Back home, Nicole spent the rest of the day in bed, catching up on her sleep. She got up to eat dinner—leftovers she found in the freezer—then went back to bed with her book.
She woke up at 7:00 a.m. on Sunday, pulled on some old jeans, a T-shirt, sunglasses, and a floppy-brimmed hat for a trip to the nearby supermarket. She badly needed to restock her kitchen, but she didn’t want to run into anyone who might recognize her from the news.
When Nicole got back to her place, it took two trips from the garage to carry up the groceries. She was just putting them away when her phone beeped, and she looked at her messages. There were two, both from Daniel Freeman. One was from Friday. She wondered how she’d missed it. It said, “Blair’s death certificate came. Drop by after work to sign the papers for his bequest.”
In the second message, which had just come in, Freeman said he was in the office this morning catching up on some work, and she could drop by if she wanted to take care of the paperwork.
Nicole called him. “I’m still not ready to accept the money,” she said. “I need more time to think about it.”
“All right,” said Freeman, “but he did leave an envelope of material for you. He said it includes a personal letter and information about the property. I should have given it to you when you came in before, but it slipped my mind. Perhaps there’s something in it that will help you decide.”
“What time should I come by?” she said. She looked at her watch. It was 10:30 a.m.
“I’ll be here until noon or so,” Freeman said.
Nicole quickly changed into something more presentable—a red sweater, short navy skirt and heels—and went down to get her car. As she reached the street, she noticed a gray SUV pull away from a nearby no-parking zone. It looked just like the one that had almost run her down the day she met Josh. It was clearly following her, and whoever was at the wheel wasn’t trying to be subtle about it.
Once again, she remembered her interview with Detective Miller. He’d thought she was Robert’s girlfriend, and that she knew more about Robert’s murder than she admitted. He’d warned her that the killer might draw the same conclusion. Robert had photos of her in his house, which the detective said the killer had searched. Photos identifying her and where she worked had been in the news. The man following her could be with the media. But he might also be Robert’s killer. Whoever he was, she had to get him off her tail.
She tried the trick of turning into the Beverly Hills Hotel driveway, but the man seemed to anticipate this and followed her in, along the road fronting the hotel and out again. She wove around the residential streets for perhaps ten minutes, passing one mansion with sprawling gardens after another, but she couldn’t shake him.
Finally, as Nicole was turning back onto Sunset Boulevard, she managed to sail through the light just after it turned red. She almost got into a wreck, and several cars that had jumped the green light screeched to a stop. But the maneuver was successful. Cross traffic trapped the gray SUV in the middle of the intersection, sending up a prolonged chorus of honking. She turned on Beverly Drive and made her way over the hill and into the valley, driving as fast as she could. Traffic was relatively light. By the time she reached Ventura Boulevard, she was sure she’d lost him.
If it was the same SUV she’d seen a few days before, she reasoned, he would know where she was headed, even though he might not have the exact address. She took the extra precaution of leaving her car in a parking structure near Freeman’s office so it wouldn’t be seen on the street.
To Nicole’s annoyance, Daniel Freeman once again tried to talk her into signing the papers and accepting the inheritance. “I could have the money transferred directly into your account,” he said. “It would be available to you tomorrow.”
“As I said,” she told him, “I’m having a lot of hesitation about accepting it. I’ll let you know as soon as I decide.”
“Of course,” he said. He placed the papers back in their folder. Then he got up and went over to a framed landscape hung on the wall. He slid it aside, revealing a wall safe. He put in the combination, then opened it and took out something. He closed the safe, spun the dial, and straightened the picture. When he turned back to her, he was holding a large, tan mailing envelope. “Given the notoriety of this case, I’m keeping Mr. Blair’s file locked up.” He sat down again and placed the envelope on his desk, pushing it toward her.
“As I mentioned, he left this envelope for you. He said it included a letter explaining certain matters he wanted you to know if anything happened to him.” He paused to take two sheets of paper out of a desk drawer and put it on top of the envelope. “Here are his instructions for burial and his death certificate.”
