The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh - Страница 31
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flattered – though still unconvinced. Which didn’t mean that I didn’t find him attractive. I
did. He was an odd mix. That hard, lithe body; his sensual, rather cynical face…the pipe, the
books, the fact that he wasn’t afraid to be seen with me. Yeah, maybe I recognized that spark
of electricity because it wasn’t one-sided.
His smile held a hint of self-mockery, “I take it from your guarded response that you’re
seeing someone?”
I hesitated. “Yes.”
He caught the hesitation. “Well,” he said lightly. “Should the situation change – that is,
assuming you don’t get yourself killed –”
“That would certainly be a change,” I agreed.
* * * * *
I watched Guy zip off down Westwood Boulevard in his shiny red Miata, while I sat in
my car listening to my voice mail. Jake had left a message on my cell phone.
I studied the familiar number with a strange lack of feeling, hit Play Message. Short
and not particularly sweet. “I’ll call you later.”
Maybe yes, maybe no. Maybe, baby.
I turned the key in the ignition. As I pulled out, I noticed a red Corolla, the same color
as Guy’s Miata, pulled behind after me.
The radio buzzed with the latest update on Angus – which didn’t appear to be
anything. There was no news about missing author Gabriel Savant – by which I mean he
wasn’t so much as mentioned. That seemed atypical.
On impulse, I made tracks over to the Biltmore Hotel where Bob Friedlander was
staying.
The Biltmore is pretty much of a historical landmark. Built back in the ’20s, it’s
provided room and board for kings, presidents, and celebrities for decades, but what I find
most intriguing about it is that this is the last place the Black Dahlia was seen alive before
strolling off into the night and the annals of unsolved mystery. They actually serve a cocktail
called the Black Dahlia in the Gallery Bar.
I noticed the red Corolla that had been following me since Westwood had finally
dropped off. Not that I had actually thought it was following me, I mean, too funny if Satan’s
minions are tailing people in devil red vehicles. I parked one block from the hotel at
Pershing Square – not the greatest part of town – walking past the temporary skating rink
where skaters glided and spun – and fell – to Christmas music and then worked my way
through the usual television and film crews stationed outside the Biltmore.
I remembered from an earlier conversation with Friedlander that he and Savant were
staying in the Music Suite. I scrutinized my Day Planner and was pleased to note that I had
actually jotted the room number down along with various notes for the signing.
I stepped into an elevator crowded with a high-spirited group of ladies making their
way back to their rooms following the Holiday Afternoon Tea. Judging from the winks and
smirks I got, they had dosed themselves liberally with eggnog.
I found the room without trouble, knocked several times before the door opened a
crack. Bob Friedlander’s bloodshot eye peered out.
“Yes?”
“Hi, Bob. It’s Adrien English. Gabe signed at my store last Friday night.”
“Right, right.” He curved his lips, but it wasn’t exactly a smile. “What can I do for
you?”
“I stopped by to see if there was any word.”
“No. No word.”
“I’m sorry. Can I help in any way?”
He stared at me strangely for a long moment, then he backed, allowing me into the
room.
I stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, but I made out creamy walls and dark, elegant
furniture. A bowl of orchids sat on a low table covered with papers and books and maps.
There was a decorative fireplace and a grand piano. The white French shutters were closed.
It was hot and stuffy. Gloomy classical music played from another room in the suite.
As Bob stepped back from the door, he withdrew his hand from the sagging pocket of
his oversized bathrobe. I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise. It wasn’t that Bob was
happy to see me. Sure as hell, that was a gun in his bathrobe pocket.
I dragged my gaze away from the disquieting bulge in Bob’s dressing gown and noticed
that there was a laptop set on the desk. Next to it a printer shot out crisp, typed pages. A
pristine printed stack sat to the side.
“Do you want a drink?”
“Sure.”
There was a bottle of Jack Daniels next to a silver ice bucket. Bob poured two drinks,
drank half of one down, then topped it again. I’ve had nights like that – though not many
afternoons – and I sympathized.
I took the glass he handed me. “Do the police have any leads?”
“The police? The police?” He laughed wildly, threw himself into the chair across from
me.
See, this is why it’s always a good idea to call before dropping in on people – it’s so
awkward when you catch them in the manic phase.
“The police are investigating, right?” I said cautiously. “Don’t they have any theories on
what happened?”
He leaned forward, said bleakly, “Do you think it doesn’t reach to the police
department?”
Beyond the distant roar of downtown traffic, I heard the theme from the Twilight
Zone playing. Or maybe the Mephisto Waltz .
“Do I think what doesn’t reach to the police department?”
He glared at me. Apparently he was afraid to say The Word. “Like you really don’t
know,” he said bitterly, at last.
“I really don’t know.”
“Then I’m sorry for you.” He took another gulp from his glass. “Because you’re
probably next.”
I lowered my glass. “Why would I be next?”
“Why not? They targeted you, didn’t they? The Sign of the Demon?”
“How do you know about that?”
He didn’t answer. I guess good news traveled fast in Bob’s circle.
I tried to inspect him without being too obvious about it. He didn’t look well: his face
puffy, eyes red-rimmed, lips chapped. He needed a shave. In fact, he needed a bath.
I asked, “Did the disk ever show up?”
He shook his head. “They have it. They have Gabe. But they don’t have me. And
they’re not going to get me. They may get you , but they’re not getting me.”
I sighed, wishing he’d stop with the they’re gonna get you riff. “You shared all this
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