“In a town called Cherryfield. A little place way up north.”

“I see.” Her mind racing. So much to put in order. Daniel would need a first-rate criminal attorney, stat. The media had already crucified him in absentia; now that the he’d been arrested, the whole cycle would start again. God, it was going to be the trial of the year, had all the elements: sex, violence, money, celebrity. “When will he be transferred back here?”

“He won’t.”

“He’s entitled to a—”

“Daniel isn’t in custody, Ms. Zeigler.”

“I’m sorry?”

“A sheriff’s deputy responding to a Teletype spotted his car and tried to arrest him.”

Tried? What does that mean?

“Your client, you know what he did?” Waters knuckle-leaned into her desk, looking down at her. “He assaulted the officer, then drove his BMW through a hotel sign and led the deputy in a high speed chase. More than a hundred miles an hour.” Waters paused, let his words sink in. “The officer fired on him.”

There was a tentative knock on the door, and her assistant Mark poked his head in, coffee cup in hand, “Here you—”

“Not now,” she snapped. Mark looked wounded, but she ignored him, spoke to Waters. “Did he— Is Daniel all right?”

Waters paused, straightened. He shot his cuffs. “We don’t know.”

Sophie leaned back, put her fingertips to her temples. Flashed on a Thanksgiving years ago, one of her Hollywood Orphan dinner parties for those who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, go home for the holidays. Someone telling a joke and Daniel laughing at it, laughing that particular way he did, starting with a hand clap like he was marking the scene. He’d laughed that way as far back as she’d known him. It was a gesture that stayed the same while his body aged around it, while both their lives changed, while time plodded forward. She thought about how seeing that clap and hearing his laughter had given her a glow in her chest that was neither exactly lustful nor precisely maternal, but somewhere in between; a desire to help and protect him and relish the pleasure of his progress.

“Another thing,” the sheriff continuing, relentless. “Daniel had an office, right?”

“In Studio City. He didn’t use it much.”

“Last night someone broke in—”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re kidding. Wait, let me guess. You’re thinking Daniel did it, right?”

“—and when he was surprised by the security guard, beat the man to death with a rock.”

Sophie’s mouth dropped open. The retort withered on her tongue.

“Got your attention now? I understand that he’s your client, and your friend. I do. But this is the second murder he’s tangled up in. So please. Help me.”

“What.” Her voice came out a croak. “Why do you think—”

“The guard was in Daniel’s office. The rock had been used to break the window. Daniel’s fingerprints were all over.”

“It was his office.”

“I know. But it still places him there.” The sheriff sighed. “Look, I’m sure he didn’t want to kill the guy. Probably didn’t even mean to. But you know Daniel has a temper. Everyone he worked with said so. Said he was the nicest guy in the world, but that he could pop, go off.”

It can’t be true. Daniel wouldn’t—he couldn’t— Oh, sweet boy, tell me this isn’t true. “He yells. He never hurts anyone.”

“He never hurt anyone before. But now he’s scared. Desperate.”

“Wait. I told the LAPD officers that the man who broke into my house was asking about a necklace. You know that Laney bought a necklace, an expensive one, the day she died. He’s who you should be looking for.”

The sheriff nodded. “I agree.”

“You do?”

“Absolutely. And we are. But you need to understand. The way Daniel is acting, he’s not giving us any choice. Even if this other guy is involved, right now it looks like Daniel was working with him. Until he talks to us, he’s going to look guilty.”

His words triggered a memory, one she’d tried a hundred times to ignore. The middle-of-the-night panic of a ringing phone. Daniel, his words running together, slurring drunk. Far past crying. Sobbing, the wet and choking sound of raw misery. Of a person torn in half. And barely audible between the shuddering gasps, his voice saying, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s my fault.

She kept her mask in place. He was drunk. It doesn’t mean what this cop would think it means. She looked at the detective, calm in his suit, eyes sharp and hard, mind already made up. And she couldn’t blame him. Everything he said, it made sense.

“Sophie. Please. Is there anything else you can tell me?” But Daniel was still her boy.

“It’s Ms. Zeigler. And I have no information about Daniel Hayes’s whereabouts, nor have I had any—”

“Fine,” he said, going rigid. “As you like. But, Ms. Zeigler, you might remember this. You know when people are most likely to get hurt by the police?” He paused, then spoke with careful enunciation. “When they run from us.”

She opened her mouth, closed it.

“I’ll see myself out. But if you really want to protect Hayes, you’ll help me.”

5

Belinda Nichols was getting tired of bars.

She’d been working her way down Sunset, focusing on the dives, the tiki joints, the art bars with films projected on the wall and board games in a corner. Left on Silver Lake, the neighborhood Hispanics, homosexuals, and hipsters, a great combination for nightlife. But her head was pounding and she could smell a stale funk on herself—sleeping in the back of the van wasn’t doing much for her hygiene—and the gun tucked in the back of her waist was driving her crazy, digging in when she leaned back, feeling loose enough to slip when she didn’t. And through it all, the two thoughts spinning and colliding, dusting themselves off, and then spinning up again.

You’re going to point a pistol at a living, breathing person and pull the trigger.

And Where is Daniel Hayes?

It was only seven and a Monday night, so she found a place to park easily enough. As she walked past the side of the van, she stroked the four-foot wound in the side, felt the paint flake against her fingers.

You’re no longer Belinda Nichols. You’re Niki Boivin. You find people. You wanted to be a private-eye-slash-nurse who knew kung fu, like something out of a seventies action show, but really you work for lawyers and creditors. Most of the time that means you sit behind a computer and dial the phone, but sometimes you have to do it old school, and those are the nights you like best. The happiest moment of your day is jogging through morning mists with your dog, a mutt whose pit bull/dachshund heritage just had to include rape.