The Private Concierge. Suzanne Forster

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СКАЧАТЬ black-ink ballpoint, the kind he’d preferred for making case notes when he’d been a vice cop in the downtown L.A. bureau. He considered assigning the case a new number, but decided to stay with the original, based in part on his theory that people, like lab rats, didn’t change, they just learned new strategies for getting what they needed. Cynical, maybe, but he had more reason than most men to be that way.

      He clicked the push-button pen and began writing the first new entry in fifteen years. It was about her, who she was today and why she hadn’t changed, either. And it was in his own words, his own unfiltered thoughts, because he had every intention of destroying these notes when he’d done what he had to do. No one would ever read this file but him.

      Case Notes: Wednesday, October 9, 11:00 p.m.

      Her real name is Lucia Cox. She changed it to avoid any association with her criminal past. But she hasn’t left her past behind. She’s still selling what everybody wants. She’s just found a way to make it legal.

      

      He paused, aware of his quickening pulse. This was getting to him, getting too personal. And that was the problem. It was personal. He set down the pen, unable to write as fast as his thoughts were coming. She’d had the power at fifteen when he put her in jail. She was thirty now. She’d been free and on her own since eighteen, and it wasn’t hard to imagine that she’d planned her steps carefully, including choosing the perfect profession. She had some of the country’s highest-profile people in her care.

      It should have been a match made in heaven for all concerned, except that Lucy’s clients were dropping like flies, being brought down by scandal, innuendo, and now, death. And no one seemed to get the connection but him. Her clients moved in the special spheres of power and privilege, isolated from the real world and its rules, and from anyone who would dare to tell them the truth. When you were that isolated, who really knew you better than your hairstylist, your personal trainer…or your private concierge?

      1

      Saturday, October 5

       Four days earlier

      Ned Talbert hit the brakes so hard his Alfa Romeo Spider snorted and its wheels dug into the gravel like a pawing bull. The back end lifted as if the sports car was about to do a somersault, and Ned’s knees knocked against the dash.

      Geysering pebbles splattered the windshield.

      He heaved himself back, grunting as the steering wheel disengaged from his ribs. Amazing the air bags hadn’t inflated. He’d barely missed colliding head-on with the entrance gate to Rick Bayless’s cabin in the San Gabriel Mountains.

      The gate wasn’t just closed, it was padlocked. Even in the falling light, Ned spotted the shiny new lock as he struggled to get out of the Spider. His legs were jelly. Padlocked? Rick never padlocked the gate—and it wasn’t even 5:00 p.m., too early to close up the place for the night.

      Ned broke into a run and didn’t stop. He could see he wasn’t going to get the gate open so he coiled and vaulted the chain-link mesh, leaving a strip of his pant leg on the scrollwork, leaving the door hanging open to his obscenely expensive new car, leaving it all behind, and running like a madman up the road to the darkened mountain cabin a thousand feet away.

      Bayless had to be in there.

      Ned could have been running the bases at Dodger Stadium. He could have been in the heat of a playoff game, that’s how adrenalized he was. But he wasn’t going to make it to home plate this time. Not without his friend’s help.

      It was getting dark, but no light glowed in the cabin windows. Rick’s Jeep Commander sat in the driveway. Maybe he was taking a nap. Ned took all three porch steps in one leap and pounded on the creaky wooden door. No answer. He kept hammering, using his fist and making the door buckle with each blow. How could anyone sleep through this noise? He wondered about the odds of Rick having a girl in there. Ned had never known him to do that, but the way Ned’s luck was going, this would be the time. He hated the thought of interrupting them, but he had no choice. His life was in crisis.

      “Rick, you in there?” he bellowed.

      Ned hit the door with his shoulder and realized it was bolted. He was going to have to kick it in. Two blows shattered the wood enough that he could reach inside and open the bolt. The interior was dark, but light from the doorway revealed the lower torso of a man sitting in a straight-back chair by the far wall. Ned could see his denim jeans and his bare feet, but little else. His face and shoulders were masked by shadows. It looked like an interrogation scene, except that no one else was in the room.

      Ned didn’t notice the gun until he saw Rick’s hands. They were in his lap, cradling a Colt .357 Python. Rick was a former vice cop. He’d carried a gun as long as Ned could remember.

      Ned’s legs were jelly again. His whole body was limp.

      “Rick, what the hell.” It wasn’t a question. It was a howl of despair. Ned knew what the hell was going on. He knew why Rick had a gun in his hands, and what he intended to do with it—and he couldn’t, by any stretch of good conscience, try to stop his friend, or even change his mind.

      Ned knew the whole wretched story. It made no sense that Rick Bayless should be dealing with this. He was young, forty-two years old and in his physical prime. Ned had been jealous of Rick all his life, even though Ned was the star athlete. Hell, women swooned, or whatever it was women did around men who made their eyes lose focus and their minds swim with thoughts of drowning sex. They loved the dude, but only from a distance. No one really got close to Rick Bayless, not even Ned, and they had been friends since…forever.

      “Buddy, are you sure? This is it? There aren’t any do overs.”

      Ned’s voice broke, and Rick looked up. Ned couldn’t see his friend’s face, but he could see the movement of his head in the shadows. Rick’s gaze could burn paper, and those incinerating rays were now fixed on him. But his voice was tuned low, almost surprised.

      “Ned, what are you doing here?”

      Ned thought about whether he should tell him the truth, but then blurted it out. “I’ve got a problem, man. It’s bad. I’ve been looking for you everywhere, down at your place in Manhattan Beach, at Duke’s on the pier. I even checked out the old orange grove where you go to walk and think.”

      Rick said nothing, which was significant because nothing wasn’t “Get out of here.” It wasn’t “Take care of your own damn problems for a change.”

      Ned felt hope slam through him. It nearly knocked him over. Maybe he could talk his friend out of it? Rick was a sucker for a hard-luck story, and this one was the God’s truth.

      “I’m being blackmailed. I’m getting anonymous calls from some crazy dude who thinks I’m into hard-core sexual sadism—whips and chains and leaving burn marks on my girlfriend’s genitals. It’s sick, man. He faxed me a picture that I swear isn’t me and Holly, but it looks like us. He’s threatening to fax the tabloids unless I throw the next game.”

      Ned’s throat was so dry he couldn’t swallow. It sounded like he was strangling, and the pain was peppery hot. It radiated up his jaw.

      He waited for his friend, and finally, Rick shook his head.

      “I’m sorry, man,” he said.

      “Sorry?”

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