Bailey stepped out the door and followed a hallway to a stairwell leading to the ground-floor carport. Chagra followed him, keeping his arm around Amanda Kennedy's shoulder in order to steady her gait.
In the carport, he unlocked the passenger door of his sedan and swung the door open. As Chagra led her out of the stairwell, Bailey looked around carefully. There was no one else in the carport. The street was deserted. He went over to the driver's side and climbed in, watching as Chagra led Amanda Kennedy to the passenger side and helped her in. Having said something about giving her a call sometime, he shut the car door. Without looking back, he hurried back through the stairwell door.
Amanda Kennedy leaned back in the seat. "Unreal," she said sleepily.
Travis Bailey started the engine. Driving out of the carport onto a street lined with apartment houses and luxury cars, he waited until he reached the corner to turn on the headlights.
"My ex used to write scripts about this sort of thing. I was a sounding board for his crazy ideas. His best script was about this man who would send poison pen letters by carrier pigeon. They were going to make it into a TV movie but this peanut butter company that was the sponsor didn't approve of the script…"
Bailey nodded. They drove along Westwood Boulevard past some newly built restaurants and shops that were designed with synthetic wood and brick to look European. Sandwiched between a candy store and French bakery was a gun shop with a three-dimensional bullet affixed to the front door.
"How many other people know about the things Lee Sheboygan told you about?" Bailey said as he turned a corner.
She sat up and rubbed her eyes. "I've never told a soul, if that's what you mean. I believe in not getting involved. If there's anything I've learned since coming to L.A., it's do not get involved. Lee and I met around the swimming pool after he moved in. He seemed lonely and he was very open about having served time in prison. I thought that was refreshing, that someone would be open enough to tell a perfect stranger about the mistakes he'd made in life. He told me about how awful it was in prison. He was a very different person. I could relate to him, share secrets with him. We just seemed to click. The right vibes were just there and all of a sudden we were getting down together and telling each other our innermost secrets. We were really communicating. The cocaine helped, of course."
"Was anyone else there when Lee was … sharing his secrets?" Bailey said, keeping his eyes on the road.
"Of course not."
They passed a Polynesian restaurant that Bailey knew as a hangout for movie stars. Situated on a corner lot in front of a large parking lot, the restaurant's entrance was covered with banana plants and other Pacific foliage. A walkway leading to the front door was lined with brightly colored island flowers that had been the subject of more than one California Living article in the Sunday paper. Like an oasis, palm trees leaned from the corners of the building toward a flora-filled atrium in its center. Bailey remembered answering a burglar alarm call at the restaurant one night when he was working a radio car. As he shined his flashlight into the kitchen area, wharf-sized rats had scurried out from under the sinks and work counters.
"Why didn't you come in the bedroom tonight?" Amanda said. She smiled pertly.
He shrugged.
"I'm very open about sex. The only thing that turns me off is doing it with another woman. A complete turnoff. You don't like to talk about sex, do you?"
He stared at the road.
"Some people are like that." She pointed to the right. "You should have turned there to go to my place."
"Would you mind if I made a quick stop? I need to drop off a copy of a report right up the street. It'll just take a sec."
"Sure," she said blankly.
A block later they passed a large furniture store that Bailey knew marked the Beverly Hills city limits. Illuminated by mobile spotlights, an enormous helium-filled clown holding a sign that read Close-Out Sale floated above its roof.
Bailey slowed down. He turned right and pulled down the alley behind the deserted pizza house where he used to meet Sheboygan. He maneuvered the sedan under a canopy and turned off the engine. His heart raced. The tips of his fingers tingled.
"This place isn't open," she said. "Why are you stopping here?"
Travis Bailey pointed out the passenger window. "Who's that?"
Amanda Kennedy turned her head. Swiftly, he swung his right arm around her neck and wedged her throat in the crook of his arm. Using his left arm as a lever, he squeezed with all his might. Her fingers scratched his forearm as he pulled her toward him. Her hair was in his face. She made frantic guttural sounds and her fingernails dug deeper into his arm. She kicked desperately. Her feet wedged against the passenger door. In a violent paroxysm, she pushed off the door. His head slammed against the driver's window and they slipped down onto the seat. He maintained his grip and squeezed harder. Finally, her lips made a bubble-blowing sound and her body relaxed completely. She felt heavier. He readjusted his grip on her neck and maintained steady pressure for a long time. Out the passenger window he could see the inflated clown. It stared at him.
The headlights of a car illuminated the windows.
"No," he muttered aloud without releasing pressure on the woman's neck. He held his breath as the automobile drove past without slowing down. He felt wetness and realized he was soaked with Amanda Kennedy's urine. He wanted to push himself free of the contamination, but forced himself to hold on. He had to make sure she was dead. Exhausted, he released his hold. He shoved her body off him. Taking care not to make any unnecessary noise, he opened the driver's door and went to the trunk of the sedan. The air was cool and because of a slight breeze he felt a sensation of coolness on his urine-soaked trousers. He had the urge to strip off the wet clothing. He opened the trunk and removed a plastic tarp from an evidence kit. Quickly, he spread the tarp in the trunk.
At the passenger door, he looked both ways down the alley, then dragged and pulled Amanda's body off the front seat. Staggering, he carried it to the trunk, dropped the body inside and closed the trunk carefully. After a few deep breaths, he returned to the driver's seat, started the car and drove out of the alley. In a few minutes he was heading east on the San Bernardino Freeway, which, because of the hour, was clear. He opened the windows because of the odor on the front seat.
After traveling ten miles or so from the city limits of L.A., he swung off the freeway and headed north on surface streets, past an endless blur of one-story commercial buildings and stucco homes that could have been anywhere in Southern California. Finally, he made his way up a steep grade toward the San Gabriel Mountains. At the top of the grade the road took a sharp right turn and Bailey found himself on a two-lane mountain road that hugged the chaparral-covered mountain area as it crept slowly to a higher elevation. Below him on the right side was a steep cliff that provided an unhindered view of the city lights below. At the first turnoff he stopped and parked the car.
Bailey climbed out and walked to the edge of the cliff. Below, there was only inky blackness. He headed back to the car, unlocked the trunk and flipped it open. As the trunk light came on her hand reached out for him. Startled, he jumped back, jerked his revolver from his waistband and pointed it. The sleeve of Amanda Kennedy's blouse had caught on a portion of the trunk lock, lifting her hand with the trunk lid. She was dead. As he shoved his gun back in its holster, he realized his hand was shaking. He lifted the body by the arms and pulled it out of the trunk. He lost his grip and it fell to the gravel head first. Heart racing, he hoisted the body to the edge of the cliff and slung it over, then rushed back to the car and slammed the trunk shut. He flew to the front seat, started the engine and made a U-turn. He drove down the hill slowly and listened to the squeaking of his brakes. Retracing his route, he traveled south to the freeway and headed east. In a gas station in downtown Los Angeles, he washed the front seat carefully with wet paper towels.