Hello, self. Guess what? You have no idea what’s ahead of you. The thought made him grin. He took another sip of coffee, then turned at the sound of her bare feet on the hardwood floor. “When was this?”
She glanced at it. “Nineteen ninety . . . six? Around there. Hollywood Orphans.”
“Huh?”
“I keep forgetting that you don’t remember. Every Thanksgiving I host dinner for Hollywood Orphans. Friends who don’t go home for the holiday.”
“Where is home?”
“You were born in Little Rock. But home was always here.”
“I don’t have family?”
“Depends what you mean.”
He nodded. “So I’ve lived here a long time.”
“You used to say that one of the things you loved about Los Angeles was that it had no memory. Kind of ironic now, huh?”
“Yeah.” He leaned in. “So’s that haircut.”
“Not your finest hour, on a fashion level. But then, like you always say. Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.”
“I say that?”
“All the time, sweetie. That and ‘It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission.’ The twin pillars of the Daniel Hayes Philosophy of Life.” Sophie straightened and said, “I got hold of Jen. She was going into a deposition, only had a minute. But she’s in. She says that from what I told her, you’ll be fine.”
“Really?”
“Her exact words were ‘By the time I’m done, that sheriff will be wondering if there’s a god in heaven.’ ”
He shook his head. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“It’s what we do. Anyway, Jen is going to come over as soon as she’s out of court. Probably won’t be until six or so. She said that meanwhile you should just stay put.”
“Not a chance.”
“Huh?”
He turned to her, put his hands on her arms. “I was thinking about it while you were on the phone. You’re a lawyer.”
“This took thinking?”
“What I mean is, I can’t stay here. I’m a fugitive. You’re harboring a fugitive. I didn’t go to law school, but I’m guessing that won’t go over so well.”
“It’s not—”
“You’ve already given me more than I ever dreamed. I’m not going to do anything that could get you in trouble. Hell, you could probably get disbarred for this.”
She hesitated.
“Right?”
“I doubt it. Besides, no one needs to know.”
“I’m not going to risk your career over this. I’m just not.”
“So what—”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going all Charles Bronson. I’ve got a room at a shithole hotel downtown. I’ll pick up some Thai takeout, lock the door, and wait for your call.”
She paused, that professional mask back up, the one that meant she was weighing the arguments. Finally, she said, “You’ll stay there?”
“Cross my heart.” He smiled at her. “Anyway, I’ve got the laptop, there’s a lot still to go through. Maybe I’ll find something that can help us.”
She nodded slowly. “All right. That makes sense. I’ve got work to do anyway.”
“A studio to squeeze?”
“A party to manage. Too G.”
“Huh?”
“The rap star, Too G. The premiere of his movie is tomorrow night, and he’s throwing a big press party at a club called Lux. It’s a pain in the ass. He’s ‘gangsta,’ ” making air quotes, “so the whole thing has to look tough. We’re hiring security, setting up metal detectors at the door, hiring limos with bulletproof glass, all to maintain the illusion that Tudy Wadell is a dangerous man.”
“Gotta love Los Angeles.”
“It’s a company town, what can you do. Anyway, how do I reach you?”
“I bought a cell phone last night.” He gave her the number. “One more thing.” He bit his lip.
“What?”
“I—this sounds weird, but would you mind. Could I—would you—”
“Spit it out, kiddo.”
“Could I hug you again?” He shrugged, embarrassed. “It’s just, it’s been.”
To his relief, she didn’t say anything. She just smiled up at him and opened her arms. He stepped into the warmth and safety of them, squeezed her hard. God, but it felt good to have someone love him.
When he stepped back a moment later, he said, “You be careful.”
“You’re the fugitive.”
“Yeah, but. Just do, okay?” He opened the door, stepped out, then turned. “And thanks again. For everything. Most people would have let me hang.”
“Hey,” she said. “Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.”
Daniel smiled at her, then stepped outside, walked to his car. As he cranked it up, he glanced back, saw her framed in the door. The expression on her face was hard to read, a complicated blend of emotions, happy and sad all mixed together.
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.