Catch and Kill, page 26
The first thing Angie did when she got to work the next morning was plow through her inbox. She was hoping to find something regarding Mackenzie’s project, but there was nothing. Someone rapped sharply on her open office door and she jumped. She looked up and blanched.
Charles loomed in the doorway with Ari in tow. But this time, Ari was accompanied by a lookalike: another beefy bald body uard in a gray suit with mirrored shades. What was going on?
Charles strode in, but Ari and Ari 2 stayed just outside. She was trapped.
“Oh, Charles, hello.” She tried to sound casual, but she knew he had seen her jump when he knocked. To cover, she blurted, “Are you pleased with how the database turned out?”
“Oh, yes. Nicole did a terrific job of heading that up.” He didn’t break eye contact but hesitated a beat. “Turns out there was a terrible murder in the city last night.”
Angie exhaled. A murder? What did that have to do with anything? There were countless murders in every city around the world every day, especially Los Angeles. “Oh?”
“Yes, some private eye was found shot to death in an abandoned lot. But he had some contacts, as it turns out, in the movie industry. It’s all very murky.”
Oh no. Jango. The room started to spin, and Angie broke into a cold sweat. She could practically feel the blood draining from her face, and she was probably growing paler by the second. Charles knows.
“Are you all right, Angie? I didn’t mean to shock you.”
“I’m—I’m fine,” she sputtered, a little too loudly. “I just, I haven’t had any breakfast, so I’m a bit light-headed.”
“Please don’t worry. About that murder, I mean.” He took a step toward her and leaned in. “I’ve got everything under control here.”
He abruptly departed, followed by Ari and Ari 2.
As soon as they were gone, she Googled “Los Angeles” and “murder” and “June 26.” Please, no, please, no . . . She didn’t have to look any further than the top entry:
Private Investigator Found Shot to Death on Skid Row
Oh, no, oh, no. Oh, please, God, no. Oh, my God, oh, my God . . .
But she knew what she’d find even before she clicked the embedded video about how former LAPD detective and private investigator Jango Davies was found dead the night before in an abandoned lot with a bullet through his head.
Angie’s heart raced. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Breathe in, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. In, two, three, four . . . I have to get out of here, I have to get out of here, but I need to be calm first, I need to breathe, be calm, be calm so I can move.
She opened her eyes, a surge of nausea threatening to erupt. She darted out of her office and down the hall to the women’s bathroom, flung open the door, ran into a stall, and immediately threw up. When she was sure there was nothing more, she flushed the toilet, wiped her mouth with tissue, and leaned against the stall door.
Oh, my God, they know. They know. They killed Jango and they’re going to kill me.
She wiped away tears with a shaky hand, thoughts ricocheting from Scarlett to Patricia to Jango to the women he’d interviewed. Jango was always so careful. They’d met at that small, out-of-the-way Indian grocery and café. He’d made certain no one followed them that morning in Topanga. But someone knew.
Was it Kevin? He’d been on his motorbike at that café after she’d met Jango. Was he following her? Or was it Tanya? Maybe Kristy ratted her out. But she wouldn’t have known about Jango. Maybe it didn’t matter. Charles knew. His little visit to her office was a warning. He was telling her to back off. Did he know she was the one who had hired Jango?
She stood, smoothed her skirt, and went out to wash her face and rinse out her mouth in the sink. As she was spitting out a second mouthful of tepid water, a woman pushed open the door and glanced her way. She grimaced at Angie through the mirror, and Angie looked up at her own reflection. Yikes. Messy hair. Runny eyes. Flushed face. She looked as terrified and fucked up as she felt.
“Are you all right?” the woman asked.
Angie dabbed at her cheeks with a damp paper towel. “Oh, yes, fine. I just . . . I think I’m getting a migraine.”
“Oh, God, those are awful. My mom gets them. They make her sick to her stomach.” The woman tutted sympathetically and went into a stall.
