She’d bought it as a disposable home, a place to work out of while she settled things. Her main concern had been utility, a place for a sleeping bag so she didn’t leave a trail of hotel records. But the P.O.S. was turning out to be a perfect cover. It would have looked out of place in Malibu, except that all these beautiful, expensive homes needed someone to clean them, to care for their landscaping and maintain their pools. The private security firm that covered the area had twice passed while she’d been parked here, and hadn’t touched the brakes on either occasion.
Her stomach was tight, her nerves raw, but she made herself sit still, stare out the windshield. Taking time to check things out, to make sure that she wasn’t forgetting anything. The importance of preparation was something Bennett had taught her. He was a monster, but he was good at what he did, and there was a lot she could learn from him.
A battered pickup with a yard crew rolled by, Hispanic dudes in the back balancing among lawn mowers and leaf blowers. Four minutes later, someone’s security gate opened, and a Saab pulled out, driven by a woman talking on a cell phone. A bit after that, a nanny pushed a stroller up the block. Everything was quiet. No sign of the police.
Flipping down the visor mirror, she took a last look at herself. The port wine stain that spilled across her eye and down one cheek was brighter today, an angrier red. Her features were even, eyes big, nose small, and without the stain, she might have been a beauty. But the birthmark, naevus flammeus, was all anyone ever saw. Ask Gorbachev.
She gathered blond California-Girl hair, twisting it into a ponytail and securing it with a white scrunchie. Her clothes were bulky, work gear bought at a resale shop, and hid the toned muscles of her body. She took a slow breath, met her own eyes in the mirror.
You’re no longer Belinda Nichols. You’re Lila Bannister. You’ve got a blond dye-job that isn’t fooling anyone and two kids at home. You’d rather live in one of these houses than take care of them, rather be a movie star than a cleaning lady, but if wishes were horses, someone would need to muck out the stables. Your ex-husband is long gone, but your boyfriend is a decent man, has a job with the phone company. Saturday nights the two of you drink margaritas on your porch. During good-money months you put aside a little for a rainy day, but minor squalls seem to hit frequently: dental bills, repairs on the Dodge, Mom’s nursing home. Still, you have each other, and work, and these days that’s a blessing. Life is all right.
Lila Bannister turned the ignition, holding it as the van cranked, cranked, cranked, and caught. She went past the house, then around the block, one last check. All calm. Then she turned back onto Wandermere, drove past the lawn crew she’d seen earlier, and pulled up to Daniel Hayes’s house.
There was a security gate blocking the front, and a stanchion with a call button and a keypad. Lila rolled down her window, warm Malibu air flowing in, and leaned out to punch the code. There was the sound of a chain drawing tight, and the gate slid aside. She pulled through and followed the curve of the drive to the house. Her palms were sweaty, and she wiped them on her pants, then killed the engine.
Lila hopped out of the van, the door squealing as she pushed it open. It was November, and though the flowers were gone, the air still smelled sweet. She opened the back and took out a watering can and a duffel bag. Humming softly to herself, she walked up the porch steps to the front door. She knew no one was home, but a housekeeper would ring the bell before walking in, so she did the same. Stood on the porch, feeling the sun on her back, the tension in her calves. After fifteen or twenty seconds, she dug in the bag, came out with a key ring, and slotted one in. The door opened, and Lila walked inside, closing the door behind her.
The moment the door closed, Belinda Nichols dropped the duffel bag of cleaning products and the watering can. She took a quick lap of the first floor, just being cautious, doing what Bennett would have done. Someone had been drinking; the kitchen counter had a couple of bottles of whiskey in various stages of emptiness. The trash stank, and there were dishes in the sink. Belinda took it all in, then went back to the foyer and climbed the stairs to the second floor.
The master bedroom was flooded with sunlight and the bed was neatly made, but there was an air of lingering sadness. Belinda shook her head, then walked to the nightstand and pulled open the drawer.
The gun that was supposed to be there wasn’t.
She stared for a moment, cataloging what she saw. Lip balm, lambskin condoms, a dish filled with coins, a Gregg Hurwitz novel. No gun. She lifted the book, just in case the gun was beneath it. It wasn’t, but something else was. A shiny steel ring. She picked it up, holding it between thumb and forefinger. It was light, and the inside was worn smooth.
What the hell? Why was Daniel Hayes’s wedding ring in the drawer instead of the pistol she’d come for?
What kind of game was he playing?
Belinda slid the ring into the front pocket of her work pants, then closed the drawer and headed for the office. Hayes’s desk was neither neat nor cluttered. A laptop sat in the center. She opened a drawer—papers, scissors, stamps, rubber bands, a package of blank DVDs—and there, in the back, found what she was looking for.
She looked at them. The squat little revolver would be easy to hide. But it didn’t look as effective as the other, which was black with a chrome slide and the words SIG SAUER embossed on the textured grip. It had a sort of sportily efficient look to it, the kind of gun James Bond might carry if he decided he wanted variety. Belinda reached for it, then stopped, hand hovering and skin crawling. She hated guns.
Bennett’s voice rang in her mind. “Everybody sins, sister. To own them, all you have to do is see it.” A point he’d proven rather elegantly with her. Twice.
You really don’t have any choice .
Belinda took the gun, feeling the heft of it, the way it fit her hand. Something squirmed in her stomach, but she pushed it away. Slid the gun into the other pocket of her pants. Daniel Hayes’s wedding ring in one pocket; his pistol in the other. There was a strange, ugly sort of symmetry there.
Time to go.
Downstairs, Belinda threw her shoulders back, hoisted the cleaning supplies, and opened the door. Then Lila Bannister stepped out into the light of a gorgeous afternoon. She paused to lock the front door. Tossed her supplies in the back of the van, thinking about the rest of her day, how she had two more houses to do before making dinner for her family. She had a new Cooking Light recipe for fish tacos she was looking forward to trying. Chat with the kids about school, watch an hour or two of tube, maybe a bath, and off to bed.
The gate swung open on an automatic sensor, and the white van with the dented side pulled out, wound down to the PCH, and vanished among the eastbound traffic.
I
t started in the desert.
Daniel was ragged, worn thin by lonely miles. The last days were blurs of scenery and sunlight, his belly sour from fast food and caffeine. Last night at some ungodly dark hour, he’d pulled the car off on a Utah side road, really just a path of dusty stone and sharpedged plants. Before he’d gone to sleep, he’d shut off the headlights and stepped out of the car to stare upward. Stars spilled vertiginously across the night sky, a lavish abundance, white and sharp in the desert air. Farther than he could conceive and closer than he could bear. For a moment, all his fear dropped away. He just stared upward, lost in that holy sea, and lifted by it.