made a point of joking around with the maître d’, asking about take-out and delivery services, and acting—as they said on the late-night TV sex-chat ads—“fun ’n’ flirty.” She managed to drag Brody into the conversation and even mentioned his name. She wanted to be sure the maître d’ remembered them both. More important, she wanted Brody to know that the man would remember.
On Brody’s face she saw the same calculating expression he’d worn earlier at the gallery. It was an expression that said he knew what she was up to and he found it amusing. It said she could not outthink him and she shouldn’t try. It said she might put up a good fight, but he would win in the end.
They drove to the guest cottage in separate cars, Abby using the excuse that her car would be towed if it was parked at the curb all night. This was true, but she also needed the car handy so she could make a getaway. Her plan was to slip Brody a Rohypnol tablet, wait for him to conk out, then search his place and see what turned up. Standard operating procedure.
Somehow she wasn’t quite comfortable with it, though. Maybe because Brody hadn’t had much to drink, so there was little chance he would chalk up his loss of consciousness to overindulgence. He would know he’d been drugged. This would preclude her from seeing him again. Without further contact, she might find it difficult to assess his intentions.
Still, she had to dope him. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have the chance to search the premises. Besides, she wasn’t going to give the guy a roll in the hay. Right?
“Right,” she assured herself as she followed his black SUV into the Los Feliz district.
They parked near the guest cottage, which sat well away from the main house, screened off by eucalyptus trees and oleander hedges. The lights of the cottage glowed dimly behind drawn curtains.
When Brody opened the front door, an alarm began to beep in a quiet, insistent monotone. He had a security system with a front-entry delay. The delay gave him time to punch a four-digit code into a keypad by the door, silencing the beeps. Abby knew that if he hadn’t entered the code in time, the alarm would have gone off, and the police would have been summoned.
She also knew what the code was. She had clearly seen him input the numbers. Sloppy of him not to block her view. It was the first mistake he’d made.
He led her through the foyer into the living room.
“Home, sweet home,” he announced.
If anything, the classified ad had undersold the place. It was spacious, clean, and furnished in exquisite taste.
“Pretty swank,” she said.
“Think so?”
“If it were any more swank, it would be Hilary Swank.” She frowned. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It was a valiant effort.”
“Sometimes the quips work; sometimes they don’t. That’s one you can edit out.”
“So you do have an edit button?”
“If I do, I haven’t found it yet. Then again, I’ve never looked.”
He led her into the kitchen and poured a reprise of the drinks they’d ordered at their table.
“What prompted you to relocate yourself in this pricey neck of the woods?” she asked, while she placed one hand in her purse and found the vial of pills.
“I have expensive taste.”
“You never did tell me what you do for a living.”
“It’s not exactly a nine-to-five job.”
She just bet it wasn’t. “Secret agent? International man of mystery?”
“Nothing that exotic.”
“You’re not living off a trust fund, I hope.”
“My folks never had any money. Never had any hopes for me, either.”
“Ouch.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to get sentimental.”
“It’s okay. I don’t mind a good moment of shit.”
“A what?”
“That’s what TV writers call it when the characters have to stop being funny or scary or whatever, and open up with some heartfelt emotion. Usually near the end of the episode. The moment of shit.”
“Is that what this is?”
“It can be. I
On Brody’s face she saw the same calculating expression he’d worn earlier at the gallery. It was an expression that said he knew what she was up to and he found it amusing. It said she could not outthink him and she shouldn’t try. It said she might put up a good fight, but he would win in the end.
They drove to the guest cottage in separate cars, Abby using the excuse that her car would be towed if it was parked at the curb all night. This was true, but she also needed the car handy so she could make a getaway. Her plan was to slip Brody a Rohypnol tablet, wait for him to conk out, then search his place and see what turned up. Standard operating procedure.
Somehow she wasn’t quite comfortable with it, though. Maybe because Brody hadn’t had much to drink, so there was little chance he would chalk up his loss of consciousness to overindulgence. He would know he’d been drugged. This would preclude her from seeing him again. Without further contact, she might find it difficult to assess his intentions.
Still, she had to dope him. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have the chance to search the premises. Besides, she wasn’t going to give the guy a roll in the hay. Right?
“Right,” she assured herself as she followed his black SUV into the Los Feliz district.
They parked near the guest cottage, which sat well away from the main house, screened off by eucalyptus trees and oleander hedges. The lights of the cottage glowed dimly behind drawn curtains.
When Brody opened the front door, an alarm began to beep in a quiet, insistent monotone. He had a security system with a front-entry delay. The delay gave him time to punch a four-digit code into a keypad by the door, silencing the beeps. Abby knew that if he hadn’t entered the code in time, the alarm would have gone off, and the police would have been summoned.
She also knew what the code was. She had clearly seen him input the numbers. Sloppy of him not to block her view. It was the first mistake he’d made.
He led her through the foyer into the living room.
“Home, sweet home,” he announced.
If anything, the classified ad had undersold the place. It was spacious, clean, and furnished in exquisite taste.
“Pretty swank,” she said.
“Think so?”
“If it were any more swank, it would be Hilary Swank.” She frowned. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It was a valiant effort.”
“Sometimes the quips work; sometimes they don’t. That’s one you can edit out.”
“So you do have an edit button?”
“If I do, I haven’t found it yet. Then again, I’ve never looked.”
He led her into the kitchen and poured a reprise of the drinks they’d ordered at their table.
“What prompted you to relocate yourself in this pricey neck of the woods?” she asked, while she placed one hand in her purse and found the vial of pills.
“I have expensive taste.”
“You never did tell me what you do for a living.”
“It’s not exactly a nine-to-five job.”
She just bet it wasn’t. “Secret agent? International man of mystery?”
“Nothing that exotic.”
“You’re not living off a trust fund, I hope.”
“My folks never had any money. Never had any hopes for me, either.”
“Ouch.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to get sentimental.”
“It’s okay. I don’t mind a good moment of shit.”
“A what?”
“That’s what TV writers call it when the characters have to stop being funny or scary or whatever, and open up with some heartfelt emotion. Usually near the end of the episode. The moment of shit.”
“Is that what this is?”
“It can be. I
Similar Books
