In Cold Blonde (8 page)

“It’s true, Ernesto,” Syd said.  “Never once.  I think he’s
gay.”

Ernesto leaned in to Eric, “You a faggot?”

“No, sir.”

“Who cares what he is,” Syd said.  “I’m just happy you’re
here.  Come on, baby,” Syd said, pulling Ernesto toward the door. 
“Take me home.”

Ernesto let Syd drag him across the room.  The further Ernesto got
from Eric, the better Syd felt.  She’d spend the rest of her life with
Ernesto if it would save Eric’s life.

Eric would have loved to stop them.  The thought of Syd going back
to the pimp sickened him.  But Eric was smart enough to know if he took
even one step forward, the thugs would shoot him.  He’d figure out a way
to rescue her later.  So right now, discretion was the better part of
valor. 

When they reached the doorway Ernesto snapped a few Spanish words to his
men.  They holstered their guns and left the apartment.  Syd could
feel the tension leaving the room.

“Oh, just one more thing,” Ernesto said.  He slipped a throwing
knife out of his pocket and with a practiced flip of the wrist he sent it
flying across the room and into Eric’s chest.

Syd screamed, “No!”

Eric dropped to his knees.  His hands clutched the knife.  He
tried to pull it out, but it had pierced his heart.  His strength ebbed as
blood flooded his chest cavity.  He was dying, and he knew it. 

Syd rushed to Eric’s side, pulled the knife from his chest.  “Call
911!”

“Yeah, like that’s going to happen,” Ernesto scoffed.

Syd put her arms around Eric.  “I’m so sorry,” she said, crying.

Eric took one last look into Syd’s eyes.  “Thanks for the best three
weeks of my life.” 

Syd leaned down and kissed Eric, their first kiss.  And last. 
He died in her arms.

“Let’s go, Syd,” Ernesto said.  “Time to boogie.”

Syd stood, the bloody knife in her right hand.  She looked at the
malevolent smirk on Ernesto’s face and charged him, the knife sweeping up
towards his chest.   He easily caught her hand, twisted the knife
free. 

But Syd wasn’t really trying to stab him; she was using the knife as a
diversion.  As Ernesto concentrated on getting the knife, Syd slipped her
other hand into his jacket and pulled out the Beretta he always carried
there.  She stuck the .9mm under his chin and pulled the trigger.

The top of Ernesto’s head exploded and his blood and brains sprayed the
ceiling.

Syd heard footsteps, then Rodolfo and Santiago appeared in the
doorway.  They looked at Ernesto’s corpse, the gun in Syd’s hand now
pointed at them, and the crazed look in her eyes.  Wordlessly they spun on
their heels and ran.

Syd was surprisingly calm.  She knew the gunfire would bring the
cops, but she had a few things to do first.  She picked up the knife and
dropped the gun and knife in her purse.  Then she dug out Ernesto’s
wallet, it was filled, as always, with hundreds.  She took most of them,
leaving a couple for the cops to find.  Then she put the wallet back, took
a last look at Eric, and walked out the door.

Syd was two blocks away when she heard the sirens.  She was clean,
had a little money and the hope that Eric had instilled in her. 
Heartbroken, yes, but instinctively she knew that this was truly the first day
in the rest of her life.

Back in the Ivy restaurant, Syd took Ryan’s other hand.  “Worry not,
Ryan.  I’ve had a blessed life.”  Then she sealed the lie with a
kiss.      

Anne Rogers sat behind her massive mahogany desk in her plush corner
office nestled fifty stories high in the L.A. skyline.  On a clear day,
she could see from the Hollywood sign to the Pacific Ocean.  She cherished
the view, loved her office and well, hated everything else about her life.

“Dad’s refusing to help,” Anne’s husband, Rick Rogers said.  
“He can be such a self- righteous bastard.  He even threatened to go to
the D.A.”

“The payment’s due in two weeks, Rick.  What do you suggest we do?”

“Fuck ‘em.  Send the keys back to the bank and we’ll move into a
hotel until I can sort all this out.”

A balloon payment was due on their Santa Monica condo, one point one
million dollars, just the latest catastrophe in a three-year financial disaster. 
It started when Rick got a stock tip from one of his clients, a biotech firm
that was about to announce a new wonder drug.  Rick talked Anne into
investing everything they had in the stock, ride it up, then cash out with a
big profit.  But the FDA discovered the research data was rigged, banned
the drug and fined the company.  The stock tanked.

Anne and Rick lost everything.  They had no money for the beach house
mortgage, owed tens of thousands more to credit card companies and were on the
brink of declaring bankruptcy when Rick’s father stepped in to bail them
out. 

 They sold the beach house, downsized to the condo and were put on a
strict budget.  But Anne and Rick were so humiliated by being saved by Rick’s
father, and suddenly having to report to him about every nickel and dime they
spent, that Rick convinced Anne they should take a final shot at financial
independence.  They secretly mortgaged the condo, forging Rick’s father’s
signature, took the money and gambled it on a tip Rick got on a new stock
– and lost it all.  They were broke, penniless; Anne’s worst
nightmares come true. 