Angie exited the bathroom, focusing on taking one step after another. She could leave. Pack her bags. Fly home. Charles wouldn’t follow her. She could cut off contact with the studio. She’d be all right. Jango was gone. With her back in New York, there would be no one else to dig up Charles’s dirt. He would win.
Back at her desk, she found she’d missed three texts from Nicole.
Where are you?
Your phone is on your desk.
Everything OK?
Just a little nausea.
Stepped away.
Angie opened Kayak in a browser tab and checked flights for New York, but her thoughts stayed with Jango. He shouldn’t have died like that. He deserved better. Just like Scar. She hadn’t been friends with Jango. It was a professional relationship, but they had grown to like one another. And more, she trusted him. He was the only person in LA she had felt she could trust completely. She felt utterly wrecked when she thought of his stoic demeanor, his innate sense of decency. Some people never have to ask what’s right or wrong, they just know. Jango and Scar. Where would this end?
Her throat tightened and she closed the Kayak tab. She, too, knew the difference between right and wrong. And Charles was wrong. He was a monster. She wasn’t going to let him win this time. She was going to stay. And make him pay.
***
That night in bed, Nicole turned to her. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
Angie didn’t answer right away. Finally, she said, “I heard a man was murdered last night.” The same man you met out here by the pool. But Jango had never introduced himself to Nicole so she wouldn’t be able to put the name and the face in the news together. She’d be none the wiser.
Nicole frowned. “And . . . ? Did you know him?”
“No. Just . . .”
“Just what? Jesus, it’s a shitty world. People are murdered every day.”
“I guess.”
They were silent for a bit, lying on their backs. Angie’s eyes focused on the ceiling as she pondered her bedmate. What do you know, really, about Charles’s catch and kill operation? About any of it? Finally, she said, “Do you remember a producer by the name of Christo Holland?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell, but I deal with a lot of people. Why?”
“We bought the rights to a sci-fi book he was keen to option. He was in talks with the writer, but he lost out on a chance to buy the book because the writer was apparently bedazzled by the DreamWeaver name. DreamWeaver bought it and buried it and now both the producer and writer are out of luck. No one will respond to his calls or emails.”
“Okay. And?”
“Nothing.” Angie was disappointed yet unsurprised by the lack of interest or concern. She rolled to her side, facing away from Nicole. “Good night.”
***
The rest of the week felt like a slow blur and when Friday arrived so did Angie’s performance review.
As she waited in a chair outside Nicole’s office, a statuesque blonde strode down the hall in an aquamarine power outfit. Angie thought she was going to pass right by but then she stopped, towering over her. “Mr. Weaver is ready for you now.”
Surprised and alarmed, Angie stood. “But— What?”
“Miss Hawkins will not be assessing your review. Mr. Weaver will be. Come with me.”
She stalked away so Angie had no choice but to follow. Nicole hadn’t said anything about this. Had she known? The elevator ride was weirdly silent, the blonde focused straight ahead. Then something occurred to Angie and her heart plummeted. “Um. Where is Kristy? Charles’s exec assistant.”
“Kristy’s no longer here.” She gave an insouciant shrug. “More than that, I don’t know.”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Kristy had been fired, maybe paid off, maybe forced to sign an NDA. And it was Angie’s fault for pursuing her into that bathroom. Tanya. She had told Charles. But what else had she told him?
When they got up to the executive floor, the woman led her into Charles’s outer office. “He’ll be with you in a sec.” She departed, leaving Angie to take a seat beside the closed inner office door.
She pulled out her phone and scrolled through industry news from The Hollywood Reporter to look busy and that was when she became aware of muffled voices coming through the door. Charles and another man were speaking heatedly. She cocked an ear in that direction as subtly as she could, afraid to get caught eavesdropping, by Charles or anyone else who happened by.
