Unrivaled (25 page)

L
ayla pushed free of the interrogation room and headed down the bleak hallway, which reeked of panic, dread, and burnt coffee. She was unsure if she'd just successfully cleared herself of suspicion or sealed her own disastrous fate. The fact that she wasn't wearing handcuffs and leg shackles was probably a good sign. Still, despite what seemed like hours spent protesting her innocence, between the restraining order and the Madison slams on her blog, Larsen seemed convinced that Layla had all the motive she needed to get rid of Madison Brooks. The only thing missing was evidence.

Desperate to put some distance between her and Detective Larsen, she made for her bike, thinking a nice long ride might clear her head. But considering the way her life was
seriously spiraling out of control, she could circle the earth a handful of times and it probably wouldn't do any good.

Besides, now more than ever, she, Aster, and Tommy needed to talk. The fact that they'd been hauled into separate interrogation rooms around the same time was no accident. Clearly the detectives wanted them to see one another, probably hoping it would cause them to panic, confess to the kinds of things they'd previously chosen to omit.

Were Tommy or Aster guilty of harming Madison? Her first thought was to doubt it—doubt it in the way she'd doubt that anyone she knew was capable of something like that. But wasn't that really more of a naive, almost hopeful way of seeing the world? Wasn't it more likely that, given the right situation, the right circumstance, anyone was capable of just about anything?

Clearly Tommy viewed her as capable—or at least that was what he'd told Larsen. Or maybe he'd never even said that. Maybe Larsen was just maneuvering them to all turn on one another. All she knew for sure was she was growing increasingly uneasy with each passing day.

She kicked a rock with the toe of her boot, glanced between the time on her phone and the door to the station. Had he left before her? Short of marching back inside and asking, she had no way of knowing. She decided to wait a bit longer. Between the black wristbands he'd freely
supplied to the under-twenty-one crowd and hooking up with Madison, she'd already seen the lengths he'd go to to win a contest—who knew how far he'd go now that his life was at stake?

An engine rumbled to life, prompting Layla to look up in time to see Tommy backing out of the lot. She darted toward him, shouting his name as he switched into drive, foot heavy on the accelerator, unsure if he failed to acknowledge her because his windows were closed and his music was loud, or if he was purposely ignoring her. It wasn't until she leaped right in front of him that she knew she'd finally been seen.

The brakes screeched, the car lurched forward, then back, missing her by a matter of inches, as Tommy leaned out the window and yelled, “Are you fuckin' crazy?”

She leaned on the hood and fought to catch her breath. At least she wasn't wrong about him not being a killer. He'd clearly chosen
not
to run her over when he very well could have and called it an accident.

“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted, his blue eyes narrowed in anger.

“We need to talk.” Layla veered around the hood and stood beside his door. “You, me, and Aster. Can you convince her?”

“Do you think you've convinced me?” He shook his head, looked at her like she was insane.

She brushed her hair from her face. “I'm not spending my life in prison for something I didn't do, and neither should you. Meet me at Hollywood Forever in an hour.” She went for her bike.

“The cemetery?” he called out from behind her.

She looked over her shoulder, centered her gaze on his. “Johnny Ramone's grave. I'm sure you know where it is. But don't worry—I have no plans to bury you. But if we don't find a way to get together and talk, they will.” She hooked a thumb toward the precinct and pulled her helmet onto her head. She watched as Tommy shrugged and drove away, leaving Layla to hope he'd be smart enough to do what was needed.

T
ommy Phillips pulled out of the precinct parking lot and drove a few random blocks, before stopping on a quiet residential street with Old Hollywood–style homes—the kind with red-tiled roofs, arched doorways, and spare, sloping lawns. Homes that harkened back to a different Hollywood, a less complicated time. Or maybe it hadn't been any less complicated then than it was now. Maybe things only seemed easier when viewed in reverse.

He stared out the windshield, needing a moment to process what had gone down, and, more important, what it might mean. First he got called into the station to go over the same shit he'd already been over, only to have Layla leapfrog onto the hood of his car, practically daring him to mow her down.

Who does that?

What the hell was she up to?

He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, remembering the way Layla looked when she'd jumped out of nowhere. Serious. Determined. Convinced he wouldn't harm her. It was instinct that had forced his foot to the brake. Any decent person would've done the same. Still, it wasn't just an innate sense of morality that had kept him from hitting her. Truth was, he'd wanted to save her. Protect her. Probably because he felt guilty for pointing the finger at her.

Though that wasn't to say he trusted her. If nothing else, Madison's disappearance had permanently erased any hint of country boy naïveté that had managed to survive the trip from OK to LA. People were much more complex than they ever let on, making him wonder if it was ever really possible to truly know anyone—if he could ever truly know himself. When he'd first arrived in LA, he'd carried all kinds of bogus beliefs about who he was, where he was going, and exactly how he'd go about getting there. Only to find himself buffeted by the whims of circumstance, reacting in ways he never could've foreseen.

