City of Mirrors (19 page)

F
orty-five minutes later, we arrived at Ryan's house. From the car I had called the number of a doctor Ryan knew; I'd hoped he was more that the feel-good kind. His place was dark, no lights showing, which was the way it should be. Ryan gave Heath his house keys, and Heath walked through, checking it. Then we helped Ryan into his room and onto his bed.

In the kitchen I found a baggie containing a stale bagel and dumped it out, replacing it with ice from the freezer, which was filled with vodka bottles. Then I wrapped a hand towel around my makeshift ice bag.

By the time I got back to Ryan's bedroom, he was stretched out, his head on his pillow, his hands clasped over his stomach. Heath had put the other Ugg on his bare foot. Now in the doorway, he leaned on the jamb and watched.

I pressed the ice gently to Ryan's bruised eye.

“Ouch!” Ryan groaned. “That hurts.”

“Keep it there. Or you're going to end up looking like the Elephant Man.”

He grabbed my wrist. “I want to get out of show business. What's in Idaho?”

“Potatoes.”

He sighed heavily. “I wanted to die, Diana.”

I stroked his arm. “I'm glad you didn't.”

“They kept hitting me and burning me.” He raised his forefinger toward the ceiling. “Turn my train on.”

I clicked a switch built into his nightstand. A replica of a “1930s” Santa Fe Super Chief with Pullman cars started chugging along a railed shelf erected high around the walls. Tiny silhouetted passengers showed in the windows. We watched the train roll around the room, disappearing into tunneled mountains, then reappearing. It tooted and flashed its lights at the railroad crossings. Even Heath moved into the room and stared at it intently. Watching seemed to calm both men. Is that all it took?

Ryan's house was decorated in early puberty. A sparkly purple drum set sat in the corner of his bedroom. Drumsticks had been scattered on the floor like old bones. A prized Martin guitar and a shiny alto sax leaned against a chair. On the wall across from his bed was a Sony screen as big as Picasso's
Guernica
, while remote controls, play stations, and X boxes were stacked on shelves.

He closed his eyes. I moved the ice pack to the corner of his bruised lips.

Grimacing, he said, “Parson has a copy of the video of Jenny and me.”

“How did he get it?” Heath moved closer, to the end of the bed.

“I don't think he knew who sent it. He wanted me to tell him who'd mailed it.”

“And who was running the blackmail operation?” Heath asked.

“I thought it might be the dead guy, Zackary Logan.”

“But that wasn't good enough?”

“They wanted the name of a live person.” He slowly opened his good eye; the other remained a slit. “It wasn't Rubio who scared me. It was the little one. He looked like he was going to perform a tango any moment.”

“Luis?” Heath asked.

The train tooted. “You know him?”

“Oh, yes.” Heath nodded.

“He kept smoking like Bette Davis, then he'd lean over me and press the cigarette into my leg and hold it there. He enjoyed it.”

“Is your doctor reliable? Is he going to show up?” I asked.

He rubbed the tips of his forefinger and thumb together indicating cash. That didn't make me feel confident.

“While Rubio beat me,” he continued, “and the other one burned me, Parson sat on his bed, howling like an animal, demanding I tell him who did this to his little girl.”

“Did he mean who killed her? Or who videoed her having sex with you?” Heath asked.

“I don't know.”

“They could be one and the same,” I said.

“Or not,” Heath countered.

The doorbell chimed.

“My doctor.” Ryan said. “I told you.”

“Remember,” I warned. “If he asks what happened, you tell him you got beat up. That's all you know.”

“I love it when she mothers me,” Ryan said to Heath, who repressed a smile.

I hurried downstairs and looked through the peephole. It was the doctor, all right. I opened the door and stepped back. A seedy cliché wearing an Armani suit, Italian loafers, and sporting a Rolex strolled in. Even his medical bag had a Gucci racing strip down the middle of it.

“You're kidding,” I said.

“I beg your pardon?” He peered over gold-wire glasses at me.

