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Evan peered over. Below, the fastrope vanished into a tropical oasis of lipstick-pink impatiens. Aromatic cover.
He came back inside and jotted a note for Naomi Templeton on the lovely hotel stationery.
I’ll be in touch.—X
He placed the note in an envelope, rolled it into a tube, and leaned over Paddy. “Sayaaah.”
Paddy’s breathing was labored, his lips flecked with sticky white saliva, but he complied. Evan slid the message into his mouth.
“All you have to do to release the collar is get your big toe to your ankle,” he said. “If you’re not that gymnastic, make sure the bomb tech has steady hands when he cuts it off. Det cord can be temperamental. Might be safer to cut off the toe instead.”
He moved onto the balcony, swung one leg over, caught the fastrope in his double-gloved hands, and flew down fast enough for the leather to smoke at his palms.
His boots struck soil, and he flung the steaming outer gloves off with a quick snap of his wrists. Candy was there in the tropical flowers waiting over an open duffel bag. She’d already shed the LAPD uniform and had changed into a sundress, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and giant Audrey Hepburn sunglasses. Waiting for Evan in the bag was a Havana Joe print shirt and a Ralph Lauren white twill baseball cap.
As he threw them on, she slid behind him to peer out through a spray of auburn-tinged banana fronds. She brushed across his back, the fabric thin enough that he sensed her nakedness against him.
North Crescent Drive was a stone’s throw away across a brief strip of manicured grass pinpricked with streetlights. A number of guests strolled along the various paths between the bungalows, well-tanned men in expensive leisure wear, accessorized with children and younger wives sporting spin class–firmed backsides. Candy had appareled herself to fit right in, playing the part of hot suburban housewife. There were so many alluring feminine roles in the social-engineering handbook, and she seemed to embody the most dangerous of each category.
A number of cop cars lined the curb, interspersed with other vehicles. Candy lifted a key fob, and a Mercedes SUV parked across from them chirp-chirped.
She caught Evan admiring her. “What?”
“Every time I see you, you’re someone else,” he said. “Which one are you?”
“All of them.”
He offered his arm. She wove her hand through it. They emerged from the gardens, mingling with the other guests briefly on the path, and climbed into the Mercedes.
As they coasted away from the curb, Candy favored two of the officers leaning against a squad car with an elegant dip of her head. They grinned back wolfishly.
She turned onto Sunset, putting the Beverly Hills Hotel in the rearview.
“We should split up,” Evan said. “You can leave me off in Westwood.”
“Fine by me,” Candy said. “I’m waiting for a soufflé to rise.”
He had no idea what to make of that.
They drove a few miles in silence, minding the mirrors and passing cars. She pulled over at the east edge of the UCLA Medical Center to let him out.
When he turned to say good-bye, she met him with a full kiss on the mouth. Her lips were plush, sticky with a glossy lipstick that smelled discordantly and delightfully of sugar cookies. She pulled away, leaving him flushed.
He could feel the lipstick on his mouth. He opened the door, hesitated, and looked back. “I owe you one,” he said.
He couldn’t see her eyes, only his own reflection in her dark sunglasses. Those lips parted to show a crescent of perfect white teeth. “Next time,” she said, “we should at least”—she leaned closer, whispered the verb.
He’d barely cleared the running board when she took off, the passenger door snapping shut from the momentum of her acceleration. He watched the Mercedes blend into traffic, the taste of her still lingering on his lips.
15
A Bad Case of the Crummies
Keeping the Ralph Lauren cap snugged low over his eyes, Evan stalked through nightfall toward Castle Heights. He held focus as best he could, averting his face from store security cams, ATMs, and traffic lights rigged to photograph speeders. The Third Commandment demanded that he master his surroundings but he felt his focus blurring the outside world with the rocky terrain of his internal landscape.
needle punching through his shirt
Crushing his RoamZone underfoot, he kicked it down a sewer drain. Clusters of students were out in front of the movie theaters, laughing and taking selfies. He drifted past a café wafting scents of shisha and barbecued meat, a busker playing a battered guitar down two strings, a green-cross dispensary leaking the earthy reek of pot.
