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Cruz stepped in front of Del Rio, took a picture of the men with his phone, and said, “Your faces are going out to every hotel in LA. After today, you’re going to be sleeping in your car.”
Gozan was on the phone, “Suite three W. I need security. Immediately.”
Del Rio and Cruz took the fire stairs down.
“I don’t know. I don’t think that went so well,” said Del Rio.
“We got the girl out of the room.”
“There’ll be another one,” said Del Rio.
Chapter 38
SANDRA STOOD BESIDE the enormous bed watching the neon lights outside her windows fling spangles of color onto the white bedding. She wore her husband’s dress shirt, unbuttoned all the way, showing off her large, natural breasts and her small black thong.
She said, “Harry?”
Her husband wasn’t paying attention.
Actually, he wasn’t breathing, but his skin was still warm, almost as if he were still alive.
Sandra gave his arm a little shake, then went to the vast marble-tiled master bath and got into the shower. She let the jet spray beat down on her for several minutes as she thought about how she’d distracted Harry all day long, keeping him too busy to think about food. When he went into hypoglycemic shock, she just closed the door and let him drift away.
Not a bad death, really. Not at all.
She lathered her hair with a fragrant spa shampoo, followed up with a special rinse that made her dark mane bounce and reflect light. She toweled off with yards of Egyptian cotton, then stepped out of the stall and stood naked in front of the full-length mirror.
“Okay, Sandy. Okay, now,” she said to herself. She looked really good. She twisted her body a little so she could see the elegant line of her back, her perfect ass, how long her legs looked from behind. Then she blew out her hair and returned to the bedroom.
Turning her back on Harold Wiggens III, deceased heir to the Wiggens Cough Syrup fortune, Sandra pulled on some underthings and a small, clingy white dress.
Then she sat down on the edge of the bed, put on jeweled sandals. She said to the dead man, “Harry, I’m sorry. We had a good time, didn’t we? I’m as sorry as I can be.”
She lifted his eyelids, one at a time, then picked up the no-name mobile phone and punched in a number she knew by heart. After two rings, Lester answered and said her name.
“Yes. It’s me. It’s done.”
“How are you doing?”
“I’m okay. So far.”
“You should call the police.”
“Right after we hang up.”
“I’ll call you later.”
“No. I’ll call you.”
“Sandra?”
“Don’t worry, Les. I’ll call you.”
The newly minted widow closed the phone and mentally rehearsed what she was going to say.
I thought Harry was sleeping. When I tried to wake him up, he was—dead. He was diabetic. I don’t know what went wrong.
Sandra picked up the landline and called 911. As she waited for the operator to answer, she put her hand over her heart, which was just going crazy. She could hardly believe it was almost over.
