Текст книги "The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes"

Автор книги: Marcus Sakey

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Niki laughed. The girl wasn’t bad. “Nope.”

“Bounty hunter?”

If she wants to play, let’s play. “Something like that.”

“What do you want him for?”

“What’s it to you?”

“What are you going to do to him if you find him?”

“Well . . .” Niki stuck her pause. “I’ll probably shoot him in the head.”

The bass player ran through a quick little riff, a handful of notes cut off in the middle as he stopped to tighten the strings.

“I don’t want no trouble.”

“You don’t want trouble, you better tell me what I’m after.”

The emo girl smiled, said, “This is fun, but I got customers.”

“So—”

“Sure I’ve seen him. On the news. That’s the guy killed his wife.”

“But in here?”

“I think he’s been in before. But I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“All right. Thanks.” Niki folded the picture, took another sip of beer, then started away.

“Wait.”

“What?”

“You forgot. You’re supposed to pull out a business card, and say,” she dropped her voice an octave, “ ‘If you remember anything, anything at all, you give me a call.’ ”

Niki paused. The gun bit into her back. She stared at the girl. Read her whole life. Born in the Midwest, Michigan or Ohio. Acting classes twice a week. A spec script she’d had “almost finished” for two, three years. Been an extra on a handful of films, landed a role on a sitcom that died in development. Probably blown a rock star or two in the stockroom; had offers to do porn, but so far turned them down. Twenty-four years old. But L.A. years were dog years, and she didn’t have many left.

“I told you,” she said, and turned away. “I’m not a cop.”

5

It was time to get more botulism pumped into his face.

Jerry D’Agostino squinted in the mirror, swiveling his head to the left and right. Crow’s feet. No question. And were those lines on his forehead? Lines? Jesus Christ, cats and dogs living together. He’d have to schedule another Botox session. After Tuesday’s shoot, maybe, as a little reward.

He opened the medicine cabinet, took out the face cream—fifty bucks an ounce, you ought to be able to chop it up and snort it– and squeezed a pea-sized dollop on each index finger. Patted it in, careful not to rub.

He walked down the stairs, past the framed posters of The Last Taboo and A is for . . . and Mommy’s Nasty Secret. In the kitchen he pulled out a bag of carrots and began peeling them with long steady strokes, neat strips falling to the sink. When he was done, he chopped them and tossed the pieces in the juicer. A thick trickle of orange liquid filled a pint glass. He mixed in fish oil, green tea extract, a packet of vitamins, stirred the brackish liquid, and took a sip.

Uugh.

He coughed, took another slug, then tightened the belt of his robe and walked through the house to his office. Stood at the window watching the San Fernando Valley flicker like ten thousand candles. The 405 was a glowing ribbon. Planes coming in to Burbank rose and fell like sparks. Up in the hills, though, the bright spots were fewer, jewels in the night. In dazzling, cramped Los Angeles, darkness was a luxury.

Can it really have been thirty years?

He’d come here after Watts but before Rodney King, the big bad eighties, when Arnold Schwarzenegger was dropping one-liners in action movies instead of speeches on the news, and Simi Valley was one of those jokes that wrote itself. Back then, he’d thought he was going to change the town, make it his. Thing about L.A., though, even though nothing stayed the same, it never really changed. But no matter how fortunes rolled and shifted, there were no slums in the Hills. If he hadn’t changed the world, at least he’d improved his address.

He moved to the couch, pulled out his laptop. The Dago Productions logo flashed onscreen, the “o” of it the male symbol, a big proud cock of an arrow straining ever upward. It was strange, looking at it now. He felt, what was the word, conflicted. He owed everything he had to cocks straining ever upward. But still. Thirty years in the business, four-hundred-plus films, a dozen Woodys lined up on his mantel. But what did it all mean?

Stop, he corrected. Clouds do not have to bring rain. You are of the sun. Feel the rays of empowerment, and let them change you.

He opened the script, scrolled to the last page.

INT. HOLLYWOOD APARTMENT—NIGHT

It is a small room. JENNA ST. JOHN SIMONE, a beautiful woman with a pure heart who has come to Los Angeles to become a STAR, sits on her bed. She is wearing a beautiful white dress symbolizing her PURITY.

JENNA

I know that you are out there. Jenna bites her lip. She is sad.

No, better than sad. He highlighted the word, looked at the synonyms.

Jenna bites her lip. She is wistful. JENNA

Where are you? The man who will see that I am more than just a beautiful woman. Who will love me for my heart.