The ping of an incoming call interrupted his thoughts, as a picture of his mother bloomed on the screen. Thanks to her tabloid-reading neighbors, she called all the time. Claimed she didn't want him working for Ira, but whenever Tommy pressed for a reason, she changed the subject,
begged him to come home, but that was no longer an option.

He let the call go to voice mail, promising himself he'd return it later, and scrolled for Aster's number. It was probably a mistake. But they could always leave if Layla proved to be as crazy as he suspected her of being. He turned the key in the ignition, once, twice. The engine sprang to life, and he squinted out the side-view mirror and merged onto the street.

“Layla wants to meet at Hollywood Forever, at Johnny Ramone's grave,” he said, before Aster could speak.

“Who is this?” Her bitchy tone told him she knew exactly who it was.

He rolled his eyes, switched tracks on his playlist, and waited for her to stop playing games.

“The answer is no,” she snapped. “No, scratch that, the answer is actually
hell no
.”

Tommy stared at the bumper sticker on the Prius in front of him—a call for tolerance, unity, and world peace—too bad the owner drove like a tailgating asshole. “I think you should reconsider,” he said.

“Oh, how you tempt me,” she sang.

“Look—I have no freaking idea what this is about, but I'm on my way there. Maybe I'll see you.”

“But more likely not.” She ended the call before he had a chance to.

He tossed the phone on the passenger seat and made his
way to the cemetery he'd visited not long after he'd first arrived in LA. He'd wanted to check out the monument and statue of Johnny Ramone playing guitar that marked the place where his ashes lay. There'd been an abundance of flowers left in his memory and plenty of fans hanging around. Even in death it seemed Johnny was still living the dream.

Still, why would Layla choose to meet in a cemetery? Was it random, or did the choice have some deeper, symbolic meaning? It didn't make sense. But lately, not much did.

He hoped she wasn't dumb enough to try to manipulate him into admitting something he'd live to regret. Just in case, he resolved to record the conversation on his phone. Then he'd sit back and wait for either Layla or Aster to hang herself. If they chose to go down, he wouldn't go with them.

T
he last thing Aster Amirpour wanted was to meet Layla and Tommy at some creepy cemetery filled with a bunch of dead Hollywood has-beens. Despite all its hipster movie screenings, themed parties, and reputation as a cool place to go on a date, she'd never felt the need to visit.

One cursory glance at the manicured lawns, the lake teeming with swans, and the elaborate mausoleums and grave markers honoring those who'd passed on was enough to convince her she'd be better off racing back to the comfort of her Mercedes and getting the hell out of there. Either Layla was planning a setup, or she was even more messed up than Aster had thought. Aster had told Tommy she wouldn't show—she should've honored her word.

Despite the blazing heat, Aster ran her hands over her
bare arms, warding off shivers, as she went in search of some dead rock star's grave. The crowds of tourists treating it like another place to visit between trips to Grauman's Chinese Theatre and Disneyland were annoying, as they clomped across the lawn, camera in one hand, five-dollar map in the other, searching for the final resting places of Jayne Mansfield, Rudolph Valentino, Cecil B. DeMille, and whoever else made their list. She rolled her eyes, seriously considering bailing on the plan, when Tommy found her and they agreed to find the monument together.

“You made it,” he said.

She shrugged, still not sure why she hadn't stayed home.

“It's over in the Garden of Legends,” he said. “Next to the lake with the swans.”

“Let me guess—not your first visit?”

“He was an amazing guitarist. I wanted to pay my respects.”

Aster eyeballed him from behind a pair of pink-tinted aviators it was almost too shady to wear, and tried not to judge. She'd been rude enough on the phone; maybe she should give him a break. “It would be really nice to know what this is about,” she said, hoping she wasn't walking into a trap. Where Layla was concerned, it was entirely possible.

Tommy shrugged and walked in silence alongside her, the two of them approaching the gravesite where Layla
watched from under the brim of a straw fedora that had seen better days.

“You came.” She removed her sunglasses and regarded them with an expression that was simultaneously surprised and relieved.

Tommy shrugged. Aster folded her arms across her chest and stood beside him. Better to let Layla think they stood in solidarity against her. Whatever it took to keep Layla as off balance as Aster currently felt.

“I'm glad you did.” She spoke in a voice that rang far more tentative than Aster expected. “We need to find a way to work together.”

