “while I was in the bath.”
“You have your phone?”
“Even bought a car charger for it in case you called.”
He shook his head. “All this time.”
“Yeah. Anyway, it’s good news.” She took a bite, chewed a moment before continuing. “It was a girl I knew a little bit, back in Chicago. I’ve been trying to reach her all week. She knew Bennett too.” “Really?”
Laney nodded. “I saw her at one of those parties in the hills a couple of years ago. Back then neither of us wanted anything to do with the past, so we didn’t talk. But I got to thinking, maybe she knows something that could help us.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she has a picture. Or maybe he forced her to do something too, something that we could use.”
“Is it safe to talk to her? You’re supposed to be dead, and you said Bennett will be watching everyone.”
“I don’t think he knows she’s here.”
“Why don’t we just go to the police?”
“No,” she said.
“Why not?”
“They’ll arrest you.”
“For what? You’re alive.”
“But you ran from them.”
“Big deal. I don’t really care at this point.”
“Okay, but what happens if they arrest you? Bennett will still be out there. And I’ll be alone.”
The thought brought him up cold.
“Look,” she said. “I’m not saying let’s not go to the police. I’m just saying, let’s not go to them yet. Let’s keep our options open.”
“Okay,” he said. “Fair enough. I’ll call down for a cab for us.”
“No,” she said. “I have to go alone.”
“No chance.”
“Daniel, she’s freaked out. The only way she’ll help is if it’s just me.”
“So I won’t go in with you—”
“Yeah, because a strange man in a cab at the end of her driveway is going to be reassuring.”
“Laney—”
“I have to do this alone.”
He drummed his fingers together. He’d just found her again, and nothing in him wanted to be parted for even a minute. On the other hand, Laney wasn’t some useless woman in a horror film. She’d been alone for the last week.
And let’s not forget that she’s not the one with a broken brain.
“How long will it take?”
“An hour. Maybe two.”
“You’ll be really careful?”
“Of course.”
“If anything at all seems suspicious. If someone follows you, or the girl seems like maybe she’s hiding something.”
“Trust me. I’m not going to take any risks.”
Daniel set his sandwich down, grabbed his beer, walked to the window. Stared out at the city beyond.
“I think this is the right thing to do,” Laney said from behind him. “But if you really don’t want me to, I won’t.”
It’s a big city. Bennett can’t watch all of it. And she’s right—if you go to the police, there’s a good chance that she’ll be truly on her own. Not for an hour or two, but for days, maybe weeks.
None of it did much for the fear in his belly. He raised the bottle to his lips, realized it was empty.
“Take the gun,” he said.

Before she left, Laney called Robert. It took her two minutes to convince him it was really her, and another five to calm him down. Finally, she cut in. “Robert, I promise, I’ll tell you everything, everything, but later, okay? Right now I need your help.”

“Lend me your car?” Neither she nor Daniel knew how long the police would be at the Farmers Market, but it hardly seemed worth the risk. And she trusted Robert to keep quiet.

“Sweetie, you can
have
my car.”
Laney smiled. “Can you do me a favor and bring it to me?” “Where are you?”
“The Beverly Wilshire.”
“Wonderful place to be dead. We’re between takes, but I’ll play

