“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, staring into Laney’s eyes, seeing them staring back at him. He didn’t even want to blink. “Yeah, I’m fine. Better than.”

“Where are you?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Things have changed. For one thing I found—”

Laney shook her head, put a finger to her lips. She didn’t want Sophie to know she was alive? Why?

It didn’t matter. He trusted her. “I, ah, I found the guy who did this. That will help us.”

“How do you know he’s coming—”

“No time. Are you out?”

“I’m locking the door. Hold on.” There was the sound of keys, then heavier breathing as she walked.

“Get in your car, drive around the neighborhood a couple of times. Keep your eyes on your rearview mirror. If any cars follow you, any at all, you go straight to a police station. If they don’t, go somewhere safe.”

“All right. How do I—”

“I’m about to learn more. I’ll call you when I can.”

“All right.”

“I love you, Soph. Be careful.”

“You too. But once this is over, I’m going to kick your ass.”

“Fair enough.” He hung up the phone, took a deep breath.

“She’s okay?” Laney asked.

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure?”

“It would take him, what, twenty, twenty-five minutes to make the drive? It can’t have been more than ten.”

“So Sophie’s safe,” Laney said, stepping closer, her eyes locked on his.

“Yeah.”

“And you’re okay.”

“More or less. And you’re alive.”

“More or less,” she said, inching closer still, her gaze lasered onto his.

“What happened to your eye?”

She smiled, licked the tip of her finger, dragged it across the purple splotch, smearing it down her cheek.. “For a while I was a blonde named Belinda Nichols. She had a port wine stain. Amazing how no one looks at anything else.”

“But now you’re you.”

“Yes.”

“And Bennett doesn’t know where we are.”

“No.”

“Well, then.” He swallowed hard. “Would it be okay if I kissed you?”

“No,” she said, the syllable barely floating on breath. “Not unless you want to make love on the swing set. Next time I kiss you, I don’t intend to stop.”

“Ever?”

“Not for a long time.”

His body responded to that, to her. “Where?”

“A hotel downtown? One of those cheap ones that won’t need ID?”

He thought of the Ambassador: stained walls, piss smell in the lobby, bedding home to whole civilizations of crawling things. No. “I thought you were dead. And I very nearly was. I’m not having our reunion at a flophouse.”

“What do you have in mind?”

5

The façade was gray stone carved in intricate patterns, framing an archway thirty feet high. Lavish flower arrangements spilled out of concrete planters. The flags above the arch whispered and popped in the breeze. A uniformed doorman stood at attention. “Welcome to the Beverly Wilshire.”

“Thank you,” Daniel said, and gestured Laney through the open door, ignoring her are-you-crazy? look. The lobby was echoing marble and graceful curves. A chandelier of shimmering crystal hung in the center of the room. Daniel took a deep breath: clean air, faintly scented with lemon. Behind the reception desk, a smart-suited man nodded to him.

“What are you doing?” Laney asked under her breath. She had her sunglasses on, one hand up to obscure her face.

“First, I’m going to get us a room. Then I’m going to do terrible things to you in it.”

Still looking down, she smiled, but said, “This very romantic, but we can’t take the risk. Bennett has people everywhere, he’ll know if you use your credit card.”

“How much cash do you have?”

“About five thousand dollars.”

“Five thousand dollars? What are you doing with— It doesn’t matter. That’s plenty.”

“But they won’t let you—”

“Relax,” he said, feeling better than he had in weeks. “I’m a writer.” He winked and turned away, strode over to the desk. The man behind the counter flashed a bright smile, said, “Good morning, sir.”

Daniel straightened his posture, glad he’d left the gaudy Hawaiian shirt back at the Farmers Market. Great thing about L.A., anyone in a black T-shirt might be a producer. “Morning. Are you the manager, by any chance?”

“Yes, sir.” The man’s suit had never had a wrinkle. “How may I help you?”

“I’d like a suite.”

“We have several Beverly suites available.”

“The rooms are nice?”

“They’re lovely, sir. King-sized bed, Italian marble soaking tubs, balconies offering stunning city views. For how many nights will this be?”

“Just one.”

“Yes sir.” The man clicked on a hidden keyboard. “All I’ll need—”

“Here’s the thing— I’m sorry, what was your name?”

“Thomas River.”

“Here’s the thing, Thomas. I’d like to be discreet about it.” He gave the tiniest motion with his head to indicate Laney behind him. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Certainly, sir. We just need a credit card to book the room, but we don’t charge it, and you can pay however you like.” The ready answer of a man experienced at accommodating cheating husbands.

“I appreciate that, Thomas, I do. But my credit card bills go to my house. And while I’m sure you would be careful, I can’t chance one of your employees making a mistake, maybe charging room service. I’m afraid I need a little more discretion than that.”

“I see. Well—”

“So what I’d like to do, if I may, is give you cash, up front, for the room. And of course for your trouble.”

“Sir, I—”

“How about . . .” He pulled the money from his pocket, all that remained from pawning his Rolex a week ago. “Two thousand, one hundred and . . . eighty-seven dollars. I’d leave it to you to determine how that money broke down, of course.”