15

Joe Alston glanced over the rim of his cup at the woman who had just taken the table in the back of the shop. He had noticed her because she was attractive, about the right age—maybe five years older than the youngest group in the shop—and alone. He realized he would have sounded like a stalker to a person who could read his mind, but he was just looking and wondering. Her long, thick, dark brown hair made him want her to brush it aside with her hand so he could see her face better. She was drinking something in a transparent plastic cup through a straw, probably iced coffee.

Alston allowed himself one look and then turned away toward the big front window, where he watched the activity on the busy corner. There were crosswalks and a traffic signal, so some cars were gliding past while others were waiting to go the other way, as were a few pedestrians. He kept the lid on his coffee and sipped through the little hole on top because once the lid was removed, the paper cup couldn’t be trusted to remain rigid. He watched the people going past and wondered about each of them—who they were and why they weren’t at work somewhere. In this part of Los Angeles, looking at people was irresistible and hypnotic. There were always so many of them out, and they were all moving, and anyone could be anything.

He was good at remembering faces, but not at remembering the context. If he saw one that looked familiar, he might have seen it at a movie theater or on a movie screen or both. To complicate this kind of people-watching, he could walk a block and see the CBS Radford lot. Universal Studios was within half a mile, and a ten-minute drive past that were Warner Brothers, Disney, and several music studios.

He subscribed to the theory that in the past century, the best-looking young people born in the benighted, hopeless, and sunless places east of the Mississippi had come here, drawn by the belief that regular features, abundant hair, and a faultless complexion could make them rich. Even when that magic didn’t happen, other magic did and they married and produced offspring like the people on Ventura Boulevard.

Joe Alston had been born in Upstate New York and educated in Connecticut and drifted here like the rest. Although he was in good shape, six feet tall with reasonably pleasant features and a full head of light brown hair, he had never been tempted by the entertainment business. He had been hired by eastern newspapers as a reporter and then a feature and opinion writer. After he’d made a respectable name for himself, he turned to freelance writing, mostly for magazines. He’d come to Los Angeles one February tracking a story about dark web profiteers and decided it would be insane not to make LA his home base.

He’d incorporated his business in California and the way he found out about jobs was his phone. Early morning was the time for communication from London, New York, and Boston, and from ten on, Chicago, and then Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Seattle. He took out his phone to look at his email.

He felt a shadow move over him and looked up. It was that woman, standing beside him. She seemed to be looking at his phone screen, an act that was unthinkable, but he hadn’t actually caught her, so he simply set the phone face down and looked up into her eyes, his eyebrows raised.

She said, “Hi. Are you, like, honest?”

“Like honest?” he said. “No. I’m actually honest.”

She set her drink on his table and said, “I thought so. Please watch my jacket.” She slung it onto his lap by the collar, then walked to the teak door of the ladies’ restroom to the left of the counter, opened the door, and went in.

He looked after her in astonishment and then was distracted by his surprise that she could walk right into a restroom during a busy time like this. Usually there were women in line waiting for a turn. She was obviously one of those people who was lucky in small things.

He picked up his phone from the table and returned to the business of scrolling down the entries on the screen looking for work. He kept the jacket on his lap and pulled his chair closer to the table so his solar plexus was touching it and the jacket couldn’t be easily snatched and wasn’t sitting on the table getting stained by old spills or the condensation from her cold drink.

One of the emails he had been hoping for was there. It was a note from a magazine editor to let him know he had been paid electronically for a long article. This was good, because it had only been printed a week ago. Usually, magazine editors talked as though the accounting office was located on the far side of a mountain range that could only be crossed on a narrow footpath above a chasm. Once there, the editor had to persuade an argumentative legislative body to discuss the payment until they had unanimously agreed to it and then make the trip back with the money. Alston did a quick check on his mobile banking app to verify the deposit and then wrote back, “Thank you, Donald. It’s been a pleasure. Best, Joe.” SEND.

He looked at other emails while he waited for the woman to come back for her jacket. A reader had liked an article. “I’m pleased that you liked it. Thanks for taking the time to let me know. Joseph Alston.” SEND. Someone believed she had found a mistake in another article. She was wrong, but he wrote, “Thank you for giving the article such a close reading. It’s good to know somebody is paying attention.” He decided he couldn’t let the misunderstanding stand. “I think you’ll find that in the third section, though, I share my reasons for suspecting that Mr. Harrow’s ‘informed source’ is Colonel Maijiti himself, and not an outside supporter. We know the mysterious memo originated from the colonel’s IP address and was sent to one of his cousins, then to Mr. Harrow.” SEND.