the diva card.”
“No, no need. Just bring it when you’re done.” She gave him their
room number. “Leave it with the valet?”
“Wait, what? I want to see you.”
“I know. Me too. But I can’t risk it.”
“Why not?”
“We have to stay out of sight—”
“We?”
“Daniel and I.”
“Daniel.” Robert might have been saying “hemorrhoids.” “Yes. My husband?” She knew that he and Daniel had some friction. Male territorialism, heightened by the fact that the three of
them worked together. “Listen, now’s not the time. I just need your
help. Will you help me?”
“Of course. But why the secrecy? Can you at least tell me that?” “I’m sorry. I can’t, not right now.”
There was a long pause. “Are you all right, Laney?” “No,” she said. “But we’re working on it.”
By the soft lighting of the bathroom, she reapplied her port wine
stain, steadily painting on a false face. Afterward, she showed Daniel the full charge on her cell phone, the almost-full magazine of
the Sig Sauer. She rose up on tiptoes to kiss her husband. Then she
walked out of the suite and down the hall and took the elevator to the lobby and stepped out into the cheery sunlight of another
perfect Los Angeles afternoon.
All without letting one hint of the lie show on her features.
You’re no longer Laney Thayer. You’re Elaine Hayes. The first
name was your mother’s; the last is your husband’s. You’re the
private side of a public person, the one who would rather spend
Saturday night playing Scrabble and splitting a bottle of red than
playing starlet and strutting a red carpet. You stand straight and
look people in the eye, but you don’t pose or preen. Your sunglasses
are regular size.
She’d repeated it to herself as she walked the streets of Beverly
Hills, headed not for a taxi and an imaginary girl in West Hollywood, but here, this bland institution, this lobby with its fake plants
and fluorescent lights and insipid carpeting. What was it about a
bank that made everyone so quiet? Any other situation where people stood in line, they chatted and joked and answered cell phones.
But in the implied presence of money, everything went quiet, the
only sounds the shuffle of paper. An occasional cough, or the rustle
of a sleeve as someone glanced at a watch.
There are cameras and security guards and yours is a famous
face. If someone recognizes you . . .
“Can I help you?” The greeter looked fresh-scrubbed, his suit
nice but not stylish, his cheeks pink.
“Yes,” she said. “I have a safe deposit box?” Letting her voice go
higher at the end to emphasize that it didn’t hold false passports and
unregistered weapons, but the kind of documents regular people
might store there, and that thus it was something not often visited.
That this was a small novelty, but not worth noting.
“Yes, ma’am,” the man said. “Come with me, Ms. . . .” “Hayes.”
“Ms. Hayes.” He led her to an empty desk—why were there always empty desks at banks?—and sliding behind it, “May I see
your driver’s license?”
She nodded, dug her wallet from her purse, slid out her ID. The
picture was a few years old, taken around the time
Candy Girls
first
aired, and showed her with her real hair, dark brown and shoulder
length, layered to frame her face. It was a dead ringer for the image
on a hundred billboards and magazine ads, and no port wine stain
marked her cheek. She held it for a second, not wanting to pass it
over. What if this guy recognized her? Would he think to ask a question? Would he say she looked like that actress? The name on the
ID. was her real name, Elaine Hayes, not Laney Thayer, but still,
the leap was small.
Find it. Fast.
Bennett’s voice ringing in her ears.
Elaine Hayes passed the card across the desk and made herself
smile.
The man punched a few keys, his eyes on the computer monitor.
He glanced at the license, punched a few more keys. Finally he said,
“Here we are. Box 152?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He typed some more. “Did you hear the news?” “What’s that?”
“There was a shooting at the Farmers Market.”
“Really?”
“Just this morning.” He looked across the desk at her. “Can you
believe it?”
“Wow. No. My husband and I go there all the time.” “Scary, isn’t it? You think you’re safe, that that sort of thing only
happens somewhere else, but.” He shook his head. “Right this way,
Ms. Hayes.”
She followed him, keeping her head down, feeling the cameras
pointed like accusing eyes. He led her to a side door, typed a quick code on a number pad. An LED went from red to green, and he
opened the door, then gestured her through.
The room was just as she remembered. A wall of numbered boxes
with metal doors, gray carpet on the floor, and a clean, powdery
smell. A closed-circuit camera stared from the corner.
“Here you are,” he said. “You can use this for privacy.” He gestured to a desk framed with a curtain. “When you’re done, just put
the box back. The door will lock behind you.”
“Thanks,” she said, and waited for him to leave. Then she took
out her key chain and used the smallest one to open the lock, pulled
out the box, and took it to the desk, closing the curtain behind. She said a little prayer to the universe:
Let it be here, please, let it
be here and I’ll finish this quietly. Daniel will never need to know.
Elaine flipped up the lid of the box. Inside were papers in manila
folders, contracts and tax statements. Two passports, hers and his.
An envelope with a dozen photographs. She’d forgotten about those,
the pictures she’d let Daniel take of her; he’d called them “erotic,”
she’d called them “porno,” but posing for them had been fun, given
her a glow, knowing that in fifty years they would have these shots,
the two of them young and lusty and naked. Once the show hit,
they moved them here, not wanting some ambitious faux-friend to
ransack their drawers and sell the pictures to paparazzi. There was
a brooch that had belonged to her mother, and seeing it gave her a
flash of memory, golden sunlight and hair that smelled like honey
and the necklace dangling down as her mom leaned over her. What was not there, what was conspicuously absent, was a diamond necklace worth half a million dollars.
She wanted to turn the box upside down and shake it. She wanted
to punch the table and scream.
Be calm. If you want to keep your secret, you have to be calm.
Elaine closed the box. Slid it back in the frame. Walked out the door. The same man wished her a good afternoon as she passed, but she just kept her head down until she stepped back out onto
Wilshire.
Somehow things had gotten worse instead of better. Laney
Thayer raised a hand to her forehead, squeezed her temples. It had
been a long shot, she supposed. But where else would Daniel have
put the necklace? This was the safest place. Though now that she
thought about it, she couldn’t imagine him driving in from Malibu
to tuck it safely away before he went on his cross-country suicide
run. That was the problem with improvising, you just had to hope
that you were going in the right direction. If it had paid out, and the
necklace had been here, she could have called Bennett— “Hey, is that Laney Thayer?”
She whirled.
Bennett smiled at her. He wore the same nondescript clothes as
before, the same bland expression, but in one hand he held an ice
cream cone, a scoop of pink perched atop one of white. “How—what are you—”
“Last time I was in your house I went through your bank records.
Terrible habit of mine. I saw you had a safe deposit box, and thought
you might have stowed my necklace there.” He bit a chunk out of
the ice cream.
“No.” Her skin was cold despite the sunlight. The gun bit into
her belly. “I thought Daniel might have. But it’s not.”
“Want a lick?” Bennett held the cone out to her. When she just
stared at him, he shrugged, pursed his lips around it, rounding and
smoothing the portion he’d bitten.
“I need more time,” she said.
“We all need more time, sister.”
“I’m trying. But I don’t know where it is.”
“Daniel does.”
“Look, his memory, I told you—”
“And I told you,” Bennett wiped a drip of pink off his chin, “I
don’t care. Daniel knows. Go to work on our boy.” He took another
bite of the ice cream, then tossed the cone sideways. It landed in the
street with a splat. He brushed his hands off. “Or I will.” Bennett turned and walked away. She stared at him, his back to
her. It would be so simple. Pull the pistol from her belt. Aim carefully, the way she had practiced. Squeeze the trigger—
Yeah. Shoot him in broad daylight in front of a bank on Wilshire
Boulevard. Excellent plan.
She grit her teeth until her jaw ached.
Then she started walking.