“Didn’t you think it was odd?” she said. “I mean, how often do people walk in here out of the blue and make out a will?”
“At the time, I didn’t think anything of it,” he said. “In my experience, people are uncannily aware when it’s time to record their last wishes. Of course, as things turned out, it was very strange, considering the way Mr. Blair died. I’ve never had anything like that happen before.”
“He knew someone wanted to kill him,” she said, almost to herself. “Someone must have threatened his life, and he took it very seriously.”
Freeman gave the envelope and papers another push toward her, and she picked them up. The envelope was fat and seemed packed full. A square object inside gave it an irregular shape.
They both stood up. She thanked Freeman and told him she’d be in touch. He walked her to the door and, once again, shook her hand while sandwiching his left hand over hers.
Back in her car, she made her way along Ventura Boulevard, remarkably devoid of traffic, even for a Sunday morning. She turned onto Beverly Glen, heading home.
Just before she reached Mulholland Drive at the crest of the hill, she saw, with a shock, that the same gray SUV was behind her. How on earth had he found her? While they were stopped at the signal, she got a look at him in her rearview mirror. He was big with jowls and a shaved head. The light turned green, and she started up so fast her tires screeched. He was just as fast, close behind her as they sped past Mulholland and down the sharply twisting road. She could see he was deliberately tailgating her, forcing her to go faster. Using the shoulder of the road, he pulled along the passenger side of her car and sideswiped her. The maneuver pushed her car toward the line of cars on the other side of the road and the steep cliff beyond it. She corrected her steering just in time to avoid a head-on collision. She sped up until he was behind her again. Holy shit, she thought, he’s trying to get me killed and make it look like an accident. She kept ahead of him with her foot on the accelerator, going a terrifying sixty, then sixty-five down the winding road.
At last they neared the bottom of the hill at Sunset where cars were waiting at a red light. Nicole spotted a gap in the flow of cars on the other side of the road where traffic was headed in the opposite direction. She wasn’t sure she could manage it, but desperation prompted her to execute a quick U-turn. She barely made it into the space between two cars. This prompted loud honking from the drivers behind her, who had to hit their brakes. She was now headed back to the valley. Meanwhile, her pursuer was stuck between other cars waiting at the signal, facing south.
She’d planned to reverse directions again at the small shopping center at the crest of the hill and head home to Westwood. But by the time she got there, she realized what a bad idea that was. Whoever was tailing her knew where she lived. It was too dangerous to go home. She got out her phone and, once again, called her sister to ask if she could stay a few more days. Not wanting to alarm Stephanie, Nicole explained that she was still being hassled by paparazzi.
Nicole came back down the mountain, this time through Laurel Canyon. Construction crews seemed to be working on every major street. It took a while for her to battle her way into West Hollywood. Before she went into Stephanie’s apartment, she opened the trunk of her car and pulled out one of the tote bags she kept for grocery shopping. She dropped Robert’s envelope into it.
Once inside, she greeted her sister and Arnold, who was as excited as ever to see her. Stephanie was sitting at the table eating lunch.
“Hey,” Stephanie said. “You hungry? I have leftover tuna casserole.”
“Sure,” Nicole said. “I’ll be there in a minute.” She disappeared into the room where she slept and put the tote bag in the closet.
While they ate, Nicole told her sister about the inheritance, swearing her to secrecy. She didn’t mention the man in the gray SUV. Stephanie would demand they call the police, and Nicole wasn’t up for that. So far the police had been less than helpful, and they weren’t about to assign her a bodyguard. Nor did she say anything about Robert’s envelope. Stephanie would insist on opening it right away, and Nicole wanted to put it off as long as possible. Most especially, she didn’t want to read Robert’s letter. Maybe she would turn it over to her lawyer so she wouldn’t have to deal with it. She had decided, however, that Stephanie might as well know about the bequest.
