City of Mirrors (7 page)

B
y nine o'clock in the morning, the fame suckers were gathering outside my house. Cameramen and reporters with microphones were focused on my front door with all the intensity of a group of sharpshooters. On the ocean side, a few photographers took pictures of my rotting deck and yelled for me to come out and talk to them about Jenny Parson. I ran around pulling shades and curtains.

In the kitchen I drank my coffee and ate my breakfast huddled low over the table so they couldn't get a good shot of me through the window above the sink. The onslaught brought back all the old fears I'd experienced with my mother as we were rushed through hotel kitchens to avoid the paparazzi that always waited for her. Instead of feeling special, I had felt trapped and vowed never to live like that. Yet here I was, not because I was one hell of an actress, but because I'd discovered a dead one. And the fame suckers wanted a piece of that.

The limo driver whom Zaitlin had ordered to pick me up at eleven arrived thirty minutes early. When I looked out my peephole, he yelled above the pandemonium that he was here to get me. Letting him into the house, I slammed the door before they could take a picture.

“I'm Gerald, ma'am.” He was a big guy with dyed brown hair.

“Wait here.” Before he could answer, I left him standing.

In my bedroom, I gulped more coffee and put on makeup with a shaky hand. Then I struggled into my LBD (little black dress), which I thought would make me look less “nutso” to Jake Jackson. Slipping into high black heels, I ran around trying to find my cell phone. It was in my purse. Grabbing a short gray leather jacket (a little edge always helps in Hollywood), I hurried into the hallway.

The driver came to attention.

“I'm ready, I think,” I said.

“Do you want me to hold your jacket up in front of your face or anything?”

“I'm not a suspect. Let's just get to the car as fast as we can.”

“It's parked about fifteen houses down. I couldn't get any closer, sorry.” He put his hand on the doorknob. “Ready?”

“As I'll ever be.” I slapped on my sunglasses.

But you are never ready. Reporters with mikes rushed at me, mouths flapping, screaming questions. I could smell their rancid coffee breath and the sweat of the paparazzi, which was permanently distilled into the zip-up jackets they wore.

“Diana! Did you see her die?” shouted one man.

“How close were you and Jenny?” added another.

“Will her death hurt the movie?” a third bellowed.

“Did you kill her?” a woman called out.

Lights flashed. Video cameras crushed in on me. I dipped my head, trying to turn away from the prodding lenses.

“Look this way, Diana. Do you know who did it?”

“What did her body look like?”

Elbows and the sharp edges of equipment jabbed into my shoulders and back. I tripped over feet and someone stepped on my toes.

“Did your mother know her?”

“Smile, Diana!”

A woman jerked at my hand and stuck a cell phone in my face. “Talk into this, Diana. Why were you carrying your mother's ashes? Was it a ritual murder?”

The driver grabbed my arm and pulled me through the mob. “The car is down this way. Run!”

Cursing my choice of high heels, we ran for the limo as vehicles speeding on the highway came dangerously close. The asphalt was uneven and slippery with sand and gravel. The photographers and reporters chased after us.

“Diana! Diana!”

I stumbled as we reached the glistening black car. The driver caught me, grabbing my purse as it slipped from my shoulder. Quickly he opened the rear door and pushed me in. I fell flat on my face onto the black leather seat as he slammed the door shut.

Breathless and unnerved, I righted myself, flipped my hair out of my eyes, and saw the back of a man sitting in the front passenger seat. There was something familiar about him. The driver slipped in behind the wheel and threw my purse into the man's lap. The locks on the doors slid down just as one of the paparazzi reached my side of the car, angrily striking at the darkened window with the palm of his hand. Tires screeched and I sank back into the seat as we sped off.

The passenger turned his head. Leo Heath's solemn dark brown eyes stared at me from his lean rugged face. I stiffened.

“What are you doing here?”

“Security. Zaitlin wanted me to keep an eye on you. Put your seat belt on.” He faced forward.

“Sorry about shoving you so hard,” the chauffeur offered as he rapidly cut in and out of the traffic. “Hope I didn't hurt you.”

“I'm fine.” But I wasn't. I was rattled by the run through the gauntlet of the fame suckers. And the presence of Heath wasn't helping.

“May I have my purse?” I asked.

