From Cape Town with Love (27 page)

“I bought this cane for your father,” April said. She knew how hard Dad had worked to walk again. When she first met him, he was confined to his bed. Our history was in that cane.

“Bring it by next week.”

“I'll be there,” she said, her eyes glistening. “Will you?”

“I'll try.”

After hearing what Xolo Nyathi had to say about Spider, April hadn't broached the subject of teamwork on the case. She knew her limitations; she only wished I knew mine.

“I write for a living, Ten, and I can never think of the right words with you,” she said. “But I'll try this one—
please?
I don't know what else to say. Because if you run out there and get killed, it will bust open a hole in me I'll never fill up again. And your father. And Chela.”

“Now you're worried about filling a hole?” I said. I couldn't stop myself.

“Don't you get it, Ten? I was afraid of
this.”

“I'm adopting Chela,” I said, out of the blue. I needed to change the subject. “I've talked to a lawyer. We're looking for her birth mother.”

“That's great. Then you need to be here for her. Isn't that the point of adoption?”

That stung. I shouldn't have expected April to understand, but I wished she did.

“I promised Nandi, April,” I said. “I held her in my arms, looked into her eyes and told her I was coming back for her.” Saying it aloud sucked all the air out of my lungs.

April blinked fast, her mommy instincts afire, but she didn't miss a beat of tranquil reasoning. “And you can do that—with the help of the police and the FBI. The information you just brought Lieutenant Nelson can help bring Nandi home.
That's
what your promise meant. It doesn't have to be you. Don't keep repeating the same mistake, Ten.”

I tried to look at her, but instead I stared at the sky.

April leaned against me. Her chest sank to mine, firm and familiar. I cradled my arm around her back, holding her in place. She inched closer to me, and our pelvises brushed. Warm arousal flared, a memory of touching. Her scent fogged my mind.

“You're barely on your feet,” she said. “Come home with me. Climb into bed. Let me hold you, Ten. Please?” Her whisper was hot in my ear.

You fucked up, Ten,
my Evil Voice agreed.
Leave it to the FBI. Go with April. LIVE.

Had I been waiting seven months for April to give me a second chance? Had Marsha only helped me forget everything April made me remember?

Fresh misery clawed at my stomach as I leaned over to kiss April's forehead, like a brother. I took a step away from her, setting her free.

“Not today,” I said.

There was much more to say, but no more time.

Somewhere, Nandi was waiting for me.

The day staggered on in dream time. I was so tired, I dozed at the lights. When my eyesight blurred, I reminded myself that I hadn't slept in two days, since Nandi vanished. The longer I was behind the wheel, the more sense April's offer made.

Then I could swear I heard Nandi crying, and I drove faster, blowing past speed limits with the car's gentle V8. Obstacles appeared out of nowhere, forcing me to jam on my brakes. I was half delirious, and April had known it.

I was also driving nowhere fast. What was my next move?

At the nearest 7-Eleven, I loaded up on Excedrin for migraine, craving both the caffeine lift and the pain relief. I ignored the throbbing most of the time, but it was hard to think. In the car, I kept the AC on full blast until my arms were covered with gooseflesh. I needed the cold air to keep my body and mind awake.

To keep alert, I lectured myself aloud: “Man, you can't just show up asking questions the way you did in Little Ethiopia. Your face is all over TV today. You need to vanish.”

I hung on my every word.
That brother's talking sense.

I stopped at a large thrift shop to find clothes for a character I could commit to all day.

Good thing I was in Hollywood.

By 11
A.M.,
Tennyson Hardwick was dead. I was a brand-new man.

To erase myself, I replaced every item of clothing except my briefs. I remembered I might need to run, and rejected a pair of sandals reminiscent of Xolo Nyathi's. I settled on plain brown loafers that looked brand new and fit fine. For clothes, I found a white guayabera and loose-fitting track pants. Business casual, and loose enough to give me freedom of movement. I topped off my ensemble with a fake Gucci bucket hat.

I drove to Ursula's Costumes in Santa Monica to complete my new identity. I've been to Ursula's a few times, so one of the salespeople, Heidi, recognized me right away. Her eyes widened in surprise when
she saw my face, so she'd been watching the news. But Heidi only gave me a sympathetic smile and a half wave, and she left me alone to browse.

I'm gonna bring that girl flowers one day, if I survive the one I'm in.

Careful shopping and fifteen solid minutes in front of a mirror gave me a full beard and sideburns neatly trimmed down; enough facial hair to obscure my features, but not so much that I would stand out. Aviator sunglasses finished my new look.

It wouldn't fool the people closest to me, but I hoped it would be enough.

Next, I had to find my body language, and my voice.

I'm good with accents. I could pull off a decent southern African accent, but I didn't dare try it in the field. South Africans spoke English, but they also spoke Xhosa, Zulu, or Afrikaans, too, just for starters. As for the rest of the continent, I didn't know any Swahili, Wolof, or Amharic either. My cover story would have to steer clear of Africa.

“Hey, man,” I said to the mirror. “What's your name?”

The man in the mirror mulled it over.

“I'm Clarence, mon,” the man in the mirror said with a perfect Jamaican accent. His shoulders slouched down, his belly poked out, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. He was ten pounds overweight. He might have been athletic once, but had become bored with his body. He was no threat to anyone physically. He liked music, women, and smoking blunts.

“Clarence Love. I'm a singer, yeah? From Kingston. I'm new to L.A., just tryin' to find my way round. Looking for new places to spread the Love.”

His voice was music. He extended his arms Christlike and grinned, inviting me to bask in his fabulousness. Clarence Love was born.

A text message vibrated in my pocket. I had to fumble for my phone; the pocket was deeper than I'd thought. My hand shook.
Please let it be Maitlin with good news.