Joe Alston sipped his coffee, found that it had cooled enough to drink, and looked at the time on the upper right corner of his phone screen. He wished he had looked at it when she had gone into the restroom. It could have been seven or eight minutes and only seemed longer. He felt stupid. Timing someone when they were in the restroom was an infringement of their privacy and a useless waste of his consciousness.

Still, his discomfort was increasing. He had never seen her before. A suspicion was forming that he was being fooled somehow. He lifted his eyes and surveyed the coffee shop. The people looked like the same segment of the population that had filled the place since he had first seen it a few years ago—nearly all in their twenties or early thirties, most of them fit and attractive in the seemingly effortless way that such people were. None of the others seemed to be aware of him. He knew he couldn’t trust that impression because being fully involved with one’s companions or with one’s own phone was the norm, but he welcomed their inattention right now.

And what was now? He looked at his phone screen. Over ten minutes had passed. She was apparently just another of those women who used restrooms as their personal salons for redoing their hair, makeup, and so on. He noticed the sweat from her iced drink was slowly spreading toward her jacket. He lifted the jacket to set it on the chair next to his. It felt heavier than he had expected and he wondered what was in the pocket.

He sat there and determined not to look impatient. He assumed a studied expression of thoughtful calm.

A telephone rang and after a moment he realized that must be what had made her jacket feel heavier. She’d left her phone in the pocket. It rang again. What should he do? He looked down at the jacket and saw there was a zipper on the side pocket. He touched the pocket and felt the vibration as the phone rang a third time. He unzipped the pocket and slid the phone out, planning to simply shut off the ringer so the caller would run out of rings and leave her a message.

He looked at the screen and pressed the minus sign to make the symbol of the bell and the sound bar appear, but staring back at him was the face of the woman, apparently aiming another phone at her face. He hit the answer icon and she said, “Thank you, love. Can you please come around to the back of the building and bring my jacket?”

“Sure,” he said, silently congratulating himself for ending the call with one syllable. He slid the phone back into her jacket and walked out the side door around to the back. He was in the coffee shop’s patch of the parking lot, a short strip of asphalt that was occupied by a dumpster and two cars that probably belonged to the baristas who came to get the place ready to open by six A.M. He didn’t see the woman.

Justine saw him. While she had waited by the dumpster for him to come out, she had wondered what to say to him. She couldn’t say who she was or why she was acting strangely. He probably wouldn’t believe her and if he did, he would mess everything up and get himself killed, or at least think it was his duty to call the police and get her into more trouble, or leave her here in the place where her killer would find her.

She was scared and she was out of time. She needed to be cheerful to keep him on her side and she had to show herself now. Maybe she could be funny. Her memory search for how to do that brought back a role she had sometimes assumed to amuse friends. She would become Anna Kepkasovanovich, a girl with a Balkan accent who thought of herself as a captivating beauty with sophisticated tastes and a world-weary demeanor. If anyone mentioned a popular boy, she would say “He’s just like all the others. He calls me every night to flatter me. I get no sleep.” She needed to be someone like that now.

She stepped out from the other side of the dumpster, gave him a quick wave and an engaging smile. He stepped to her and held out her jacket. She looked deep into his eyes as she said, “Thank you so much,” which made her accidentally touch his hand as she reached for the jacket, but because clumsiness seemed worse than flirtatiousness, she gave the hand a quick squeeze, slung her jacket over her shoulder and set off. After two steps she stopped and looked back at him. She said with a slight accent, “Are you staying here? In an empty parking lot? Why?”

“I hadn’t made a plan.”

“Then you can follow mine. Come on.” She hurried away along the lot. In a few steps he caught up with her, not sure why, except that she was more appealing than he had thought. Seeing her in the bright sunlight had made him curious. He also had to acknowledge that he had no reason to remain standing in the parking lot alone.

He said, “Why did you do that?”

“I saw a guy take the turn up the street to look for a parking space. I didn’t want him to see me.”

“A boyfriend?”

“A possibility. Not for a long time.”

“Not for a long duration or a long time ago?’

“More like a stalker,” she said.

“So you went out the back way?”

“There is no back way. I went out the restroom window. The only other door is next to the counter. You can see it even from the street.”

“Did you leave the restroom door locked?”

“No. Do you think I’m a monster?” she said.

“What’s in your jacket that I was holding for you? Drugs?”

She looked at him with exaggerated surprise, her eyes and mouth wide open. “I would never do that to you—leave you holding the bag. And look at my skin. My teeth. Do I use drugs?”