“Sort this out?” Anne said, furious.  “Rick, there is nothing to
sort out.  We’ll be forced to declare bankruptcy.  And if the D.A.
finds out we forged your father’s signature, we’ll be disbarred.”

“Dad’s agreed not to report the forgery but his silence did come with a
price – he wants us to resign, quit the firm.”

“What?”
“We don’t need Rogers, Middleton and Roberts,” Rick said.   “We’ll
start our own firm.

I’m sure we can take a ton of clients
with us.”

Anne looked at her husband.  The stress of the last few years had
taken a toll.  He’d been drinking too much, eating too much and his once
lean body had twenty extra pounds.  Worse, his once almost arrogant
self-confidence was so badly shaken he practically reeked of anxiety and
desperation.    

She wasn’t in love with him anymore.  She wasn’t sure she was ever
in love with him.  She hated to admit it, but she had really been in love
with his money, his power.  And as he had squandered both in the last few
years, the lie of their marriage became crystal clear.

She’d had a few affairs over the years, one-night stands when she’d been
away on business.  The sex had been fine, but the illicit adventure
appealed to her even more.  Sitting in a bar, alone, knowing all the men
were checking you out.  Scoping each of them out, imagining what they
might be like in bed.  Then the magical moment, she would choose one, meet
his eyes and smile.  It was such a turn on to watch them stand up and walk
over to her.  The power a beautiful woman has in a bar is truly
amazing.  And, if they were smart enough or charming enough or funny
enough, she’d sleep with them.

But for Anne, it wasn’t about the sex; it was the power.  It was
nice to know she still had it.  And she also realized that sex appeal had
an expiration date.  She’d been in bars and seen older women sitting
alone, attractive women in their fifties and sixties
available
written
all over them; but the men’s hungry eyes invariably landed on the younger, sexier
Anne. 

One day, Anne knew, she would be in her fifties and sixties, and she’d be
the ignored one.  When you’ve lost the power, there is only one thing left;
money.

Money had been the driving force of her life; she’d been determined to
flee her trailer trash roots.  Growing up, Anne hated her
life.   She watched the glamorous life of other teens on TV shows
like
Dawson’s Creek
and
Felicity
on a crappy 20-inch Phillips
from the dreary living room of her double-wide.  She promised herself then
she would do whatever it takes to make money.  She studied hard and earned
a scholarship to UCLA and had her heart set on law school.

When Anne met Ryan, she found a man who embodied all her teenage
daydreams.  He was tall with craggy good looks and those adorable dimples.
  

Then she found out Ryan’s dad was a rich Beverly Hills attorney, and she
knew Ryan was definitely the man for her.  Once they started dating junior
year of college, Anne wanted to close the deal, get married right away. 
But Ryan wanted to wait.  Anne suspected Ryan was skittish because of his
dad’s profligate ways; he was just divorcing wife number four at that
point.  So Anne decided to speed up the process.  She told him she
was pregnant.  A lie, but it worked; she read Ryan’s integrity perfectly
and they got married. 

When she
lost
the baby a few weeks later, Anne was worried that
Ryan would be suspicious, but of course, he wasn’t.  He loved her too much
to suspect treachery.

They might have stayed married if his stupid father hadn’t lost all his
money.  But suddenly Anne found herself living like a pauper, having to count
every frickin’ penny. 

That’s why she was so vulnerable when she first met Rick the summer she interned
at Rogers, Middleton and Roberts.  He pursued her relentlessly, giving her
flowers, jewelry, and clothes.  Then one night he invited her to dinner
and she accepted. 

Rick picked her up in his two-hundred-thousand-dollar Lamborghini, took
her to Granita, Wolfgang Puck’s swanky Malibu restaurant.  After two twelve-dollar
martinis, two thirty-dollar appetizers, two fifty-six-dollar steaks, one three-hundred-dollar
bottle of Cabernet, one eighteen-dollar dessert and two ten-dollar lattes, he
drove them to his Malibu beach house for after-dinner drinks.  The house
was almost three thousand square feet of luxury with a huge redwood deck facing
the moonlit Pacific. 

For someone as admittedly materialistic as Anne, all this wealth was like
a junkie’s first jolt of heroin.  This was so far from her mother’s crappy
trailer, so far from Anne and Ryan’s cramped studio apartment.  This was
the life she wanted.  The life she deserved.  When Rick leaned in to
kiss her, she eagerly met his lips. 

Anne never went back to the apartment.

Money.  It always came back to money.  Money is why she married
Ryan.  Money is why she left Ryan for Rick.  And now Rick had lost
all his money. 

There was no way she was going to stay with a penniless Rick if he left
the firm.  But she wasn’t ready to drop that bomb quite yet.  So she
said, “Starting our own practice sounds great, honey.  And you’re right,
plenty of clients will follow us.”  Not a chance, she thought.  Dear
old dad would make sure every client knew the embarrassing truth behind their
exit.