“Someone in this company talked to that private eye!” Charles suddenly boomed. “And I’m going to find out who. Until then, these files are safer at my place than here. So fucking get them and don’t offer your ‘insight’ again. I don’t pay you to think.”
The other man rejoined but Angie couldn’t make it out. She strained her ears but heard nothing more. Angie fought to keep her fear at bay, but she could feel her heart palpitating, sweat on her brow. She wanted to flee but she was trapped. And desperate to know what was in those files. What did they have to do with Jango?
When the door opened, she jumped. Ari and Ari 2 strode out so quickly and with such purpose she didn’t even know if they had seen her. She stood and poked her head inside. Charles sat behind his massive desk like a king on his throne.
“Sit.” He was being purposely gruff. Was he pissed she hadn’t disappeared after his implied threat the day before?
She sat.
“So. Nicole has told me about your work performance.”
He let it sit there. She didn’t rush in to fill the void mostly because she had no idea what to say. Was that another threat? He continued to eye her, unblinking. He clearly was not going to take up the thread again. She had to do something.
“I hope I’ve been satisfactory.”
He leaned back in his chair, steepling fingers beneath his chin, and assessed her. “Well, that depends on your learning curve. How well you read a room. How well you adapt.”
She wasn’t quite sure how to take his remark. “I think I’m pretty flexible.”
She hadn’t intended the double entendre but Charles grinned with the veneer of the Wolf about to feast on Little Red. He stood and approached her, nudging his erection into her shoulder. “You know, I’m sorry Tanya interrupted us the other day.”
“I am too.” Her mouth dry as sand, she swallowed a shudder. “Why don’t we start again tonight?”
Charles looked at her sharply. Was that too much? Had she overplayed her hand? Then he said, playfully, “Yeah?”
“It is Friday. How about a drink after work?”
“That works. I’ll bring the car around front. Six-thirty?”
A wave of relief washed over her, followed by one of anxiety. “I look forward to it.”
***
At 6:29, Angie slipped into the back of Charles’s sedan and Ari whisked them away toward Westwood. Apparently he was chauffeur as well as bodyguard. Ari 2 sat in the passenger seat. Not much was said on the ride. She glanced at Charles’s briefcase. If he was taking those files home, they had to be in that briefcase.
Charles placed a proprietary hand on her thigh, and she gave him a small smile she hoped read as coy rather than terse.
They pulled into a parking lot under a tall building on Wilshire and Ari parked in a reserved spot right next to a bank of elevators. Ari opened her door and she was led to an express elevator to the penthouse that opened onto a vestibule with one door, soft light emanating from above. Charles used a key card and buzzed them in, the door opening to an expansive, open-plan apartment with windows looking out on the city from every direction. Evening light from the sinking sun made the living room feel like a wonderland. The furniture was all white leather, a sofa, a loveseat, two chairs, and a fully stocked bar stood against one wall. A fireplace was in the center of the room and Charles flicked it on with a remote, dropping his key card on the mantle. “Ari.” It was all he said, but both Aris turned and left, closing the door behind them.
“No need for protection tonight.”
Angie wondered if there was a double meaning in his use of the word “protection.” She set her bag by the couch where she slipped out of her jacket, then moved toward the bar, taking the lead. “Why don’t you get comfortable. I’ll make drinks. Vodka straight good for you again?”
“Lady’s choice.” Charles moved into what Angie assumed was the bedroom with his briefcase.
She dropped ice into two tumblers, reached for a bottle of Tito’s, and poured four fingers’ worth. She could hear Charles in the other room as she popped two Xanax out of her pocket and dropped them into one of the glasses, swirling the contents with a forefinger. She moved her finger faster. The pills weren’t dissolving as quickly as she hoped. She cast a look toward the room Charles had entered. She heard a drawer close from within. She stirred faster. The pills were halfway disintegrated, then two-thirds. Then he was back, his rank breath on her back. She popped her other forefinger into the other glass—hers—and stirred that as well.