Jerry sighed, rubbed at his eyes. It was good, but what now? The books all said that a screenplay was about 110 pages, but he was on page 68, and so far, Jenna St. John Simone hadn’t had any luck either becoming a star or finding the man she knew was waiting for her.

Don’t lose faith. You are of the sun—

Someone moved on his patio.

Jerry came upright so fast the computer slipped off his lap and

hit the carpet. He killed the light, stepped closer to the window. Squinted. A man’s shape was framed against the railing, barely visible in the glow of his pool lights.

A boyfriend. About once a year some brokenhearted hick from Kansas tried this. They all had visions of rescuing their girlfriends, like D’Ago the Dago was some kind of fairy-tale monster who had enslaved them, instead of a businessman who knew talent when he saw it. Though none of the boyfriends had been dumb enough to sneak onto his fucking property.

Well, this one was going to get a lesson in business. He slid open his desk drawer, pulled out his pistol and racked it. Then he tightened his bathrobe and padded through the house. Squaring his shoulders, he yanked open the patio door.

“Asshole, you’re trespassing.”

The guy didn’t move, didn’t turn around. What the hell? Jerry stepped forward. “Hey! I can see you. Turn the fuck around.”

5

Bennett turned, leaning back against the railing with his elbows propped up. The wavering illumination of the pool lit D’Agostino from below, splashing a pallid yellow over his tan and glinting off the gun in his right hand. “Hell of a view you got here, Jerry.”

“Bennett? Jesus.” The producer heaved a sigh, lowered the pistol. He had that slightly pickled motivational speaker vibe: skin too tight, teeth too white, spray-tan too thick. Still, for a man who used to boast that breakfast was best served on a mirror, he looked damn good. “Didn’t know you were back in town. What are you doing here?”

“Calling in a marker.”

“Whose?”

“Yours.”

“Hey, whoa. You said we were even. After I did the thing.” “I lied.”

“You promised.”

“I lied.” He nodded at the gun. “And if you don’t put that away,

I might decide you’re being inhospitable.”

The producer paled, and quickly tucked the pistol into the pocket

of his robe. “Sorry.”

Bennett said nothing, just let the silence deepen. Every second

was weighing on the other man, he could see that. Poor Jerry had

always been a nervous boy.

“So. What do you—”

“I’m going to be staying here for a while.”

“Great. Let’s plan dinner, some drinks. I’ll have a couple of girls

join us—”

“You don’t understand. I’ll be staying here.”

“Here? In my house? I mean,” the guy tripping over himself, “we go

back a long way, you know I’m glad to see you, but come on. I can’t—” “Jerry.”

Just saying his name was enough. The trick was always in breaking them the first time. They would never forget. After that, it rarely

took more than a hint. Didn’t matter if you were talking about a

hard guy or a TV starlet or a porn producer.

Back in ’81, Jerry D’Agostino had convinced his girlfriend to let

him shoot video, fantasy stuff—the secretary who gave her all for

the company, the cheerleader raising team spirit—promising that it

would be just for them. That was back in the dawn of porn’s golden

day, when every home suddenly had a VCR and every video store

had a back room obscured by a bead curtain. The girlfriend hadn’t

lasted, but Dago Production’s first film had done quite well, and

hundreds had followed.

Bennett had heard rumors, did his due diligence, and found out

that the Dago kept two sets of books. A dangerous move, since the

men he was skimming had ties to Vegas and New York and a habit

of leaving bodies in the desert. He’d come at Jerry sideways, offering

a business proposition, a little sideline using some of D’Agostino’s

“stars” to run a honeypot scam.

Dago had tried to pass. But in the end he’d come around to

Bennett’s way of thinking.

“So. Um. You just need a place to crash?”

“Something like that.”

“Okay, yeah, sure. I’ll ah, I’ll make up the guest room.” “Sorry, Jerry, I wasn’t clear. I need peace and quiet.” He put on

his affable smile.

“I don’t—”

“You’re going on vacation.”

“What?”

“Tonight.”

“No, I can’t, I’ve got a shoot this week. This new girl, she’s dynamite. Eighteen and tits like artillery shells. Plus she’ll do it rough, doesn’t mind choking, spitting. She’ll throat-job and moan like it’s the highlight of her day. Shit’s hot now, near-rape fantasies. They

eat it up in the Midwest.”

