‘So,’ he continued, ‘Brandon killed the girl. I had some of my guys here try and clean up the body, but that was a mess too. They were rushed and they panicked and some of that idiot’s rotten, Krok-infested skin gave the cops a DNA match. So now I have a murder investigation on my hands and a three-ring media circus and the Badens and Brandon panicking – and all the time, you’re still alive, Dr Roberts. Which was a very unsatisfactory situation, given the fact you were seeing Anne. My Anne.’
As he said his wife’s name, his entire face changed. Suddenly his chatty, convivial tone was gone. He looked at Nikki with raw hatred.
‘Of all the thousands of shrinks in LA, my wife picks you. The same woman who’s been listening to my banker spill his guts for the past year, who I’ve been trying and failing to get rid of like a damned cockroach. You were the one Anne turned to. What are the odds, eh?’
Slim, thought Nikki. The odds were slim. Someone must have recommended her to Anne. Someone who knew about the Carter Berkeley connection and who actively wanted to put her life in danger. She tried to think who that might be, and why – someone connected to this ‘ring’ perhaps? – but her mind was a blank.
She was still grappling with the idea that Brandon Grolsch had taken money to kill her, and that he had killed poor Lisa. All this time she’d protected Brandon from Goodman and defended him to Williams. And then, only days ago Brandon had called her, begging for help and forgiveness. Forgiveness!
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Luis continued, interrupting Nikki’s muddled thoughts. ‘I would have killed you anyway. Carter Berkeley signed your death warrant the day he walked into your consulting room. But it wasn’t personal at that point. When I found out you were seeing Anne, that’s when things changed.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘That was when I began to despise you, Dr Roberts.’
Nikki listened to Rodriguez rant about Anne, and how Nikki had tried to ‘turn her against him’. He was growing more agitated, veering wildly from boastful revelations about having planted listening devices in Anne’s pocketbook and car in order to spy on their sessions, to increasingly bitter name-calling: Nikki was a predator, a pervert. She wanted Anne for herself and had badmouthed him out of sexual jealousy.
As he rambled on, for the first time it crossed Nikki’s mind to try and look for a means of escape. Luis Rodriguez was plainly deranged. But perhaps Nikki could use his disturbed mental state to her advantage? She was a psychologist, after all. At a minimum she could keep him talking for a while, play on his ego to buy herself some time. In the end, though, if she was going to live she would need to distract him sufficiently to try to knock the weapon out of his hands.
But even if she succeeded, then what? Run, presumably, but where? There was the elevator behind her, just past Willie Baden’s hanging corpse, the one Anne had taken with Luis’s two goons. But unless she actually managed to knock Luis out cold, Nikki could hardly afford to press the call button and wait. If she could grab Luis’s gun, get hold of it herself, that would change things. But glancing around she could see nothing she could use to overpower him, neither in the corridor nor the offices that lined it. She didn’t even have a purse with her; all she had was the set of car keys still clenched in her hand.
The more she began to think rationally, and practically, the more her earlier feeling of calm left her and fear began to creep in. She wasn’t ready to die after all, not today, and not at the hands of this sadistic madman.
There must be a way out. There just must be.
By the time Goodman turned into San Julian Street, his shirt was drenched with sweat and his clammy palms could barely grip the steering wheel. Fear had churned his stomach and drained the blood from his face. It had dried out his mouth and elevated his heart rate to a relentless gallop that made it hard to breathe normally.
The only upside to the fear was the adrenaline coursing through his veins, overriding everything else and compelling him to act: Drive. Park. Run. Draw his weapon. Yes, he was afraid. But he wasn’t frozen. Some deep-seated survival instinct reminded him that he couldn’t afford to be.
This was it. Do or die.
Life or death.
The street was deserted, except for the occasional straggling seamstress, late leaving work, making their weary way to the tram stop on 8th Avenue. No one seemed to notice Goodman pull over, jump out of his car, and make his way at a jog towards the empty warehouse. About thirty yards from the front of the building, he slowed his place. Two burly men in dark suits, their biceps rippling preposterously beneath the formal fabric, emerged from the warehouse escorting a slight, young woman. It only took Goodman a moment to recognize her as Anne Bateman, Luis’s wife.
The two goons led her to a town car with blacked-out windows. One of them displayed bloodied hands as he opened the door to usher her inside. They exchanged a few words with the driver, then the car sped away to the other end of San Julian Street. The suited men watched it go before drawing their guns and making their way into the shadows, one crouched on either side of the front of the building.
Goodman tried not to think about the blood and whose it might be. What mattered was that he now knew for sure what he’d suspected back at the station: Luis Rodriguez was inside the warehouse. Anne’s ‘summons’ to Nikki to come and meet her urgently had been a ploy to lure Nikki here. Luis Rodriguez couldn’t afford to let Dr Roberts ‘disappear’ and reinvent herself. Not in this world at any rate. And Goodman knew why.
Fingering his service weapon, he swiftly ran through his options. He was alone, and Rodriguez had at least two armed men in support, maybe more. He could call for backup – that would be proper procedure. But it would take too long. Alternatively, he could try to take out the two thugs on the door. But that was a gamble too. What if he failed, or if he got inside to find the place swarming with more of Rodriguez’s men? He’d be dead within seconds.
Glancing around, he noticed a narrow passageway to his right. It wasn’t even a true alley, because no vehicle other than a motorbike could have fit down it. Instead it looked like it had been designed for maintenance access of some kind. Darting into it unseen, Goodman discovered two locked power boxes bolted to one of the walls, next to a very rickety-looking fire ladder. The only other thing of interest was a grate, almost like a cattle grid but with narrower bars, set into the ground. Reaching down, he gripped it tightly and pulled hard. Harder than he needed to, as it happened, because the thing came loose easily, sending him flying backwards with a clatter and leaving him staring into the entrance to some sort of tunnel. It might have been the mouth of a ventilation shaft, or an air-conditioning duct. Whatever it was, it appeared to lead into the bowels of the warehouse.
Goodman hated small spaces. They made him feel like a trapped rat. But he knew the two men out front would have heard the clatter of the grate. Any second now, one of them could come tearing around the corner to investigate the sudden loud noise. When they did, Lou Goodman knew from experience they’d be unlikely to ask questions.
There was nothing else for it. Easing himself down into the shaft, feet first, he grabbed the grate and slid it back loosely into place on top of him.
Inching his way deeper into the darkness, his mind turned angrily to Nikki Roberts.
Stupid, reckless woman! Why the hell had she come here on her own? Jumping to Anne Bateman’s command like a trusting lamb. Wasn’t Derek Williams’ death warning enough for her?
Nikki might be beautiful and smart. But she’d got herself into deep water this time. Only Lou Goodman knew exactly how deep.
‘Tell me about Trey. Were you the one who had him abducted?’
Nikki looked defiantly into Luis Rodriguez’s eyes as he once again raised his gun and pointed it at her, arm locked, ready to shoot. His long rant about Anne, and what he perceived as Nikki’s jealous meddling in their marriage, had reignited his anger to murderous levels. Nikki’s only hope was to keep him talking, and pray that his desire to boast would outweigh his desire to kill her, for a few more minutes at least.
It worked. Lowering his arm, Luis rolled his eyes dramatically.
‘Stupid boy. He could have lived if he chose to. We gave him every chance.’
‘What do you mean, “every chance”? Every chance to what? Did he owe you money?’ Nikki asked, remembering Derek Williams’ theory about Trey still working for one of the Westmont gangs, and thinking grimly about the bills crudely crammed into Willie Baden’s gaping mouth.