“Oh, my god,” Stephanie said when she heard the news. “You’ll never have to work again in your life. Tell me again: How much is it?” Then, after Nicole repeated the amount, Stephanie said, “Oh, my god” again. She was even more flabbergasted when Nicole told her she didn’t want the money. “It makes me sick to think about it,” Nicole said. “His crazy fixation on me.”
“What difference does that make?” said Stephanie. “This could be so great for you! You know Marja, this friend of mine? She helped out a neighbor, an old woman who didn’t have any family or friends. Then the woman died and left Marja almost a million dollars. She bought a little house, and she travels. She took a job that she loves with an art gallery. It doesn’t pay much, but that doesn’t matter because she doesn’t need the money. It’s a total win-win!”
“This is not the same,” Nicole said. “It just feels wrong. I mean, where do you think he got all that money? Helping out in a soup kitchen or visiting cancer patients? It was probably something like dealing drugs or arms trading. He could have been a hired killer.
“And Robert was actually stalking me. He broke into my place and stole my underwear. That’s really sick. How could I bear to spend that money or live on it? My lawyer said I could give it to charity. That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Right.” Stephanie sounded disappointed. “The money is just a big pile of trouble for you.”
“Exactly,” Nicole said.
“So what about this new guy?”
Nicole hesitated before answering. Then, “I really like him, Steph. He’s fun, and he gets me. He really gets me.”
“I’m guessing Reinhardt doesn’t.”
“Exactly. Like, sometimes he can’t tell when I’m joking. I have to explain. And, basically, he’s a very serious person.”
“Like what’s-his-name in Wuthering Heights?” said Stephanie.
“Heathcliff? Oh, god, no. Reinhardt isn’t moody and brooding. But I always have the feeling he’s thinking deep, serious thoughts when we’re not talking or interacting in some way. He’s not much into small talk. With Josh, I have his undivided attention, and we never run out of things to say. Of course, after just two dates, I can’t pretend I really know him. But what strikes me about Josh is that he’s a real grownup. Maybe the first truly grownup man I’ve ever been with.”
Stephanie laughed. “Grownup, Nicole? What do you mean? We’re all grownups. Even Brad was a grownup.”
“No, he really wasn’t,” Nicole said. “The only reason he married me was because I gave him an ultimatum; I was going to leave him if he didn’t. He never did get to the point where he wanted kids. And he was always dreaming up get-rich-quick schemes. Do you know how immature that is? He had a successful career, but it wasn’t enough. He had to up the stakes, look for shortcuts. And Reinhardt, with his cloak and dagger routine—that’s kind of the same thing, isn’t it? A refusal to live in the real world like everybody else, an excuse to avoid responsibility and commitment.
“On the other hand, Josh knows who he is and what he wants out of life,” Nicole went on. “He loves his work, and he’s ready to settle down and have a family. He was engaged, but his fiancée cheated on him, and they broke up. But he really does want marriage and children. Of course, it’s way too soon to know if we’re really a match. And there’s Reinhardt—”
“I thought you were through with him.”
“Right,” Nicole said, “but there are moments when I’m still conflicted. Like: What if he called and had a good explanation for failing to show up in London?”
“Like he was kidnapped by space aliens? Give me a break.” Stephanie’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “No matter what happens with this new guy, you’ve got to dump Reinhardt. You’ll never make a life with a guy who,” she paused and started counting on her fingers, “lives in another country (one finger), won’t commit (two fingers), puts his job first (three), stands you up in a foreign country (four), doesn’t bother to call and explain or apologize (five), refuses to tell you where he works (six), and—oh, yeah—is a spy (seven).”
“We don’t know he’s really a spy,” Nicole said. “He never said that.”
“Of course he is, dummy,” Steph said, with great certainty. “Why else would he keep disappearing like that? Even if he isn’t a spy––what about the rest?”
“You’re right. He’s a lost cause,” Nicole said. “But that Josh—I mean, wow!”
