Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (69 page)

     And then the telephone rang.

     It was for her, a medical emergency. "I'm sorry," she said, hanging up and reaching for her white coat. "I have to go. An injury at the health club."

     He stopped her at the door. "Will you come back?"

     She looked into his eyes and smiled. "Yes, if it's not too late. I'll come back."

D
ANNY LEFT HIS
J
AGUAR WITH A HOTEL PARKING ATTENDANT
and entered an exotic lobby of the Marriott. He had tried fourteen more hotels since he had had to kill the little waitress who thought he looked like her cousin Al. His urgency was mounting.

     Where in all this damn desert
was
the bitch?

     He went up to the front desk, flashed his press credentials, and said, "Howdy. I have an appointment with Philippa Roberts. Would you please let her know I'm here?" Danny had found that this ploy got him quicker results than just asking if she was registered. Don't inquire; just act as though you know she's there.

     "One moment, please."

     He stood there, tense, drumming his fingers while two parrots on perches over the lagoon tried to out-squawk each other.

     Finally the young woman came back and said, "You may take the call on that house phone over there."

     He stared at her.

     
Bingo.

     He went to the white telephone, and when he said, "Miss Roberts?" he found himself speaking to a young man with an Australian accent. No doubt the jock he had seen with Philippa. Danny wondered if he had been one of the boys who had worked her brothel, Butterfly. For which he, Danny, had been arrested, humiliated, destroyed. "May I ask what this is about?" the jock asked. "I'm afraid Miss Roberts isn't aware of having an appointment with you."

     Danny turned on the self-effacing charm that usually opened doors for him. "Well, ha ha, that was just a ploy. You see, I'm a journalist, and I would like very much to interview Miss Roberts for an article I'm doing. I was wondering if she could spare me some time?"

     "I'm sorry, Miss Roberts is busy."

     "How about tomorrow then?"

     "I'm sorry, you'll have to make arrangements for an interview through her office in Los Angeles."

     "Well, I've got a deadline to make. It won't take long, I promise."

     "Sorry," the Aussie said, and hung up.

     As Danny also hung up, thinking, You'll get yours, you little prick, he considered what he should do next.

     It probably wouldn't be too difficult to find out which room she was in, but then what? Just march up there right now and give Beverly the surprise of her life? But that would take a lot of the pleasure out of it. Besides, the commando approach was for jerks; Danny Mackay had style, class. When he finally got Beverly, he wanted to do it with a certain flair, take his time with it, savor it.

     Returning to the porte cochere, where young men in white shirts and Bermuda shorts were assisting guests with their luggage, Danny paused and squinted out at the December night. He was wondering what his next move should be when he happened to notice a white limousine parked in the temporary visitors' lot, adjacent to the underground parking garage. And a man in a chauffeur's uniform was standing there with his hands on his hips, eyeing the damaged paint.

     It was her car.

     Danny sidled over and said, "Howdy. Looks like you got caught in the same sandstorm I did. Nearly stripped off all my paint."

     "Yeah," the driver said, scratching his head. "The desert is hard on cars. I hate to drive it looking like it this. Bad for the company image."

     "Company?"

     "Starlite," the man said, pointing to the license plate that read STRLT2.

     Danny brought out a pack of cigarettes and offered it.

     "Thanks," the driver said, lighting his cigarette from Danny's gold lighter. "I'd like to get it back to L.A. as soon as I can. Looks awful, doesn't it? Sure hate to drive it like this."

     "So why not take it right back to L.A. then?"

     "Can't. My boss needs the car tomorrow." He looked at Danny through their mingling smoke, "You wouldn't happen to know of a place around here that does good work, do you? I'm going to be stuck here in Palm Springs for a few days."

     "I thought you said your boss needed the car."

     The man ran his hand gingerly over the ruined shine, wincing as if it hurt him. "Only for tomorrow. She'll be up at Star's for a few days. That'll give me time to get this worked on."

     Star's?

     Why did that sound familiar?

     "Sorry," Danny said. "I'm afraid I don't know this area well. Anyway, good luck."

     Quickly claiming his car, he squealed down the drive and back onto Country Club and headed to a stretch of road where the desert rose in pure white dunes just feet from lush green grass. He parked and went through Quinn's wallet, finding among the bills a note Quinn had written to himself: "Room reservation, Star's morning tram." And it had tomorrow's date.

     Danny couldn't believe his luck. So poor old Otis had been planning on going up to Star's, had he? And
she
was going up there, too. Talk about coincidence.

     But no, Danny realized. Not a coincidence at all. Quinn must have known she was going up there; maybe he had decided to confront her at Star's and surprise her with what he knew.