“Just adding a little flavor,” she said, hoping she sounded quippy just as the pills dissolved completely. She turned and offered him the tumbler, surprised he was in nothing but boxers and a silk robe that was open. And socks. He was, inexplicably, wearing black socks.
“Bottoms up.” He downed the entire thing in a gulp, much to her relief. If anything tasted off, it was too late. She took a dainty sip of her own, aware she didn’t know how much time it would take for the drug to take effect. He was a large man. Maybe she should have given him three?
Luckily, instead of dropping his shorts or grabbing her, he poured himself two more fingers of Tito’s, downed that, and poured two more. “Hell, why not? It’s the weekend.” He finally grasped the bottle and went to sit on the sofa, leaving his glass on the bar.
Angie joined him, sitting at the opposite end. He wasn’t as aggressive as she’d expected. Likely because he thought they had all night. But she knew she didn’t. She kept wondering about the Aris. Were they just outside the door? Had they taken the elevator? Were they headed somewhere to get drinks and try to pick up UCLA students? Were they watching her on video screens in some hidden room?
She shook her paranoia off and sipped at her vodka. She had to keep Charles talking until the Xanax took effect.
“So you and Scarlett, eh?”
The topic was so distasteful, but she had a feeling he’d like the chance to gloat about it again and she was hopeful she could glean some information.
“Oh, yeah. She liked it rough. I always wonder what a girl’s childhood was like when she likes it that rough. When she’s that dirty.” He filled his glass again from the bottle and offered it to her.
The revulsion passed through Angie like in a tidal wave but she kept her face neutral. She wanted to murder him. She wanted to gut him, for him to feel pain before he died. She was grateful she didn’t have a knife. There were things she needed to do first.
“We had a pretty good upbringing. Long Island.” She didn’t know how much to say, how personal to get. She didn’t want to sully her memories by talking to Charles about them but she had to give him something. “A nice house, good neighborhood, good schools.” She started to think about how she had had all that. Yet she still hadn’t been okay. She’d still flailed.
“Yeah, that tracks, knowing your parents.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh.” He sat up straight and took another generous swallow of the liquor. “Just that I met them once. When they came out to see Scarlett.”
When had they come out to visit?
Before she could press the matter, Charles pushed on.
“But we’re not here to talk about all that, are we? Why don’t you come a little closer, help me relax?” He cocked his head at her and put a hand on her thigh. “I’m sure we can figure out a few ways to make that happen. And I can make you relax too, Angie. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Angie cringed inwardly, but she played along. “I guess we can all use some relaxation.”
He moved his hand farther up her thigh until his fingers were smack in her groin. “Scarlett always had a hard time relaxing. But I think it could be different with you. Couldn’t it, Angie?”
“It could, but first I need to freshen up. Maybe slip out of these restrictive clothes.” She stood before he could restrict her himself.
He sat up, clearly a little drunk, and slurred, “Don’t freshen up too much. I like my girls musky.”
She forced a chuckle, then found the bathroom on her fourth try. It was a spacious room with an enormous window letting onto the city. She figured there was no concern about anyone peeping in so high up. There was a shower in the center of the room. Beyond it was a bathtub and Jacuzzi positioned right in front of the window. A walk-in closet branched off in one direction and a counter lined an entire wall with two sinks and various lotions, creams, and colognes. She approached the closet and peered in. It appeared to lead to his bedroom. She crept closer, past suit jackets and slacks and button-downs and shiny shoes, and craned her head through the doorway. His room was large, a circular bed at the center of it, black wood and black bedding. Windows looked out over the city, toward the ocean. A dresser and a desk, both in black, took up opposing walls. His clothes had been dropped in a heap at the base of the bed. He’d clearly been in a rush to get back to her.
And there, right there, leaning against the foot of the bed was the briefcase. It practically gleamed in the light as if winking at her.
The butterflies in her gut took flight. She had to check it out once he passed out. If he passed out.
