—
My bags lie waiting bythe door as I fish the unused Sig from last night’s jacket. I wipe it down carefully, removing the hillside dust as well as my fingerprints. I remove the bullet, wipe it clean, and carefully reinsert it, wrapping the whole gun tightly in a clean dishcloth before slipping the snug package back into my handbag. I ball up the jacket, double-bag it, and deposit it in the trash. From what I can see, it doesn’t have any blood on it, but it’s sweaty and dusty and frankly I’d rather never see it again.
I scan the empty apartment. I’m ready. I tap out a message to Nick.
Today, 5:02pm
Are you at home? Something happened last night. Was involved in a car accident. I’m fine just bruised. I’m flying home on the red-eye tonight. It’d be great to come say goodbye before I go x
The message registers as read, gray dots pulse as he types. I imagine his concerned face, his concentrated expression. I’m really going to miss him.
OMG. What happened? You should have called me! Where are you? Hospital? Home? I’ll come over now. I had a sense something was off.
I smile stupidly at the screen; he cares about me. He has no idea how much he’s helped me already—but he can’t come here, I need to get to his house. I need to get his gun back to his house, back in its drawer, and the sooner the better.
I’m okay. Can I drop by your house on the way to the airport? Just leaving my place now.
Then I add—
We need to talk.
His gray dots pulse…
Of course, I’ll head back there now. Is everything all right? Are you sure you’re okay?
Yeah, just shaken up. I’m getting an Uber over now.
Great. See you there.
I order my Uber, jot a phone number from the LAPD website down onto a scrap of paper, then lock up the apartment and haul my bags down to the lobby. A different receptionist is working today, someone I haven’t met before. I hand over the apartment key to her and explain that I’m traveling back to London and someone will be in touch soon to sort everything out. Then I duck my head into the valet station and give Miguel the biggest hug, explaining away my departure and saying a proper goodbye.
Outside the sun begins to set as I hop in my Uber, an unexpected dread brewing inside me as I head to Nick’s to play out the last step of my plan.
Around West Hollywood I catch sight of what I’ve been looking for through the car window and ask the driver to pull over. I trot back along the sidewalk to an old public phone booth and pull out the crinkled scrap of paper with the phone number. It’s the LAPD twenty-four-hour anonymous hotline, anyone can call in and report a crime anonymously.
I’m calling Marla in then running. I curse myself for not having done so from day one instead of getting back in contact with Officer Cortez. But what’s done is done and I don’t have time to berate myself now. I’ll have an eleven-hour flight to do that. I take a breath and key in the tip-off number.
An automated system tells me to disclose the state, city, or area I am calling in relation to then asks me to hold for an operator.
A fizz of fear flutters through my veins when suddenly I’m connected to a human voice.
“Crime Stoppers USA, how can I help you?” a female voice intones. The immediate reality of a person on the end of the line, and the question, throws me for a second. I have to actively reassure myself that there is no possible way she could know who, or where, I am. Or what I’ve done.
“I’d like to report a crime,” I stutter.
“Okay, ma’am, and what’s the location you’re calling for?”
I tell her and she redirects my call. Another woman answers, her voice bright.
“Los Angeles Regional, how can I assist you?”
“I’d like to report—something.”
“Okay…” she prompts.
“There’s a body.” The words sound awkward and harsh. “It’s in the ravine in Griffith Park. Beneath the sign.”
“I see,” she says, her tone sober, careful. “And are you there at the scene?”