Instead, it was a text message from Marsha:

Stop hot-dogging B4 you get killed. I can help with the Kingdom. Come see me ASAP.

It didn't sound like good news, but it was the closest I'd had all day.

The Chateau Marmont in Hollywood is notorious for bad behavior. The founder of Columbia Pictures, Harry Cohn, said in 1939, “If you must get in trouble, do it at the Chateau Marmont.” The hotel was built on a hill above the Sunset Strip in the 1920s, an imitation of a French royal residence. With its private balconies and hasty escape routes, that place is screaming with gossip. I ought to know.

The hotel was living up to its reputation, yet again. How did Marsha know I was investigating the Kingdom of Heaven?

As my Corvette sped toward Marsha's suite at the Chateau Marmont, I made a mental list of everything I knew about the woman I'd been fucking for the past week. The list wasn't nearly long enough. The more I thought about her, the more nervous Marsha made me.

When I pieced together my history with Marsha, thoughts surfaced that crumbled my stomach to dust.
She's been spying on you and your family. She didn't find you by accident. Five days after you met her, Nandi disappeared.

The first day we'd met had been a game, start to finish. She'd been conducting a sophisticated surveillance that probably was illegal, and her body did all of her talking. Luring a mark into bed is the oldest trick in a liar's book. Was Marsha using me? And if so, why?

One last, terrible thought persisted:
Does Marsha have something to do with Nandi?

By the time I got to the hotel, I was pissed off six different ways. I unpacked my Glock, nestling it snugly down the back of my pants, hidden by my loose shirt. I wasn't going anywhere else without my weapon.

As Clarence Love, I asked the concierge to call Marsha's suite, testing my accent. He didn't recognize me from my earlier visits, so one thing went right.

When Marsha opened her door, she was wearing only a T-shirt above endless brown legs. “I like your new look, Clarence,” Marsha said.

My Glock tugged on my waistband at the small of my back. “We need to talk,” I said.

Marsha moved aside, untroubled by my empty eyes. “Yes,” she said. “We do.”

I never turned my back on Marsha as I walked into her foyer and she locked her door behind me. She was in a junior suite, about five hundred square feet, with a combined sitting room and bedroom, and a full dining area and kitchen. The furniture was 1940s style.

For the first time since I'd known Marsha, I ignored her prominent queen bed. I watched the corners for shadows, in case she wasn't alone. A fluttering curtain in the dining area made my fingers twitch to reach behind my back.

“You should sit down, Ten,” Marsha said. “You're jumping at shadows.”

Her sofa looked good, so I sat. From my vantage point, I could see the foyer, the balcony door, and the kitchen. No one would surprise me. Marsha bent over to pick up her jeans from the floor, flashing me her buttocks. For half a second, my eyes were caught.

“Start talking,” I said.

She flung her hair out of her face, wrapping it into a ponytail. I'd never seen her with such a girlish hairstyle, softening her face.
She's changing her identity in front of your eyes.

“I'm really sorry, Ten,” she said, doe eyed. “I hated lying to you.”

“Skip it, Marsha. How are you so deep in my business?”

“Guess—and I'll tell you when you're warm,” she said, the barest twinkle in her eye.

“Lady, you need to be very careful right now . . .”

“All right.” She sounded weary, suddenly. I hoped she was dropping her mask. “There's information I can't volunteer, Ten. Period. As long as you understand that, we can talk all you want. Ask me direct questions.”

“Who are you?”

Marsha leaned closer to me, as if her scent would clarify it. “You know who I am. You've known me a long time.”

“I knew you a long time
ago.”

“You want to know what I do for a living? I do favors. I broker information. That's already saying too much, so don't ask for more.”

“You broker information for who?” I said.

“You expect me to flash you my ID card, Ten? Come on. The little car rental place in Malibu is a front. Do a little research. And I'm crazy for telling you that.”

She works for the government,
I thought. Aloud, I said, “That's not good enough.”

“It'll have to do.”

“You've got nothing to do with Nandi?” I said.

Anger narrowed her eyes. “Of course not! I heard about it this morning, when I saw your beautiful face on TV. Now I know why you vanished this weekend.”

I didn't believe her yet. Did she work for the CIA? The NSA?

“You're watching me.” I was daring her to lie.

“To protect you. I sent somebody to keep an eye on you. You shook him. Not bad.”

Motorcycle Prick hadn't been paparazzi; he'd camouflaged himself within the flock. Her story seemed more plausible.

“How did you know I was looking at Kingdom of Heaven?” I said.

Marsha blinked, her first hint of shame. “Your cell phone. You told your dad.”

Rage made me shoot to my feet. “How . . . Why the hell are you spying on my private calls?”

I towered over her, but she only crossed her long brown legs, taking her time. “Because I could. I wanted to know more about the kidnapping.” All pretense of shame was gone. “Look, Ten, you can be pissed off, or you can let me help you. You're in over your head. You're not gonna Rambo your way through the Kingdom of Heaven. Have no doubt of that.”

“Did they kidnap Nandi?”

“I've heard chatter.” Her quiet voice filled the room.

“Assuming I believe you, what can you offer me?”

“A little information. Off the record.” When Marsha stood up, she casually slid her hand across my thigh and crotch. Although I took a step back, my body sang out for more. April was long ago and far away.

“Why?” I said. “What's that gonna cost me?”

Marsha went past me to her apartment's small kitchen, opening her refrigerator. She kept her back to me as she spoke, but her voice grew more intimate. “I'm not proud of everything I do, Ten,” she said. “An unfortunate part of my job description. Now I get to do a good deed—and bring peace to an old schoolmate. Maybe save his life. You need something to eat.”