Bennett said nothing. Just smelled the night air, listened to the

murmur of distant traffic and the burble of the pool filter. His thigh

ached a little in the cold, where the bone had been broken a dozen

years ago. Complications on a job in . . . Dallas, had it been? “B., really, I can’t.” The man talking faster, angling and wheedling. “How about this, how about I take a room at a hotel? You

can have the house, you know, my pleasure, I want you to have it.” Ripples in the pool’s surface cast streaks across the producer’s

face. Far away, a car honked, loud and long. There was really no

need to drive Dago out of town—Bennett mostly didn’t want the

guy near him, talking too much and thinking too little—but he also

didn’t want Jerry to think that they were negotiating. So he just

slowly let his smile fade.

“I.” D’Agostino staring at his bare feet. “I’ll get packed.” Bennett nodded, turned back to the view. A police helicopter

swung back and forth in circles somewhere over Van Nuys, the

searchlight glowing. He heard the sound of Dago’s footsteps, waited

till the man was almost at the door, then said, “Jerry?” “Yeah?”

“The gun.”

A pause, and then the sound of the guy walking back. He came

alongside Bennett, reached into his pocket, pulled out the pistol. Bennett took it, held it loose, not quite aiming at the man. “And

your car keys.”

“What? How do I get to the airport?”

“Call a cab.”

Later Bennett explored his new house. It really was a nice place,

the décor a little tacky, but the views spectacular. He set up his laptop in Jerry’s office, at a desk facing the window, so that he could

look out at the city spread wide below him.

Shortly after Laney’s death, Bennett had broken into their house

and left a few things. Life had gotten so much easier these days.

God bless the Internet. Used to be difficult to get surveillance equipment, never mind streaming video, broadband wireless, scriptable

file transfer protocols.

He’d placed three cameras. The first appeared to be a carbon

monoxide detector and plugged into the wall in the entryway, with

a clear view of the door. The second, secreted in a book, had gone

on a shelf in Hayes’s home office. The final camera, his personal

favorite, was in a Kleenex box, one of those decorative types that

rich people liked, so that even their tissues matched their color palette. That one he’d put in their bedroom, on Laney’s nightstand. All

three were high-res, worked in near darkness, and best of all, were

motion-activated. They broadcast right over Hayes’s wireless router,

dumping everything they recorded to an anonymous file server. Not so many years ago, Bennett would have had to sit on his ass

and watch the house himself. Now he just logged in.

All three cameras showed multiple files. Busy busy. He opened

the most recent first, starting with the hallway. The video began

with the front door flying open, men rushing in, cops with their

guns out. Moving fast and splitting up, yelling, Clear!

Interesting.

The office and bedroom cams showed the police—scratch that, sheriffs—coming in equally hard. Then, once it became clear that whoever they were looking for wasn’t there, they relaxed, wandered about. Opened drawers, glanced in closets. The audio was a little muffled, but he could hear them talking about an intruder, and

saying Hayes’s name.

So his boy was back in town.

He was about to switch to earlier files when he saw one of the

deputies glance around, then quickly open one of the dresser drawers, pull out a pair of white lace panties, and jam them in his front

pocket. Bennett chuckled. He took a screen cap into Photoshop,

upped the image size, and tinkered with the unsharp mask settings

until he could read the cop’s nameplate. “Deputy Wasserman. You

nasty celebrity crotch sniffer.” Bennett saved the file, made a note of

the sheriff’s info. Never knew, might come in handy.

The next video clip was the man who vanished. Daniel Hayes in

living color, walking into his front hall.

Gotcha.

The man looked exhausted. No surprise, given the distance he’d

covered. Bennett had a woman at American Express who’d rather

her boss didn’t know about her “recreational” freebase habit, and

based on the charges on Hayes’s card, he’d sprinted east like his ass

was aflame. Then vanished once he reached Maine.

What brings you back, Dan?

On the screen, the man stared at photographs, a shell-shocked

expression on his face. Up in the bedroom he moved slow, a glass

of whiskey in his hand, going through his own drawers like he was

looking for clues. He looked over at Laney’s side of the bed, right at

the goddamn camera, and for a second Bennett wondered whether

he’d been burned. But no; something else had obviously affected

him, the guy slipping to his knees, shaking and crying. In the next scene, the writer walked into his office like he’d never been there. Looked at his shiny award, chuckled. Then sat down at the desk, gazed out the window, and saw something that spooked him. He was on his feet, tearing through cabinets, snatching his computer. The audio caught something, a voice, but too far and too garbled. Based on the time stamp, that would be the sheriffs. Hayes sprinted out of his den, then into the bedroom, and then, nothing.

Must have gone out a window.

Bennett leaned back, tapped a finger against his teeth. What did

you just see?