Stephanie laughed. “I think that’s great,” she said. “Good for you!”
Later, when they retired to their rooms for the night, Nicole got out Robert’s envelope and sat on the bed—a single bed disguised as a couch with a fitted red-and-blue slipcover and matching cushions. She poured out the contents of the envelope. Inside were two smaller tan envelopes. There was also a white letter-sized envelope with her name written in Robert’s neat hand and a small, light-blue drawstring pouch with Tiffany printed in silver letters. She could tell that it held a small box.
The blue pouch caught her eye, but first she reached for one of the tan envelopes. It held a printout of a map with an X marking Robert’s house and the address written at the top of the page. It also held a set of keys on a key ring. It was just like the key ring she’d taken from his desk. Stapled to the map were five pages, the first of which was a floor plan of the house, which Robert had rendered to scale, he’d noted, on graph paper. The other pages were what appeared to be a detailed inventory of each piece of furniture and its value, as well as an explanation of the house’s other special features, such as the intercom and security system. She leafed through it quickly and stuffed it back in the envelope.
The second envelope held keys and a printout of a map of the Owens Valley, which was about 250 miles east of L.A. The map had an X marking the location of his cabin. An address was noted at the top of the sheet. She felt something else in the envelope and reached in. It was a photo of Robert, holding a fishing pole with some kind of fishing-gear backpack hanging from his shoulder. Behind him was an A-frame cabin, probably a prefab—cream-colored with red trim. She stared at the picture of Robert for a long moment. He looked so harmless, and she’d thought he was her friend.
She figured the cabin in the photo must be his place in the Owens Valley. It looked nice. She couldn’t really imagine Robert enjoying himself in the out-of-doors—fishing, of all things. And who had taken the picture? Perhaps he’d used a tripod. Had the police taken a look at the cabin? Did they even know about it? Did the murderer? Maybe it would bear checking out.
Finally, she opened the white envelope containing Robert’s letter. In a way, it wasn’t as crazy as she’d expected. It was coherent and written in his usual careful hand. But it also showed how delusional he was. It said:
Darling Nicole:
If you’re reading this, it means I’m dead, and all of my dreams for the two of us will have come to nothing. As for the ring in the box, I was going to give it to you as soon as your Brit-cop boyfriend was out of the picture.
The unspoken words between us made me understand that somewhere, deep inside, you knew we were destined to be together. That’s why I took the step that put my life in danger. I was playing some dangerous games, and I had to bring these projects to a conclusion and cut all ties, no matter what the risks. Otherwise, you could never be mine.
I want you to have my house, my cabin, and my money. As for the computer you’ll find at the house, please erase the hard drive, remove it, and destroy it. You can burn it or bash it in with a hammer. Either will work. Then dispose of it somewhere far from my house. Above all, be sure it never falls into anyone else’s hands. I don’t need to tell you to be discreet about this. You’re an intelligent and practical woman, Nicole. Those are just two of the things I love about you.
–Robert
After putting the letter back in its envelope, Nicole shoved all three envelopes into the big one, leaving just the small Tiffany pouch on the bed. She picked it up, and pulled out a small blue jewelry box and a folded piece of paper. She held the box away from her, as if it might explode, and forced herself to open it. The box was lined with royal blue velvet, and the ring was breathtaking. It held a huge, brilliantly sparkling diamond set in yellow gold, the classic Tiffany solitaire. She closed the box, then unfolded the paper. It was a sales receipt, dated six weeks before. The diamond was two and a half carets, it said, and had cost $41,000. If the ring had been from anyone else, she would have tried it on. But she didn’t want anything to do with Robert’s obsession. She put the receipt and the box back in the pouch and shoved it into the large envelope and closed the clasp. Then she put it back into her tote bag and the tote bag into the closet.
Nicole lay awake most of the night, thinking about the letter. Around four in the morning—even though she knew it was crazy—she began to wonder if Robert had something to do with Reinhardt’s disappearance.