“Nothing. Ryan's been badly beaten. You can't just throw pills at him. He's up here.” I started up the stairs.

“Drunk?” He followed me.

“Not now.”

In the bedroom he peered down at Ryan. “You've had some going over.” He set his bag on the floor and leaned over him. “His right eye will have to be looked at.”

His sterile-looking hands felt Ryan's abdomen and ribs. The Rolex gleamed. The train's guardrail went up.

“Pain?” the doctor asked.

“Ribs.” Ryan groaned.

“He could have a punctured lung.” He studied Ryan's legs. “Your attackers burned you?”

“Yes,” I answered for Ryan.

Now he peered at me as if I were another wound he had to fix. “Odd thing for them to do.”

“Ryan's a lucky man.” Heath shifted his weight.

The doctor's shady eyes turned skeptical. “Extremely lucky.”

“This is luck?” Ryan burbled.

“I only ask to know whether I may be implicating myself in something … that could be a … problem.”

“You aren't,” I assured him. “Ryan's a drunk. You're not responsible for what he can or can't remember.” Hearing my words aloud, I knew I'd just demeaned my friend and the beating he had taken. But at the same time, I had to make sure he was taken care of.

“Well, I can't treat him here. He must be hospitalized.”

“But under your care and no publicity,” Heath said.

The doctor looked over his glasses at Heath. “Who are you?”

“I'm none of your business.” Heath casually pulled open his jacket, showing him the holstered Colt on his belt.

He nodded submissively. “Under my care and no publicity. It's what I get paid the big bucks for. I'll call a private ambulance service I've used successfully in the past.” Taking out his cell, he dialed and issued orders. When he'd finished, he smiled obsequiously at me. “Sorry about your mother. I attended to her often, especially in her later years. If you ever need anything else… .” He reached into his jacket pocket and handed me a pristine white engraved card.

How could one person be so clean and sleazy at the same time? This was the first man I had met lately whom I was completely sure my mother had not gone to bed with.

“I'll be taking him to St. John's in Santa Monica. He'll be in the VIP wing, if I can get him in.” He punched in another number.

“That's not good enough,” I said. “Make
sure
you get him in the VIP wing. It's what you get paid the big bucks for.”

Another obsequious smirk. “Touché.” He made arrangements for Ryan in the VIP wing and then disconnected.

“Would you two mind waiting downstairs?” Ryan asked the doctor and Heath.

“Of course not.” The doctor picked up his bag and slipped out of the room.

Heath went with him.

After they had both gone, Ryan beckoned me with a finger, and I leaned close. “He's not right for you, Diana.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You're from the world of the arts.” He winced in pain. “You're creative. He's a fixer. That's what you called him, remember?”

“You said he was a good guy.”

“But not for you.”

I stroked his face. “Don't worry. I like men who have a way with words.”

“Yeah. But how many words?”

Heath's voice cut through the room. “The ambulance is here.”

Making a face at Ryan, I reached over and turned off the train.

Heath and I watched the ambulance leave with Ryan, and the doctor followed in his white Bentley. Then we locked the house and went down to the beach.

Not talking, we stood feeling the cold wind on our faces. The houses overlooking the ocean were dark. My neighbors were away or sleeping; secure their multi-alarm systems would keep them safe. I looked toward my house. In the dim moonlight I could see that Kiki, the majordomo of Malibu, had found someone to board up the shattered glass doors. And now my house, my home, my tiny oasis appeared as abandoned and as dilapidated as Parson's movie theater.

A bone-deep sorrow flooded me, and I didn't want to go home. I wanted to run away, putting as much distance as I could between myself and the dead and the wounded in my life.

“You must be tired,” Heath said.

“Yes. Also hyper.”

“You're running on adrenalin. I could use a drink. You wouldn't want to offer me one, would you?”

“What do you really want?” I confronted him, clasping my arms around myself against the cold.

“You want an honest answer, or one of my very believable lies?” The wind blew his hair back from his high forehead and he hunched his shoulders.

“Honesty would be refreshing.”