There had been something off in Hayes’s behavior. Grief? Partly,

sure, but there was more. Exhaustion? The guy had driven back and

forth across the country in near record time. He had to be ragged

as hell.

You know what ragged looks like. This is something else. He

couldn’t put his finger on it, but the guy seemed . . . well, off. Bennett watched the video again. There it was. In the office,

when Daniel picked up his award. He had smiled. It was a small

thing, but it was out of place. Exhaustion and sorrow made sense.

He’d lost the love of his life, and it didn’t look like he’d slept since. So would a writing award cheer him up? Even briefly? Bennett set the video to loop and watched until he was certain.

Something else was going on. He didn’t know what, but something. Regardless, he’d gotten what he really needed. Daniel Hayes was

back in town. Bennett was about to close the video when he noticed

there were earlier files. Someone else had been in the house. The

police again?

He fired up the camera in the hallway. The front door opened,

and a woman walked in, a bag on her shoulder.

Bennett froze the image. Stared at it.

You have got to be kidding me.

I

t was risky to be out in public, but Daniel couldn’t make himself care. Too many hours in the car, in shitty hotel rooms, in his own head. He needed space and a view and a place to think. So he’d parked the BMW at the north end of Fuller, put on his ridiculous shades, and started up Runyon Canyon.

The drooping sun painted the sky a smudgy orange. A lot of people were hiking the path, dogs running orbits around them, but things thinned out when he veered off to the harder route, a stern uphill that was more dirt and sand than pavement. His quads and calves and lungs were burning in minutes. It felt good, the pain, and he made himself go hard, jogging where he could. Punishing himself. As though half an hour of exercise could make up for his behavior with Robert Cameron.

You’re not cruel. You don’t have to be.

But he remembered that cinder in his belly, the way it had flared up and made him snap. Remembered the fear in the actor’s eyes as Daniel tied him. Whether or not Cameron had believed it before, in that moment, he certainly thought that Daniel had killed his wife.

But I didn’t. I know I—

Yeah yeah.

He hit a hard stretch near the top, a narrow, steep incline that had him panting. Sweat soaked the armpits of his silk shirt. But the exercise drove out thought.

The top of the canyon came on almost as a surprise, a leveling off as he rejoined the main path. The sun was below the horizon now, though the sky was still bright. A woman in a sports bra jogged by. Two guys walking the other way paused in their conversation to watch her pass, then shook their heads at each other and grinned. Daniel felt a pang of envy at the exchange, the easy camaraderie of friends.

The trail paused at an overlook point with a tall bench and a stunning view of the L.A. Basin: Hollywood, Beverly Hills, Westwood in the distance. A million tiny Christmas lights shimmering, god knew how many people out there living their lives. Daniel mopped his forehead, walked to the edge. The hills spread out on either side, mansions with unimaginable price tags, architectural wonders with blue-green pools on broad concrete decks. For a moment he stared, breathing hard but moved by the beauty of it all.

What had happened in the actor’s trailer? Daniel honestly hadn’t realized that he had a temper like that. That there was something inside of him that could explode not just into violence, but into an enjoyment of it. When he moved in on the actor, he had been excited about the thought of hurting him, of messing up his perfect movie star looks.

Yes. But you also thought that your wife had betrayed you with him. That maybe he even had something to do with her murder. Your reaction could belong to anyone.

Daniel flexed his fingers, squeezed his right wrist with his left hand. It was sore as hell. Turned out punching someone hurt quite a lot.

And the things he was saying. That you weren’t good enough for her. What does he know about that?

It was like the tabloids. They painted one picture, a squalid, hateful image. But everything else he had seen of the life they had lived painted another.

Still. The guilt. That dream about his bloody hands, the faceless judges looming like towers. Was it possible that he and Laney had some sort of fight? He could have lost that same terrible temper with her.

And then, what? Chased her out of your house, borrowed an SUV, and ran her off the road? It’s fine to question. Crucial. But don’t stop thinking.

No, though he wasn’t proud of what he’d done to Robert, it didn’t erase the facts. Too many things didn’t fit. Like the diamond necklace. If Laney was going to run out on him, she wouldn’t have needed to empty the bank account. He was just a writer; she was a star. Their money would have come from her. A weird feeling, but what the hell. It wasn’t like he’d been eating bonbons on the couch. Wasn’t his fault that the industry valued actors more than writers.

But what the hell are you? A mediocre writer in a town thick with them. Not particularly talented, not particularly smart, not particularly brave. The top of the middle of the bell curve. Robert Cameron’s words in his ears.

