It was the strangest date of my life.
We sat on a concrete bench that was engraved with the word Burbank. It stood on the corner of West Olive Avenue and Hollywood Way, opposite Gate 4 of the Warner Brothers studio complex. We watched the early cars arriving and waited for Sam Larabee to show up for work. There was a chill morning breeze, and the sun hadn’t grabbed the day by the throat yet. The café directly behind us built into the ground floor of a four-story office block was closed, exterior tables and chairs upturned.
Inspired by the studio opposite, we started talking movies. We both loved Interstellar, Magnolia, and the most recent version of Dune.
I kept looking at this beautiful, engaging woman and wondered why it didn’t trouble her to be sitting alongside a murderer. Then I’d remind myself she too had taken a life. She understood the immediacy of circumstance. Our situations hadn’t been the same, but at least she understood some of what I had been through. A former president could drive along West Olive, and we’d be expected to stand and cheer a great man who might have sent thousands to their deaths. War, sanctions, harmful economic and health care policies, mass murder and maiming made invisible by distance. Here we were, two people with experience of it up close, no judgment, no fear.
Soon we moved on to music, foods, travel, and everything else that spiced life with fun. We shared some tastes—pizza, a love of New York City, awe of Ariana Grande’s voice—we disagreed on others—tuna (she hates), San Francisco (I hate), and Prince (she hates)—but every mismatch prompted jokes and laughter. Being with Felicity was easy.
Love should be easy.
We spent almost three hours waiting there for Larabee, who didn’t show until two minutes after ten. I still remember every word of our conversation. Some strange attraction was at work, connecting us beyond what we were saying, cementing our relationship in a realm beyond reason, which is a fancy way of saying I recall it because it was the moment I started to realize I was falling in love. I found my soulmate in the shadow of murder. Which should give hope to all lost and lonely souls. She wasn’t just the second love of my life. She was my redemption.
“That’s him,” I said as I saw Larabee come east along Olive in a green Land Rover Discovery Sport. He took a left into the studio lot. “I don’t want you drawn into this. Wait here.”
Felicity nodded, and I grabbed the video recorder, which was on the bench beside me, got to my feet, and hurried across the street.
I caught up to Larabee as he was presenting his credentials to the guard on the gate.
“Mr. Larabee,” I said, and he craned out of the window to look at me. “Can I talk to you a minute?”
He was surprised, but there was no hint he knew I was being hunted for abduction and murder.
“Mr. Collard,” he said. “I’ve got appointments.”
“This will only take a minute.”
He nodded wearily. “Let me park.”
The security guard raised the barrier, and Larabee pulled into one of the visitor spots just beyond it. He climbed out of the car, walked back, and we stood to one side of the gate.
“I’ve got some footage of the guy blackmailing Jessica Yallop into harassing my ex-wife. I recorded it in the City of Industry. There’s a car, but I didn’t get a plate and his face is hidden.”
He looked at the video recorder in my hand. “And you want me to find him?”
“I thought there might be a traffic camera or something nearby you might be able to access.”
He nodded and took the recorder. “Maybe. I’ll have Otis send you a bill.”
“Thanks,” I said.
He tipped an imaginary hat and returned to his car. I watched him pull out of the space and drive toward his normal spot deep in the Warner lot. I walked away from the gate and crossed West Olive Avenue. As I reached the bench where Felicity waited, my phone rang. It was Toni, and I hesitated before answering, aware the cops might use her to get to me.
“Hello?” I said tentatively.
“Hello? What the fuck, Peyton! Where are you?”
“What’s up?” I asked.
“What’s up?” Her anger went up a notch. “What’s fucking up? I’ll tell you what’s up. Your daughter just saw you on TV, Peyton. You’re wanted for murder.”