He thought a moment, then said “I want to fuck your brains out.”

I could feel his dark eyes moving over me, and my body responding as if his hands were on my flesh.

“I don't have any brains left.”

“Then another part of your anatomy… .”

I laughed.

“That was nice.”

“What?”

“Your laughter. I'm not a total cretin. We could have dinner before we …”

I turned away and started walking toward my house.

“Is that a ‘yes,' a ‘no,' or a ‘maybe' to any of the above?” he yelled after me.

“I'll fix you a drink and dinner. Then we'll see,” I shouted back.

I still didn't know what to make of him, but I did know Heath could help me run away from my ghosts. At least for one night.

M
y house smelled of damp raw wood. The TV chattered from the kitchen—Kiki's guys must've left it on for me. My boarded-up living room looked dark even with the lamps turned on. Heath peered at the only objects that shined with any life—Colin's Oscars and the nameplate on my mother's urn.

“Would you like to hold one of Colin's Oscars? Most people do.”

“No.” He turned his bruised chin toward me. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw line. “I want to hold what's real and present.” He took my hand and I felt a wonderful surge of passion rush through me. Was that all it took? Hands touching? How Jane Austen of me. It had been a long time since I felt this kind of desire.

I pulled away. He followed me into the kitchen.

I opened the cupboard near the sink. “Booze and red wine.” I spoke over the TV noise.

He picked up the remote and clicked it off. “If you're leaving the TV on so a prowler will think you're home, it won't fool him.”

“I leave it on because I'm alone. The white wine is in the fridge.”

He leaned against the wall. “You don't strike me as a woman who'd be afraid to be alone.”

“I'm not afraid. But the silence wears on me.” I pushed my hair back from my face.

He nodded, and by his expression I knew he understood. Then he rubbed his hands together and announced “I'm hungry. Are you?”

“Starving.”

He opened my freezer. This was a man who could make himself at home. He took out one the many frozen meals I'd just bought. “Lean Cuisine? Isn't that an oxymoron?” He tossed the frozen box back into the freezer and opened the fridge. “You got eggs.” He took out the carton and peered in. “Four eggs. It's a start.”

Smiling, I thought of how talkative men become when they're trying to seduce you. Even the strong silent ones.

“I want you to know that I'm not usually attracted to very beautiful women,” he announced.

“Then you're in the wrong town.”

“They're too insecure, they take too much care. I have the feeling you don't need a lot of confidence-building.”

“I'm not usually attracted to men who are fixers.”

“Dismissing the fixer part, did you just say that you were attracted to me?”

“You can pour me a glass of red wine while I take a shower.”

In my bathroom, I took off my shirt and jeans. My clothes were streaked with Ryan's blood. I held them a moment, then tossed them at the hamper and stepped into the shower. Letting the hot water run over my body, I felt like a different woman. Different from the insecure beauty Colin had loved. I ran the soap down my breasts and stomach. I was washing myself for Heath.

Dried off, I opened the bathroom door to let the steam out, and the smell of eggs cooking and toast browning wafted in. My heart lurched. It had been a long time since someone had cooked for me. It's always the little things.

Naked except for Colin's silk paisley robe, I stood in the kitchen. Heath faced the stove, his broad back toward me. He'd taken off his holster and jacket, placed them on a chair, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. His forearms were strong, and the watch on his wrist looked functional and purposeful.

“It's been a long time since someone cooked for me,” I said. “Thank you.”

He turned, fork in hand, then slowly put it down and in one fierce movement his arms were around me, his body pressing into mine, pushing me against the wall. His mouth hard on my lips. I was ripping at his shirt while he untied my sash and the robe fell to the floor. A shedding of another life. I pulled him onto the kitchen table. Silverware clattered to the floor. He sucked at my breast. My back arched and my legs wrapped around his waist. And while the eggs and toast burned we devoured each other, ending up on the living room floor.

I peered up at the two Oscars and the urn on the mantel. Then closed my eyes against them, feeling the weight of this man.