“When you're finished, I'll give it back to you.” Heath didn't bother to turn around.

“I beg your pardon? I'd like my purse. Now.”

He put it on the floor.

“What do you think you're doing?” I demanded.

Both men acted as if I hadn't spoken. Jesus, what was going on? I looked more closely at the car. The burl wood on the side panels and the dashboard was rich and expensive, the leather soft as a baby's ass. I peered out the front window at the shiny Mercedes Benz emblem on the hood. Zaitlin was careful with his money. He never would have sent such an expensive car to pick me up. This was no rented town car or SUV, it belonged to someone. And it wasn't Zaitlin.

I peered at the heavy chrome molding lining the doors and listened to the silence. There was no road noise—other cars, the wind. I could feel the heavy smooth grip of the tires on the pavement, but not hear them. This was the kind of car presidents used: soundproof, bulletproof, maybe even missileproof. Except that Heath with his bashed nose and the chauffeur with his dyed hair were no secret service.

I reached over and pulled at the door lock. It didn't move. Then I tried my window. I couldn't open it

I took a deep breath, calming myself. “I need some air. Unlock my window so I can control it.”

Heath turned up the air conditioner. “Let me know it if it gets too cold.” He was as accommodating as a maitre d' with a hundred-dollar tip in his pocket. The air ruffled his hair.

So they weren't going to give me my purse and they weren't going to let me operate the window. I pressed my lips together as I fought back the fear that was crawling through me. When I stumbled, had my bag really slipped from my shoulder, or had the driver purposely taken it? There was nothing in it except my lipstick, hairbrush, wallet, and cell phone. My cell. My contact to the outside world.

The driver swerved left onto Malibu Canyon Road. We were going in the wrong direction for Zaitlin's house. My fear was no longer crawling, it was at full gallop.

“This isn't the way to Zaitlin's!” I leaned forward, gripping the top of the driver's seat.

“The meeting's been canceled,” Heath said.

“By whom?” I demanded.

“Zaitlin.”

“He would've told me.”

“He told
me
.”

“Is that why you won't let me have my purse, so I can't call him?”

Silence.

“I thought you were supposed to protect me.”

“I am.”

We began the long climb up the twisting canyon road.

“So where are you taking me against my will? If anything happens to me, the photographers and TV people saw this car. Saw me get into it.” I stared into the rearview mirror and met the driver's dull penny-shaped eyes. “Gerald, your name is Gerald, right? They saw you. They have you on tape.”

“Will you tell her to shut up!” he snapped at Heath. “She's giving me a headache.”

Heath glanced over his shoulder at me. “Nothing's going to happen to you. Trust me.”

“Trust
you
? A man who likes to batter women?”

The driver's eyes slid sideways, regarding him curiously. “What's she talking about?”

Heath swiveled fully around so fast I had to jerk my head back to keep our chins from colliding.

“I know what you did, you bastard.”

He had that empty expression of not knowing me again. Turning forward, he hit a button on the dashboard. A window rose up cutting me off from them. I pounded on it. The driver laughed at something Heath said, but I couldn't hear it. I could hear only my heart thumping against my ribs as the limo sped down the canyon and into the west valley.

Soon, the car raced up the on-ramp to the Ventura freeway and headed north. My permanent chill was back. I slipped on my jacket, but it had lost its edge.

A
s we raced north up the 101, I stared out my darkened window, watching rows of car dealerships turn into rows of condos turn into rows of outlet stores turn into rows of planted fields.

Everything I looked at was shaded in black as if all of California were in mourning. As if it were all noir. Then the ocean appeared, as bleak as a nightmare. Surfers in wet suits, sleek as seals, waited on their boards for the next murky wave. These two men couldn't be stupid enough to hurt me. After all, my abduction was captured on tape for everyone to see. But why take me in the first place? Did it have something to do with what I knew about Celia? Or was it Jenny Parson? I dug my fingers into the lush leather. I felt like I did when I was in bed at night. Very alone, very scared.

As we reached Santa Barbara, I watched the driver lift his cell phone to his ear, say a few words, then put it down. The limo curved off the freeway onto Cabrillo Boulevard, a street lined with hotels and palm trees on one side, and the ocean, volleyball courts, and palm trees on the other. I watched mothers and fathers pedaling, with Herculean effort, rented surreys filled with their kids along the pristine sidewalks. Though the windows were too dark for me to define colors, I knew the parents' faces would be red from their endeavor. And I envied these tourists their sunburned skin, their tired legs, their cranky children. They might go back home and get divorced and selfishly rip out the hearts of their kids, but right now they were pedaling with all their might for them.

