Chapter 9
MY DREAMS WEREN’T exactly identical, but they were all variations on the same disturbing theme. There was an explosion: sometimes a house blew up, or a car, or a helicopter. I was always carrying someone away from the fire toward safety: Danny Young, or Rick Del Rio, or my father, or my twin brother—or maybe the person in my arms was myself.
I never made it out of the fire zone alive. Not once.
My cell phone vibrating on the night table woke me from this morning’s nightmare, as it had done almost daily for about three years.
Already, I was swamped with dread, that sickening falling sensation that hits you before you even know why.
And then my brain caught up with my gut, and I knew if I didn’t pick up the phone, it would ring again and again until I answered.
This was my real-life nightmare.
I opened the clamshell, put it to my ear.
“You’re dead,” he said.
The voice came through an electronic filter. I called it “he,” but it could have been a she or even an it. Sometimes he called in the morning: a wake-up call. Sometimes he called in the middle of the night, or he might skip a day just to keep me off balance, which he, she, or it did.
Every time my cell phone rang, I was shocked by a fresh jolt of anxiety. When it was my hate caller, I sometimes asked, “What the fuck do you want?” Sometimes I tried reason and said calmly, “Just tell me what you want.”
This morning when the voice said “You’re dead,” I said “Not yet.”
I snapped the phone closed.
I’d narrowed the list of my enemies to about a hundred, maybe a hundred and ten.
Whoever my caller was, he reached me from pay phones. That’s right. Pay phones. They’re still in hotel lobbies and train stations and on just about every block in every city. Each year or so, I’d change my phone number, but I couldn’t keep my cell phone number a secret. My staff, my friends, my clients at Private, all had to be able to reach me. Especially the clients. I was always there for them.
I wondered again who my death threat caller was.
Did I know him? Was he in my inner circle? Or was he one of the crooks or deadbeats I’d brought down in my career as a PI?
I wondered if the threat was even real.
Was he watching me, tailing me, planning to kill me someday? Or was he just laughing his ass off at my expense?
Of course I had called the cops, but they’d lost interest years ago. After all, I’d never been physically attacked, never even seen my tormentor.
And then my thoughts went to Shelby Cushman again.
I imagined the horror of her last moments and pressed my palms to my eyes. I wanted to remember Shelby alive. I’d once dated her. I used to spend late nights in grungy little improv theaters where she did stand-up, then leave with Shelby by the back door. We broke up because I was me—and Shelby was getting closer to forty. She wanted a family and kids. And so did Andy. To hear them tell it, they were in love from their first date.
Now Shelby was dead and Andy was bereft and alone, and soon to be a murder suspect in the eyes of the LAPD.
I sat up in bed. What the hell was this? Where was I?
The sheets were flowered; there was a fluffy rug beside the bed, and the walls were painted a leafy green. Okay, I got it. I was fine.
I was at Colleen Molloy’s house.
It was a good place to be.