Now we sat at the kitchen table eating Lean Cuisine, having dumped the burnt food in the garbage disposal. Heath's shirt hung open, his chest bare. I had torn the buttons off it. My robe wrapped loosely around me.

“This stuff is awful.” He shoveled in the plastic food as if it were his last meal.

Sipping wine, I stared at the scar just above his heart, which my tongue had discovered earlier. “Were you shot?”

“Sniper.”

“I thought they usually aimed at the head.”

“I moved. But the heart's a pretty good target.” He peered over the rim of his wine glass and wiggled his eyebrows at me as if we were making a joke.

“Why did you sign up?”

“Because terrorists flew planes into the Twin Towers and the Pentagon.”

“For the love of country.”

“You could say that.”

“You still have that feeling?”

“Yes.”

“I can't figure you out.”

He placed his hand on mine. “I can't figure you out either. Do we have to?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have Colin figured out?”

“No.”

“What about Celia?”

“Back to reality.” I withdrew my hand from his. “You are a relentlessly good interrogator.”

“Habit, sorry.”

“What about her? Why don't
you
tell me what you think?” I pushed my finished plate aside.

“Maybe Ryan accidentally picked the right name to give to Parson. Celia has 24/7 access to the Bel Air house. And when you called her to tell her she was in danger, the only question she asked was whether it was Parson. A man she told you she didn't know. Also the night Jenny Parson was murdered, Celia was struck in the face and then lied about who did it. Why lie? It makes me think she still hasn't told you the truth about how she got bruised.”

“She says she was in her car being attacked by Ben Zaitlin around the time Jenny died.”

He put his wine glass down. “Ben?”

I explained how Ben wanted to meet with Celia, the woman his father loved instead of his mother. And how he began to hit her.

“And this happened while Jenny Parson was in her underground garage being murdered?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn't sound like Ben. Working for Zaitlin, I've gotten to know the kid a little bit. He's not violent. He's an insecure rich kid who doesn't know his real father. Except that he raped Ben's mother. He doesn't know how he ended up in the life he's living.”

“So what are you saying? Celia made up the story about Ben?”

“First she said it was me and now she says it was him.”

“But she was protecting him when she lied about you. She needed a name to give me and thought we'd never see you again.”

“I'm glad we did.” Taking his plate, he stood. “Are you finished?”

“Yes. Her bruises were real.”

“I'm not saying they weren't.” He rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. “Has she called you?”

I went into the living room and took my cell out of my purse. With the dishtowel thrown over his shoulder, Heath watched from the doorway. He seemed as comfortable doing the dishes as he did aiming his Colt.

“No message,” I said. “Are you saying she was involved in Jenny's murder?”

“Maybe it wasn't her choice to be involved.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm not sure.”

“I can't see her shooting Zackary Logan.”

“I didn't say she did.”

“Ben would confirm her story. I mean, they're each other's alibi. And what about Beth Woods?” My voice sounded defensive and high-pitched. “She told me she had been rejected by Jenny. Or Zaitlin? She was ruining his movie. Or me? I don't have an alibi for that night. Or all the others who may have been blackmailed by Jenny?”

“I didn't realize how close you and Celia are.”

“We've been friends since we were sixteen.” Was it our friendship I was defending so vehemently? Or maybe I couldn't handle another betrayal? “Let's change the subject. How did you know where to find Parson's movie theater?”

“I've been following Parson for a while.“

“Working for the same client that led you to the Bel Air house?”

“Yes.”

“Beth Woods?”

“She isn't my client.”

“Then who is it? I know you're working for Zaitlin. Why not tell me?”

“Everybody knows I work for him.” He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe.

“Tell me how you knew where The Rock was.” I asked.

“One night I tailed Parson there. Luis drove down the alley and parked. He and Parson went into the theater.”

“Did you go in after them?”

“I didn't want them to know I had followed them. Also, I'm not suicidal.”

“What were they doing in there, torturing people? Or watching old movies from the decade he was eating candy off the floor?”

“About two hours later they came out dragging a very limp man between them. They threw him into the trunk of the limo and left.”