On second thought, decking the guy maybe wasn’t that much of a sin. Asshole. He’d claimed to be Laney’s best friend, but he’d been feeding her poison about her husband? Not the friendliest move in the playbook. Especially since he’d said, directly, that Laney had loved him. “Laney told me that your wedding was the day her life began.”

That was something. He was right to feel the certainty he did. Laney had loved him, and he had loved her, and he hadn’t had anything to do with her—

Holy shit.

Daniel froze, mouth hanging open. Then he turned and sprinted down the hill.

5

He didn’t dare drive down his block. If cops were watching, that’s where they’d be parked. Instead, Daniel left the BMW by the beach and walked back up. He made himself go slow, just a neighbor taking a stroll. When a gray security vehicle slowed, he gave them a nod and kept walking. The driver waved and moved on.

Life begins . The password clue for his laptop. And Robert Cameron had said that Laney had referred to their wedding as the day life began.

Daniel knew, he knew, that the password was their wedding date. How many answers must be on that computer, hidden behind that simple code? A date he’d seen inked on the mat of a photograph of he and Laney standing in the water in Maine, her dress hiked up, both of them laughing.

Which was great. Except he couldn’t remember what the date had been. Funny. Can’t even blame this one on the amnesia. You just can’t recall.

Yeah. Funny. Sometimes irony was so funny you wanted to shoot yourself in the head.

It took Daniel ten minutes to make it to the block that backed up to theirs. The house he picked looked unassuming from the street, the security fence almost festive with the Christmas lights strung on it. No way to tell if someone was looking out a window, but at least the street was quiet.

He took a deep breath, shook out his arm, and launched into a run. He put on as much speed as he could, leaping at the last second to plant a foot against the wall. His momentum carried him far enough that he could grab the top and pull his legs up and over before dropping to the grass beyond.

Goddamn, but that felt good.

The yard was broad and brightly lit, floodlights spilling up the undersides of trees. He stayed low and moved to the perimeter. One nice thing about conspicuous wealth, it made for enough space to be inconspicuous. No one with a house in Malibu wanted to acknowledge that anyone else lived there, and there was a thick tree line between this house and its nearest neighbor. Daniel kept to it. A dog barked from inside the house and his heart jumped, but he kept moving until he reached another fence, this one oriented more to privacy than to security.

Ten seconds later, he was in his backyard.

A gust of wind tugged at the avocado tree, the leaves whispering against one another. Broken branches were scattered on the grass where he’d tried his hand at flying. He smiled ruefully, then went to the back door. The third key on his ring unlocked it.

He started to fumble for the light switch, caught himself. Idiot. He took a moment to catch his breath and let his eyes adjust. Then he crept through the kitchen into the living room.

In the dark, the house was at once familiar and strange, a longlost friend whose face had been weathered and changed by time. He moved slowly, the faint light through the windows silvering everything. The frames on the mantel were black shapes, but he was pretty sure which one he wanted. He picked it up, walked to the front window, tilted it to catch the light.

There they were, frolicking in the surf, again, forever. The date was written in the bottom corner. May 23, 2003. Right. Good thing to remember.

Brilliant white light spilled in the window.

Daniel collapsed like he’d been shot.

That wasn’t the offhand bounce of headlights. It was a spotlight. Like the kind police had mounted on their cars.

No, no, no! Not now. Run, you have to run, if you hurry you can—

He took a deep breath. Exhaled slow. He had to think, not panic. On elbows and knees he army-crawled back from the window. The light wobbled and moved, sweeping like an accusing finger, white and sharp and unforgiving. It vanished from the window, spilled in the glass on either side of the front door. Paused, and then panned back to the window.

It’s a patrol car. Waters probably has them swinging by the house just in case. That’s all it is. If they were really coming for you, it wouldn’t be like this. It would be men with flashlights and guns coming in the front and the back.

It was one thing to think. Another to act on that. But he made himself hold steady, just lie on the ground, the wedding photo in his hand.

Ten heartbeats later, the light shut off. He heard the sound of a car engine revving.

Daniel let himself breathe.

5

Back on the streets, the hard part was walking slow. Running would attract attention, but running was what he desperately wanted to do. Partly for fear the police might return, but the greater portion by far was the certainty of answers.

It took a long, long time to make it back to the car.

The moment he was safe inside, he pulled the laptop from his bag. Waited, fingers tapping, while the thing loaded. When the welcome screen came up, he typed “052303.”

