She twisted a length of hair between her fingers.

“I did have an idea, though.” Daniel stood, stretched. “I was thinking about it after you left. You went to see this woman— what’s her name?”

“Huh? Oh. Lisa.”

“Lisa, you went to see her hoping she might have something to help us, right? Even a picture? And it wasn’t until you were gone that it occurred to me to think, what difference would a picture make? But you were right. It’s actually kind of brilliant.” She raised an eyebrow.

“See, the thing is, if we go to the police now—”

“Daniel, no—”

“Hear me out. If we go to them now, all we have is a description, right? Sophie could come as well, and she’d back up our story, and of course you’re alive, so there’s that. But we don’t really have anything on Bennett. Nothing that they could use to catch him, and no way to make sure he doesn’t come after you if I’m locked up.”

“Okay,” she said, in a tone he remembered. It was the way she used to respond when he was talking out plot twists to her. He had a flash of another room, filled with sunlight—his office at home, maybe—and her leaning back, a little smile on her lips, saying, Okay, as he led her up to a cliffhanger. It was a good memory, and a good feeling, and he went with it, pitched his idea like a script.

“So what if we did get something on him?” He paused, held the moment. “What if, for a change, we had something Bennett didn’t want released?”

5

Late afternoon, and already the streets of Westwood Village had started to clog, UCLA students heading north to the Valley or south to Mar Vista. Bennett rolled up Broxton, past a falafel joint, a movie theater, a mystery bookstore. He got a kick out of the fact that it called itself a “village,” like somewhere there were huts and friendly peasants.

“K-Earth 101, the greatest hits on Earth!” the radio proclaimed, and then Diana Ross came on, singing about how you can’t hurry love, no, you just have to wait. Bennett turned up the volume, whistled along. Diana in her day, that was a woman.

His cell phone rang, a slow pinging sound like sonar. Bennett switched the wheel to his left hand, held the phone in his right, glanced at the display. “Hi, Laney,” turning west. “That was fast.”

“If we give you the necklace, will you leave us alone?” “Cross my heart,” he said.

A long pause, and then she said, “We’re going to do it somewhere

we feel safe.”

“And where would that be?”

“The Santa Monica Pier.”

“Kind of cliché, don’t you think?” He turned down a quiet neighborhood block a bit west of campus. “I mean, why not just do it at the foot of the Hollywood sign, go the distance?”

“Will you meet us or not?”

“When?”

“Sunset.”

“Romantic.”

“We’ll pay you. After that, we never want to see you again.” She

hung up.

He tossed the cell phone on to the passenger seat, glanced at the sky. He had an hour, maybe more.

The houses were large and well maintained, fronted by flowers and lawns. Though it was a short walk to campus, living here would be out of the budget of most professors, let alone students. The address he was looking for turned out to be a one-story with Spanish influences and tall trees spilling shade over the corner lot. A hammock was slung between two trunks. Bennett went past, parking on the opposite side of the street a block down.

One thing led to another. He’d gotten the phone number by looking at call records, highlighting the five that appeared most, and then choosing the one dialed on weekends and late at night. That gave him digits; his cop friend had translated that into an address and a name.

With a little convincing, of course.

Bennett’s leverage with the man stemmed from a police cover-up a decade old, and truth be told, it was getting thin. Of course, what the man hadn’t realized was that by supplying the address, he was tying himself to Bennett forever.

One thing led to another. Flirting with seventeen-year-old Laney led to pictures of his cock in her, which led to the perfect bait for an aspiring congressman, which led to a nice fat payday, which in turn led to leverage on Laney all over again. That was the way it worked.

The house belonged to a guy with the unlikely name of Charles Charlemagne, Esq. A little digging revealed that Chuck was a lawyer before he was a professor, and was still titular partner in a small but profitable firm, hence the digs.

Esquire. What a dick.

Bennett climbed out, walked down the block, whistling Diana Ross. He didn’t bother with the front, just hiked up the driveway of the place next door, then cut around the side yard and into the back, where Chuck had set up a vegetable garden and a nice little patio with an elaborate grill. French doors opened into what looked like a kitchen.

He slid on a pair of gloves, then pulled his sleeve over his fist and popped one of the panes of glass inward. It hit the tile and broke. Before the sound had died, he’d reached inside to unlock the door.

There was a double beep. Alarm.

Bennett sprinted down the hall. He could hear the sounds of panic, someone else in the house. Racing for the front door, because that was what people predictably did. He rounded the corner just as the deadbolt unsnapped. The woman heard him coming, spun, hands up and eyes wide.

“Hi.” Bennett smiled. “Let’s start with the alarm code.” 5

The sun had slipped beneath the horizon as Daniel paced the Santa Monica Pier, and the sky was fading fast, gory reds and brutal yellows slowly washing purple. He checked the clock on his cell phone.

Waves rolled in slow breaks up the beach, foam trimming lace and pewter. Surf kids bobbed and floated, calling across to one another, occasionally paddling to catch a swell, riding in halfway before dropping off. A handful of photographers with cameras mounted on tripods pointed long zoom lenses out to sea, hoping for the perfect stock photo, a dream of a summer evening to sell to all the landlocked in Wichita.

After Laney had made the call to Bennett, they’d left the hotel. Robert Cameron had been good as his word, leaving his silver PT Cruiser with the valet, along with a note:

L: I hope you know what you’re doing. Please be careful. I

love you.

—R

“You drive,” Laney had said. “I’ll get my phone set up.” He nodded, took the wheel. The car was nice, but he missed his

BMW. The thing had become home base for him.

“Okay,” Laney said. “Try it.”

He pulled out his disposable phone, dialed. Robert Cameron’s

voice said, “Ring, sweetie .”

“That’s your ring tone?”

“Just test it, okay?”