     Well, perhaps Quinn wasn't going to be able to pull off his surprise after all. But Beverly was going to be surprised all the same.

T
HE GUN SEEMED TO WEIGH MORE UP HERE IN THE SNOWY
mountains than it had down in the desert below. Tucked deep into his coat pocket, the weapon seemed to draw the arctic air into itself and become even harder, if that was possible, as if it were turning into ice. As he trudged through the snow, his collar turned up to hide his face, he wondered briefly if, removing his glove and touching the gun with his bare hand, his skin would stick to it like Krazy Glue.

     
When he saw someone up ahead among the pine trees, he stopped suddenly and watched. It was only a resort employee, one of these generic young muscular jocks, clearing snow from the wooden path that wound through the forest.

     
The man with the gun waited. He looked around, hoping to see his contact heading for the meeting point. He was anxious to get out of the cold and back into his warm cabin. Maybe call room service and order one of those lavish breakfasts Star's was famous for.

     
Finally, the jock, who wore a dark blue down jacket with the silver star logo emblazoned on it, picked up his tools and moved on. A moment later,
another figure emerged through the trees, bundled up so that only the eyes were exposed; even those were hidden behind reflective aviator glasses.

     
The two walked together in silence until they reached the lookout platform, from where they could observe the morning sun slowly breaking over the desert eight thousand feet below.

     
"It was seventy degrees down there today," the first one said as he thrust his hands into his pockets and felt the cold gun. He thought it might even freeze to his skin right through his gloves. "Up here it barely hit thirty."

     
His companion didn't say anything for a moment. Then: "Are you sure Philippa arrives today?"

     
"I double-checked my sources. She's scheduled on the morning tram."

     
"Did you get a gun as I instructed?"

     
"Yes."

     
"Do you know how to use it?"

     
"Christ...yes."

     
"I'm counting on you. We haven't much time."

     
They parted at the lookout platform and went their separate ways. A little while later, after a light snowfall had obliterated their tracks, it was as though they hadn't been there at all.

     
London, England, 1985

M
Y DEAREST
E
STHER
," P
HILLIPA WROTE
, "IT IS
COLD AND
raining here in London, and I miss you very much. I wish now that I had given in to you and brought you along, but I didn't want you to miss an entire month of school, despite what Mr. Berringer said about how well you are doing in the tenth grade. I promise you that I will be home for our birthday..."

     No records had ever been found on the Vietnamese orphan christened Esther by the American doctor who had brought her out of Vietnam. Being at a loss for her date of birth, Philippa had told the child she could choose her own birthday, and Esther had chosen Philippa's. Every year they celebrated together, this year mother was going to turn forty-seven and daughter fifteen or so.

     Philippa was in the sitting room of her suite at the Hilton, which had a view that looked out over Hyde Park, writing letters and listening to the rain against the windows. "By the way, Esther, Uncle Paul is coming to England
to visit me," she continued. "Although he was very mysterious over the phone, I have a pretty good idea of what he's going to tell me: that he's decided to run for the presidency. He's been a likely candidate for a long time, and he's very popular with the people. How would you like that, Esther, having an uncle in the White House?"

     Esther knew, of course, that Paul Marquette wasn't really her uncle, just a good friend of her mother's who would show up in their lives occasionally. He would arrive at the house in the black car with the giant of a driver who never talked, bringing a gift for Esther and then whisking her mother away without even taking off his coat or sitting down for a drink, the way her mother's other friends did.

     Esther had startled Philippa one morning after one of Paul's visits by suddenly asking, "Are you in love with Uncle Paul?" The girl had just turned fourteen, a budding Asian beauty who was very popular at school and who had recently, with a teenage vengeance, discovered
boys.

     "Uncle Paul and I are old friends," Philippa had said. "We've known each other a long time."

     A skeptical look had crept into those almond eyes, and Esther's round cheeks had creased into teasing dimples. "I think he's cute," Esther had said. "And you do, too. I can tell by the way you look at him."

     Philippa paused to watch the rain beyond her window, and she pondered again the turnaround her life had undergone since Esther entered it. The early days had been difficult, as Philippa had predicted, because of the language barrier and because of the horrors the child had witnessed. Esther would awaken at night, screaming from nightmares. She would frown uncertainly at her American food; she didn't trust anyone and she would shrink from Philippa's touch. In those first months, Philippa would tiptoe into Esther's bedroom and marvel at the little girl curled up on the bed like a shrimp, her forehead moist, black bangs matted down.

     Philippa would sit with her through the night, the way Johnny had sometimes done for her, and she would be astonished at the overwhelming flood of love she felt for the child.