 “Okay, good.  Great,” Rick said, relieved at her loyalty, and
then he headed back to his office.

Anne should have been panicked by Rick’s catastrophic news.  But
Fate seemed to be coming to her rescue.  Why else would she have been
driving not four blocks from the LAPD Hollywood Division when she heard a
Hollywood Homicide detective named Ryan Magee had hit the lottery?  Why
else would he have been in the bullpen when she dropped by?  Why else
would she have seen the desire in Ryan’s eyes when they talked?

Ryan wasn’t married.  He told her he didn’t even have a
girlfriend.  So all she had to do was win Ryan’s heart back.  And how
hard could that be; she always could wrap him around her little finger.

The Windows Lounge at the Bel Air Regent Hotel lists eighteen vodka
martinis on its menu.  Vodka mixed with Triple Sec, vodka mixed with cranberry
juice, orange liqueur, watermelon pucker, blue Curacao, absinthe, crème de
fucking menthe, for Christ’s sake, thought Adam Devlin as he perused the menu,
all these inventive ways to ruin a martini.  A martini should be served very
dry, in a chilled martini glass with a twist.  Simple elegance.  And
that’s what Adam ordered when the pretty waitress stopped by, a Chopin martini,
very dry with a twist.  Then he sat back in his booth and smiled. 

Adam was in a great mood.  His meeting with the BMW reps had been
successful; he put two golfers and a tennis player under contract for three
years, total value six million dollars and he took home ten percent.  Not
bad for an hour of his time.  What a business.

And now for a little fun.  He glanced at his Rolex Cosmograph
Daytona; five twenty-five.  The very sexy Susie should be here any
minute.  He’d been fantasizing about the blonde most of the day.  If
things went as planned, he could get a room here at the hotel, or take her to
the company’s apartment in Century City.  Either way, this was going to be
fun.

“I love martinis,” a voice said over his shoulder.  “Mind if I join
you?”
            Adam turned
to find Susie standing there.  She’d changed out of the shorts and halter-top
and replaced them with a more appropriate, but equally sexy, red skirt and
blouse.  Her hair was down, a devil danced in her green eyes and a smile
played on her lips.  He stood, ever the gentlemen.  “Please,” he
said, “sit.”  She did.  “What would you like to drink?”

“Whatever you’re having,” she said, sliding close to him.  “In
fact,” she said picking up his drink.  “I can’t wait.”  Alice sipped
from Adam’s drink leaving a lipstick imprint on the rim of the glass.  She
shivered as the vodka hit bottom.  “God, that’s good.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Adam said, laughing.  Then he carefully fit
his lips around her lipstick imprint and sipped.  “It’s almost like a kiss,”
he said.

“Now, now,” she said.  “I thought we were here to talk business.”

“We are,” Adam said, getting the waitress’s attention and signaling for
two more drinks.  “You want a job in advertising, our biggest problem will
be deciding which of the fifteen or twenty companies I routinely work with will
be the best fit for you.”

“It can’t be that easy.”

“It is, trust me.  But first, tell me about yourself.  Where
are you from?”

Alice had a biography all ready.  One she cooked up just for Adam, one
that should resonate with him.  “Well, I grew up in Dayton, Ohio.  My
dad was a pharmacist and Mom was a teacher.”

“Brothers?  Sisters?”

“Nope, only child.”

“Hey, me too,” Adam said. 

“I always wished I had a sister.  Someone I could trust with all my
secrets.”

Adam reacted, surprised.  “That’s unbelievable.  I always
wanted a brother for the same reason.  I felt so alone growing up.”

Alice knew this.  Eleven years earlier, when she was a senior in
high school, she spent a two-hour school bus trip sitting next to a seventeen-year-old
Adam Devlin.  They were on a field trip to the Getty Center in Los Angeles,
and Adam got stuck sitting next to the dumpy Alice Waterman.  He’d sort of
seen her around, had heard some rumors about her being easy, but never paid her
much attention.  Not pretty enough, not popular enough, not anything
enough for his clique.  But it was a long trip and they got to
talking. 

She fell in love with him on that trip.  Played over their
conversation a thousand times in her head, spent weeks hoping he’d call or
acknowledge her at school.  Of course, he never did.  He completely
ignored her. 

Until that terrible day. 

But she’d gleaned enough information to serve her purposes today.   The
waitress arrived with their drinks; when she left, Alice said, “Anyway, I loved
high school.  I was an athlete, a tennis player, and I actually thought
about turning pro, but I blew my knee out senior year and that ended that.”

“Okay, now this is freaky,” he said.  “I was an athlete too, a
football player.  Until a linebacker cut my knees out from under me and
shredded my ACL.”

“It’s awful, isn’t it?  Not just the pain, but also the shattering
of all your dreams, all your expectations.  It was like starting over at
seventeen.”

Those were Adam Devlin’s exact words eleven years ago and he stared at
her in wonder.  “That’s
exactly
what it was like,” he said, looking
at her as if for the first time.  There was something special about this
woman, something wonderful.  And this was going to be more than a one
night stand, he decided.  Much more.