Soon we turned into the Santa Barbara Harbor and Marina. Using a key card to open a barrier gate, the driver guided the car into a private lot. My body grew alert. I knew this was when I had to do something.

The driver opened the door for me. The minute my feet hit the pavement I screamed and tried to run. But Heath was out of the limo, grabbing my arm. With one hand he swung me around to him, then clamped the other hand on the back of my head and shoved my face into his chest, muffling my voice. I could smell his freshly ironed white shirt and the soap he'd used. To anyone passing I'd look like a woman crying or laughing intimately into her boyfriend's body. Son-of-a-bitch.

I struggled, trying to push myself away.

Lowering his head, lips brushing my ear, he said, “Shut the fuck up, please.”

I raised my right thigh, preparing to kick him in the groin.

“And if you're thinking of kneeing me, I'll knock your standing leg out from under you so fast you won't know how you ended up on your ass.”

The driver moved in on me, and I felt a hard jab in my lower back. I'd done enough cop shows to know the feel of a gun muzzle.

Heath removed his hand from my head. “Nobody is going to hurt you, I promise. So relax.” He was so sincere.

I glared up at him. “Relax? With a gun in my back?”

“Jesus Christ, Gerald, put the pistol away,” he ordered the driver.

“You don't have to deal with
him
. I do,” the driver growled. “I was told to deliver her, and that's what I'm doing. Walk.” He jabbed me harder.

“If you don't put it away I'm taking her back to Malibu, now.”

Gerald thought about this, then holstered his gun.

At least I knew they didn't want to kill me. For now. But why should I trust Heath? And who was ‘
him
' Gerald had to deliver me to?

With my purse slung over his shoulder the chauffeur stood on one side of me, Heath on the other. They walked me past the Yacht Club, a gray weathered building that looked like a ship marooned on the sand. The teal-blue ocean shimmered with the noon sun. As we reached the public boardwalk, seagulls dipped and soared under the piercing blue sky. Boats of all shapes and sizes bobbled in their slips. Tourists, children, the homeless, and old salts mixed together. A tan woman, about my age, wearing a T-shirt, long skirt, and flip-flops grinned at me. I saw an opportunity. I flashed her my best eat-the-camera smile.

“Do I know you?” she asked.

“Yes. Would you like my autograph?”

Gerald shuffled his feet like a nervous horse. Heath was amused.

“Oh, I thought I knew you from high school. We're up here for the Camarillo High Reunion.” She looked more closely as if inspecting a piece of produce. “Are you somebody?”

“Yes, I'm …”

Before I could finish, Heath said in an easy seductive voice, “Excuse us. She's had a little too much to drink.” Draping his arm over my shoulder, he winked at the woman, who actually winked back at him.

His fingers slid down and dug into my elbow. I gasped as pain shot through my arm and the two men forced me farther down the boardwalk.

“What were you going to do, write ‘help me'?” A sardonic smile played on his lips.

“Something like that.” I tried to pull away, but his fingers pressed deeper into my skin and bone, and I stopped trying.

“You don't give up, do you?”

“Maybe you're just not used to women who fight back.”

“You don't have to fight me.”

We paused at another gate that led inside the marina. The driver unlocked it, and we started down the long dock. The water smelled of salt and gasoline. I peered around to see if there was anyone relaxing on their boats. But there were only pelicans ogling me from the tops of pylons, looking like old drunks, and sunburned
for sale
signs tucked into portholes.

We came to a yacht, a little smaller than a Princess cruise ship, docked in a slip far from the other boats. At the top of the deck-stairs stood a man wearing a baby blue windbreaker with the sleeves rolled up, showing off his biceps and a tattoo running down his right arm. I kept telling myself that no harm could come to me in the Santa Barbara Marina—unless my captors decided to sail out of the marina.

The man reached down to take my hand, and now I could read his tattoo. It said: One Night With You. His jacket fell open revealing a gun tucked into his waistband. I whirled around. Heath pressed in on me.