“And let’s stay on Sepulveda to Jefferson Boulevard,” she added.
“Are you sure, miss? The four-oh-five would be faster.”
She knew that, which was exactly why she wanted to go through the city. In L.A. freeway traffic, it would be impossible to know whether anyone was following them; there could be fifty cars between the cab and a tail. The city route, by contrast, would have fewer cars and more local traffic. Every time the cab turned, Delilah would be able to check behind to see if anyone had stayed with them. A few instances of a car going the same way could be a coincidence. All the way from the airport to Beverly Hills would be a different matter.
“I’d just like to see the city,” Delilah said.
The driver furrowed his brow and smiled. “Of course, of course. You…live in L.A.?”
Delilah understood what he was thinking. She obviously knew the city well, but if she lived here, why would she want to take the scenic route? And with her looks, he was wondering if she was a celebrity he couldn’t quite place. Her clothes fit the celebrity theory, too: a classic Burberry trench coat, open now in the relative warmth of the southern California afternoon; a cream-colored, scoop-necked cashmere sweater, set off by a long, gold Faraone Mennella chain-link necklace; chocolate brown, platform-heeled boots worn over slim-cut jeans. She got that quizzical “Is she a celebrity?” look a lot. It neither gratified nor displeased her, but was occasionally something she could use.
“I’ve spent time here,” she said, glancing behind as they turned onto Sepulveda, marking the cars that followed them.
“Oh, of course,” the driver said, and she knew he would take the glance behind them as alertness for paparazzi, or, if not that, then wariness about being followed to an assignation with her lover. The second interpretation, she realized, wasn’t so much inaccurate as it was incomplete.
She thought of John on the way, and Dox. She was worried about both of them: Dox, for obvious reasons; Rain, because she knew that precisely because he was hell-bent on helping his friend, his judgment was likely to be impaired. Look at the way he had blundered into surveillance last year when he’d gone to see Midori and their child. Delilah had tried to warn him then, too, and he had ignored her. She wondered what it was about men that wed them more to a way of doing things than to achieving their ostensible goals. She loved them, loved nothing more, but she had to admit the world would be a better place if it were run by women.
By the time they got to the Beverly Wilshire, she knew she was clean. Still, she wanted to do a foot route to be absolutely sure. She freshened up in a restroom, then strolled through Beverly Hills as the sun set, using a variety of countersurveillance moves to make certain she was alone. After an hour, she was satisfied, and found another cab.
When she had checked the bulletin board before leaving Paris and learned that Rain was in L.A., she immediately thought of the Bel-Air, her favorite hotel in southern California. She’d stayed there twice, and loved it: a luxurious but low-key oasis of pink stucco Mission-style buildings, improbably secluded in the heart of the city among acres of flower and herb gardens, quietly trickling fountains, and the canopies of ancient trees. The hotel had been popular with stars since opening in 1946 because it was so serene, secure, and, of course, discreet. She had posted John the name and location, and the name she would be using. Just say you’re with Laure Kupfer, she had written, and they’ll check you in. Then she had called the hotel, paid in advance for the Garden Suite, and explained that they should give a key to a Mr. Ken, who might arrive before she did and ask to be let into her room.
The cab let her out on the quiet, residential street that fronted the property. She crossed a covered stone bridge to the main building within and was instantly enveloped by the beauty of the place. Water trickled somewhere in the dark beneath the bridge; to one side, the twisting branches of ancient sycamores were illuminated by spotlights from below. She caught the scent of orange blossoms and basil and suddenly realized she was ravenous.
The check-in area was furnished like a comfortable, tasteful living room, all upholstered furniture, landscape paintings in gilded frames, unostentatious objets d’art. The light was just right, not too bright, not too dim, and the room had a welcoming hush to it, along with a faint scent of wood and cut flowers. A fire crackled in an open fireplace.
Delilah walked over to the front desk and told them she was Laure Kupfer. Of course, Ms. Kupfer, welcome, they told her. Mr. Ken had already arrived; would she like to be escorted to the Garden Suite? She thanked them and told them no, she would rather just stroll over alone.
She walked along a porticoed terrace, her footfalls echoing quietly. She heard the sounds of conversation and quiet laughter from a few people dining under the heat lamps on the patio outside the restaurant, but other than that, Delilah enjoyed the delicious sense that she had the place to herself.
She came to the Garden Suite, unlocked the door, and stepped into the living room. The lights were on, but she didn’t see Rain. “John?” she called out.
There was no answer. A fire was burning in the stone fireplace, and she caught a faint, pleasant trace of smoke in the air. A thick contemporary Oriental rug with a floral design was spread across the expansive Saltillo-tiled floor. The upholstered chairs and couch arranged around a wooden coffee table at the center of the rug were all empty: not a newspaper, not a tossed-aside jacket, not an empty glass. Other than the lights and the fire, in fact, there was no sign that anyone had been using the room.
Suddenly, she was concerned. Rain had sophisticated enemies, and look what had happened to Dox. What if someone had…
Then she told herself she was being ridiculous. The hotel’s security was designed to protect Hollywood glitterati. They were safe here. And even if his judgment were off, Rain was still the most thorough, cautious, paranoid tactician she’d ever known. He was just out-taking a swim, or using the gym, or maybe strolling in one of the gardens.
She walked into the bedroom, scanning reflexively. Still no sign of him-no clothes lying around, not even an impression in the bedspread where he might have been sitting. Ah, there, on one of the dressers-a bottle of 1971 Glenmorangie. A good single malt, that was John. She glanced inside the walk-in closet, and saw a navy cashmere blazer on a hanger, and a pair of Camper loafers she recognized as his tucked neatly into a corner. She smiled. She knew there were women who would kill to have a man so neat, but it could be a little spooky at times. It was in Rain’s nature to move, and to live, without leaving sign.
She walked into the enormous bathroom with its soft white tile and mirrors and sensible light, and found a few toiletries in a drawer. And then, next to one of the sinks, a note. Okay. She picked it up.
On the grounds, the note read. Back by 7:00.
She looked at her watch. It was 6:15 now. She was mildly annoyed that he wasn’t waiting for her, and wondered what he was doing. She recognized the note itself was a concession: he didn’t like revealing anything that might enable someone to anticipate him, whether it was a restaurant reservation or a simple note describing his whereabouts. The vague reference was a compromise, but because she knew him, she could probably fill in the blanks, as he knew.
She guessed a workout. The gym was right around the corner. If he wasn’t there, she would just wait for him here. She peeked out at the private patio-half security habit, half curiosity-and liked what she saw: a hot tub sunken among the flagstones, rising steam illuminated by an underwater light; a pair of chaise longues, surrounded by ferns and hibiscus flowers; a high brick wall surrounding it all. She imagined the hot tub with John later and it gave her a little shiver. She took a quick shower and went out to find him.