“Probably not.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“How old are you, anyway?”

“Thirty-two.”

“I’m twenty-five, but I’m smarter than you are.”

“That’s evident.”

“So we’re well matched.”

“Is that what we’re doing—sizing each other up for a date?”

“What else?” she said, and held up her hands. “No rings on either of us. I saw you looking at me before, so don’t pretend you didn’t like me.”

“I look at everybody.”

“You certainly do. And everything. I was getting embarrassed.”

“So embarrassed that you brought your drink and your jacket to my table.”

“I didn’t say I wanted you to stop looking. Just not enough right then to make other people look too.”

“It was curiosity. It’s always been my weakness.”

“Mine too. Something else in common.”

“What’s your name?”

She said in a thick accent, “Ajkuna.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Besjana.”

He looked at her closely. “Could be.”

“It’s Anna.”

“I’ll buy that. I’m Joe.” They reached the end of the alley and he could see his car parked on the side street under a sycamore tree. He felt an instant of relief to see that the tree hadn’t dropped any branches on his car, as they sometimes did in the summer. He took a step to the sidewalk in that direction. She was still at his side. He had expected her to step in another direction. He stopped.

“What?” she said.

“I guess this is the end of the line. That’s my car over there.” He paused. “I’m planning on going to work now.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m an assistant district attorney for Los Angeles County.”

“No, you’re not,” she said.

“Nope. But that reminds me. You should take a look in your jacket, and verify that everything is still there. I don’t want to be accused later of taking your dowry or your plans for a cold fusion reactor.”

“No need. I don’t bring those things when I go to a coffee shop. And you said before that you were honest.”

“That’s also what a crook would say.”

“But I have my jacket and I can feel my phone is in it. I told you I have a stalker. Aren’t you going to offer to take me home? Is chivalry dead?”

“Where do you live?”

“I didn’t mean to my house. I meant to yours. It’s after ten. I can see your hair is damp and smell your soap. You just had a shower but you’re dressed like a twelve-year-old. You’re not going to an office.”

“I work at home, but it’s still work and I have to get it done.” It felt hollow to him as though he’d lied, even though it was true.

“I get it. You’ve already decided you don’t like me. It’s fine. Maybe we’ll see each other around sometime, but if we do, don’t say hi.” She started to walk toward the back door of an Urban Outfitters.

“It isn’t that I don’t like you,” he said. “It’s that I’m a little afraid of you. Nobody behaves this way. How can this be anything but a scam?”

She stopped. “You should have more confidence in yourself. Women sometimes talk to men just because they look interesting or seem smart, and women love confidence. All women. If you learn to have confidence, then next time somebody talks to you, you won’t think she must be a criminal.”

“I’ll try to remember that. Thank you,” he said. “Look, let’s not just stand here. I’ll take you where you want. I don’t want to leave you stranded.”

“No, thanks,” she said. “I have some errands and then I’ll call somebody.” She started back down the alley. She heard no sound of him moving. Was he watching her walk? Then she realized that her steps had left him far enough behind so his proximity wouldn’t keep her killer from shooting her in front of a witness. This “Joe” person was over and now she had to get out of this neighborhood. She heard rapid steps behind her and spun around, ready to put up whatever fight she could to prolong her last morning alive. She said, “Hi, Joe.” Had the words sounded calm? No. But maybe he would attribute that to the fact that nobody wanted anybody running up behind them.

“Look, Anna, I’m sorry. Please come with me. I’ll get some work done and you can tell me where you want to go later.”

She tried to think of the right response, and it came to her—nothing. She took a step in his direction, he turned, and they walked toward his car in silence.

Leo Sealy had left the BMW in the Bank of America parking structure, and now he was striding along Ventura Boulevard looking in the window of each business to search for Justine Poole. He had taken a few minutes to find a place to leave the car where she couldn’t see it, but then he’d realized that if he parked at the bank he didn’t need to walk through the building to get out to the street. He was always leery of banks, because they had the best, clearest surveillance footage. Today he was being extra careful because he had his customary two pistols on him. He didn’t have any reason to believe there was a metal detector at the bank, but he knew one had been installed in a Chase branch in the Chicago area at least eight years ago. He’d always been sure not to be armed in banks even before then. If somebody bumped into him and felt a gun under his shirt, it would probably be in a crowded place like that and banks had reason to be on edge and expecting trouble.

He went into a Mexican restaurant, a pharmacy, a fancy bakery. When he saw a coffee shop across the street, he picked up his speed and headed straight for it. If she was anywhere around here, that would be it.