Aster frowned and looked all around. Sure, the lake was pretty, and the swans looked really peaceful, but she hated funerals, graveyards, anything to do with death, dying, and decay. She could never understand the fixation some people had with the dark side, the macabre, anything ghoulish or ghostly. Halloween was her least favorite holiday. Though of course Layla sat there looking perfectly at ease. With her dark skinny jeans and black leather moto jacket, she'd managed to nail cemetery chic, if there was such a thing.

“We're competing against each other, in case you've forgotten.” Aster heaved her bag higher onto her shoulder, ready to leave. Better to head back to her luxury apartment, take a long, hot bubble bath, and try to forget she'd ever allowed herself to get dragged into this mess.

“It's not about the competition.” Layla switched her focus between Aster and Tommy. “I'm talking about Madison's disappearance and how the cops are trying to pin it on us.”

Aster sighed in defeat and sank onto the lawn. Tommy did the same, minus the sighing.

“Listen—” Layla leaned toward them, her tone hushed and hurried. “I'm sure we have our reasons for not trusting each other, but we need to find a way to save ourselves before the cops take us down.”

Aster smirked.

Layla shrugged. Then turning her attention to Tommy, she said, “I know you pointed the finger at me.”

Aster stared at Tommy in shock. It was the first she'd heard of it.

“If it wasn't for your stupid blog, none of this would've happened.” He clenched his jaw, narrowed his gaze. “You are single-handedly responsible for this mess.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” Layla shook her head, tossed her hat on the ground beside her. “Are you seriously that naive?”

“Well, this is off to a really nice start,” Aster grumbled. “Clearly we have some major trust issues that won't be resolved anytime soon, so can we just fast-forward and get to the point?”

Layla averted her gaze, taking a moment to steady herself before saying, “Aster's right.” She pinched a blade of grass
between her index finger and thumb, pausing to examine it before returning her focus to them. “I'm convinced we each know more than we're telling. And if we can set the animosity aside long enough to share what really happened that night, we might uncover something that'll point the finger elsewhere.”

If it involved anyone other than the three of them, it might work. But no way was Aster agreeing to that. For all she knew, Layla was working for Larsen, maybe even wearing a wire.

“Fine,” Layla said, when no one volunteered to take a turn. “It was my idea, so I'll start.” She looked pointedly between them. “But first I want to see your phones.”

“What—why?” Aster clutched her bag tighter, as though Layla might seize it.

“Because I don't want anyone taping this. I want us to speak freely, without fear of recrimination.”

Layla tossed her phone in the center. Aster begrudgingly followed. And after fiddling with his for a bit, Tommy added his too.

“What?” He deflected their outraged looks. “You can't blame me for trying to protect myself.”

Aster braced herself for Layla's response. Layla always defaulted to sarcasm, but this time, she somehow refrained. “Whatever. Here goes: I followed Tommy and Madison to the Vesper.”

“How's that a secret?” Aster interrupted, not even trying to hide her frustration. “It was right there on your blog.”

“Okay, so maybe I don't really have anything that hasn't already been documented and widely read. But here's the thing—my blog is not the best alibi, since it was posted several hours after I left the Vesper. Several hours after Madison left Tommy. And . . .” She paused, biting down on her lip as though debating whether to share something. “Madison filed a restraining order against me, which makes me just as big a suspect as you two.”

“Why would she do that?” Tommy studied Layla as though it was the first time they'd met.

“Maybe she wasn't as nice as you think,” Layla snapped, glaring at Tommy before shifting her focus to the lake, where the swans appeared to glide across a mirror of water.

Tommy pulled at the grass, his expression so unreadable, it reminded Aster of Ira. The silence lingered for so long, she figured she might as well go in his place.

It took guts for Layla to admit to the restraining order. Aster was surprised Madison hadn't filed one against her as well. And while she was no closer to liking Layla as a person, she definitely agreed that Madison wasn't nearly as nice as the image she portrayed. The girl had an edge. Aster had seen it the night she'd shown up at the club. Looking back, Aster could see Madison was doing reconnaissance, setting her up. For all she knew, Ryan was in on it too.
Whatever the case, like Layla, no way was she getting pinned for a crime she hadn't committed.

She tucked her hair behind her ears, cleared her throat, and said, “I don't remember anything after leaving the club.”

“The amnesia defense? Always a classic.” Tommy scrutinized her as Layla quickly shushed him.

“All I know is, after the whole Madison thing I wanted to leave, but Ira insisted on serving us champagne, telling us we were better off hanging out where he could look after us, which seemed a little weird—”

“Because it
is
weird,” Tommy snapped, his harsh reaction prompting Aster and Layla to flinch. “What the hell was he thinking?” His lips pulled tight, as his darkened gaze moved over them.