Incorrect Password.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

He stared. Thought. Then he typed “05232003” and pressed enter. The loading screen vanished. There was a rising sound and a string of piano notes from the computer speakers, and the desktop appeared. The wallpaper was a picture of a nun giving him the finger. There were program icons on the left side: Word, Final Draft, Outlook, iTunes, Firefox, Quicken, Steam, Mine Sweeper. The right side had folders: My Documents, Scripts, Photos, My Music, Video.

Daniel stared. Ran his finger along the touchpad like it was a holy artifact. When the mouse responded, he double-clicked Outlook. There was a pause, and then the e-mail program popped open, displaying dozens of folders in one pane, and his inbox—1128 items– in the other. Subject headers ranging from “Notes on Episode 97” to “All Natural Penis Enlargement!!” Names, names, names.

Including Laney’s. He opened one of her messages at random.

From: Laney Thayer ([email protected]) To: Daniel Hayes ([email protected]) Sent: 10/29/08, 11:18 AM

Subject: Urgent News

Psst—they’re bringing in cupcakes for Kelly’s birthday! The good kind, with the sour cream frosting. Here’s the plan.

You get two, tell them one is for me. Then I’ll get two and say one is for you.

Meet you behind my trailer. I’ll be wearing a gray trench coat. The password is “yum.”

This message will self-destruct in 5, 4, 3 . . .

Daniel read the message again. Then he shut the laptop and threw the car into gear.

5

The girl at the counter took in her port wine stain, popped her gum, and assigned Belinda Nichols a computer.

For days Belinda had been looking for Daniel Hayes, tracking him through the bars he frequented, following friends and acquaintances. So far, nothing. It was time to try a different approach. She walked through the too-bright Internet café, found her system, logged on. Daniel had spent most of his life in front of a computer screen; maybe he still did. She started with Facebook, searched for his name, found his fan page—2,314 fans. The wall had posts from many of them:

Florian Maas Daniel, I know you didn’t do it! 3 hours ago

Brandee Crisp Where are you, Daniel? You can come hide at my house if you want. I’ll help you forget Laney. 8 hours ago

Kelly Hager I’m so, so sorry for your loss. This too shall pass.

Sunday November 8th at 9:08pm

The “In a relationship with” link read Laney Thayer. For kicks, Belinda clicked on the name– 153,289 fans. Funny world. Laney’s wall had posts too:

Keith Henneman Only the good die young. R.I.P., Laney about 2 minutes ago

Steve Medallin U were a ray of light 2 so many people. RIP, baby. Sorry to your husband. about 5 minutes ago

Sara Varys i think it sucks that so many of you joined only cause she died. i’ve been a fan since 6,000. Laney we miss U!

about an hour ago

Bob Egan Such an ugly thing to happen to someone so beautiful. My condolences to your husband and family and friends.

2 hours ago

Kilburn Hall Umm , hello? You all know that her husband killed her, right?

2 hours ago

Friendship requests over computers. Kids texting instead of passing notes. Digital persona that had more vitality, more animus, than the real people. Celebrities famous for being famous celebrities. Homepages for the murdered; fan groups that swelled after a tragedy; condolences from total strangers. All of it virtual, part of a floating domain no one could ever visit. Facebook For The Dead. What a weird thing we’ve made of the world.

Belinda shook her head, went back to Daniel’s page, scrolled quickly. Nothing from him, no posts to fans or police, no status updates saying he was okay. She wasn’t surprised, but it had been worth a try.

Let’s get a little deeper.

She typed in the address for his Internet service provider. When she clicked on the portion that opened webmail access, it presented her with fields asking for e-mail address and password. The e-mail she had. The password . . .

What are passwords? Birthdays. The name of a wife or a pet. Things people never forget.

Hmm. She tried the obvious ones first: CandyGirls. His birthday. His wedding anniversary. On the last, it opened right up. Bennett was right. People really were predictable.

There were more than a thousand messages. Belinda started at the top.

5

He found a hotel off Sixth Avenue, in what used to be called Skid Row, down near the Greyhound station. A narrow storefront of chipped brick with dead neon declaring it THE AMBASSADOR. Daniel was fairly sure it wasn’t a favorite of the diplomatic corps; the lobby was parquet and piss, the counter was sealed behind an inch of Plexiglas. The clerk looked like she had rollers in her hair, but didn’t. Her eyes were locked on a twelve-inch television.

“I need a room.”

The woman just held up a finger for silence. On the TV screen, a square-jawed man in a doctor’s coat stared into the middle distance as the music swelled.