“Did you recognize the man?”

“Not from where I was.”

“Did you ever hear anything about a missing man, or an unidentified body?”

“Unidentified bodies are not unusual in Los Angeles. But no, I never heard.”

“Not even from your source in the LAPD?”

“Not even from my source.”

“You and Detective Spangler should get different notebook covers.”

He moved to me, tilted my chin up with his fingertips, and kissed me. “Time to change the subject again.”

“How did you meet Zaitlin?” I asked.

He walked over to the wall opposite the boarded-up sliding glass doors and took a Swiss Army knife from his pants pocket. “I was an actor.”

“Oh, God, you mean I've gone to bed with another actor?” I collapsed on the sofa dramatically.

Laughing, he reminded me, “We didn't make it to the bed. I starred in a movie called
Horror on the Run
. Don't tell me you never saw it?”

“I don't know how I could have missed it.”

He began to pry loose the two bullets Rubio had left in the wall. My permanent chill awoke.

“I went to read for a small role in one of Zaitlin's movies and he asked me if I really wanted to be an actor. It was a good question. I should've asked myself that. I thought about it and said ‘no.'” He dislodged one of the rounds. “I started doing a little security for him, and then 9/11 happened. When I got out of the Army he helped me start up my business by recommending me.” He dug the other slug out. “You have something to cover these holes with? If the police come here to question you for any reason, it's not a good idea have bullets in your wall.” He folded the knife and placed it and the rounds in his pocket.

From the side table I took a large framed photograph of Colin and me that had once hung on his office wall and handed it to Heath. Then I went into the kitchen and got a hammer out of the drawer and dug around to find a nail. When I returned Heath was studying the picture.

“You two look very happy,” he said.

“I thought we were.” I looked at the picture and for the first time noticed the strain around Colin's smiling eyes and mouth.

“I've seen people die. But I've never lost anyone I loved.” He tucked the picture under his arm as I handed him the hammer and nail.

“Because nobody close to you has died? Or you've never loved?”

“Never been in love. Never intend to.” He pounded the nail into the wall and secured the photo over the holes.

“Don't worry, Heath, I'm not going to stalk you to the ends of the earth,” I said in a cold firm voice.

Puzzled, he turned from the wall. “What?” Then realizing, said, “Sorry. I'm used to setting up parameters even when I don't need to.” He tossed the hammer on the sofa.

“Probably got it from your military experience.”

“Maybe.”

“I found out what Parson had on my husband.”

“You don't have to tell me.”

“I want to. Colin had sex with my mother when I was away on location. My last movie. I was giving up my career for my marriage. It's cruel and uncaring what they did, but if I think about it now, it's hardly a reason to keep paying money to hide it. Except Colin knew I would've left him. Back then I was the high-maintenance insecure beauty you were talking about in the kitchen.”

“Aren't you being a little hard on yourself?”

I shrugged. “I would've left him. That way I could put the blame on my mother for destroying our marriage. Not on Colin. Not on me. But on her alone. It was the only way I could've gotten back at her. The only way I could keep her from winning, the only way I could keep the battle going with her. I didn't know it then, but I see now that my conflict with her was more important than my marriage.” I moved close to him. “I'm not that high-maintenance insecure beauty anymore. So your parameters are safe with me.” I put my arms around his neck. Looking up at him, I said, “I want to thank you for the mindless sex. You helped me forget my ghosts for a while.” I kissed him, slipped the dishtowel from his shoulder, and stepped back.

“That felt like a good-night and good-bye kiss.”

“Just good-night.” I went to the front door and waited for him to get his jacket and Colt. I've never waited for a man to get his gun before, I thought, amused.

In the foyer we stared at each other, wondering if we could or should go back to the people we were before tonight, when the lies and the contradictions didn't strike so deeply.

He brushed his lips against mine, reminded me to lock the door, and was gone. I was abruptly surrounded by silence again. But if stillness can vary, be different, less oppressive, less threatening, this one was. Was that all it took? Great sex?