“Oh, like you're above serving the underage?” Aster frowned, as annoyed with Tommy as she was with herself. She hadn't meant to cast suspicion on Ira. He'd been the only one on her side—the only person who'd volunteered to help. “The only reason no one turned you in is because it would shut down the club, get Ira in a load of trouble, and hurt all of our chances at winning the contest.” She shook her head, still fuming inside, but forced herself to focus on the point she was determined to make, resolving not to get sidetracked. “I went home with Ryan. . . .” She took a deep breath, forced herself to look at them. Relieved to find it
wasn't as bad as she'd thought. Where she'd expected judgment, she found encouragement. “And all I know is when I woke up the next morning in his ridiculously decorated cliché of a man cave, Ryan was gone.”

Layla and Tommy both stared.

Aster nodded, swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I have no idea where he went. I never saw him again. I haven't told the cops. Haven't told anyone. It's too humiliating to admit. But then, the other day—” She lowered her head, needing a moment before she could divulge the worst part. “Someone delivered a video of me, doing disgusting things in Ryan's apartment.”

She peeked through her long, angled bangs, trying to read their reactions. Layla looked angry, Tommy disturbed. Their lack of blame made it easier to continue.

“I just wish I could rewind my life and start over.” She buried her face in her hands. It was out there now, no taking it back. Strangely, the confession didn't make her feel better, but it did make her feel lighter, maybe even more connected to Tommy and Layla, which probably wasn't such a bad thing, considering they were all in this together.

“You know—” Tommy turned to her, his tone much softer than it had been a few moments before. “Madison mentioned she'd been wanting to break it off but was afraid of how Ryan would react. When she caught him with you, she decided to take her chances and end it.”

Aster was stunned by his words. Madison had always seemed so remote, not at all like a person who would share intimate stuff with someone she barely knew. “Sounds like she really opened up.” She studied him closely. Just how much time had they spent together?

Tommy shrugged.

“What about that text she received?” Layla asked. “Can't the cops trace it?”

“They told me it was untraceable. Sent from a burner.” He ran a hand through his hair, clenched and unclenched his jaw, clearly needing a moment to put his thoughts together. “Madison went to Night for Night,” he finally said, his voice almost reduced to a whisper.

“How'd you—”

Before Layla could finish, Tommy said, “I know, because I followed her. I mean, not right away. At first I went back inside the club, but then . . . yeah, I went outside and headed in the same direction until I more or less caught up.”

“Does Larsen know?” Aster leaned toward him. Finally, they were getting somewhere.

Tommy made a face. “You kidding? It's bad enough I'm the last known person to have seen her. If I told him I followed her, I'd be behind bars instead of sitting here, talking to you.”

“But the club was closed.” Layla squinted.

“She knew the code.” Tommy glanced between them.

“Did you see anything?” Aster asked, trying to keep her voice soft, encouraging, free of the excitement that was building. He seemed jumpy, paranoid, not at all like Tommy, and she didn't want to scare him off by pushing him to reveal things when he didn't feel ready.

Tommy shook his head. “I tried to follow, but the door locked behind her, and by that time I was feeling pretty embarrassed for stalking her like that, so I bailed and went back to the Vesper. I was kind of keyed up, so I hung out for a while, had another beer. It wasn't until I was locking up that I discovered Madison's keys in my jacket. But when I went to move her car so it wouldn't get towed, it was gone.”

“Who moved the car?” Layla asked.

Tommy shrugged.

“And the keys—you still have them?” Aster looked at him.

He dipped his head. “Yes.”

“What's on them—anything of note?”

Tommy peered at Aster. “I don't know. They're just keys.”

Aster fought to keep her face neutral. Why were guys so clueless when it came to girls and their things? “What I meant was, what kind of key chain are they on? How many keys are there? Are there little charms attached?”

“Does this really matter?” His blue eyes squinted against the fading rays of the sun.

“It might.” Aster lifted her shoulders, rubbed her lips together. “I know it sounds like a long shot, but there could be something useful, some kind of reveal. I mean, keys are really personal, since they unlock your world.”

“I hadn't thought of that.” He stared into the distance as though trying to remember. Shaking his head, he said, “I'll take a look and let you know.”

What Aster really wanted was for him to offer to let her take a look, since she had absolutely no faith in his detective skills when it came to deciphering girls, but she nodded instead.

“Well, I hope you hid them somewhere safe,” Layla said. “If the cops discover you have them . . .” She left the threat unspoken.

“They're safe.” His voice was tight, his expression guarded.

“So we know where everyone was except Ryan. Do you think Madison went to meet him?” Layla asked.

“Why would she do that after confessing she was afraid of him?” Aster felt dumb for jumping to the jerk's defense, but the question had to be asked.

“Well, she didn't actually say that, it was more implied. . . .” Tommy rubbed a hand over his jaw, looking increasingly discouraged, possibly second-guessing himself.