Mr. Merriam went to his desk and plopped down in his swivel chair.
“I’m doomed, Milo. If I don’t get it back … if someone else finds it …” With the back of his sleeve he wiped the sweat from his forehead, then motioned for Milo to sit. “I’ll go away for the rest of my life … no parole for me, not after what I’ve done.”
Milo had never seen his boss like this. He looked as though he was going to cry.
“Sir, if you could just trust me and tell me what it is—I mean, what Rooney took.” He quickly raised his hand to ward off Mr. Merriam’s reaction. “I need to know what I’m looking for. A diamond maybe? Or a famous painting or an accounting book with numbers?”
Mr. Merriam frowned while he thought it over. Then he nodded. “Yes, you need to know. Like you said, how can you look for it if you don’t know what it is? It’s a DVD,” he whispered. “Rooney could have taken it out of its case and hidden it anywhere.”
“Like maybe in a book?”
“Yes, it would be easy to hide a disk in a book. Why?”
“There was a good-looking girl at the yard sale who filled up her car with nothing but books and a few DVDs. Maybe some CDs, too. Babs had dumped them in the middle of her front yard, and she kept bringing out more and more. The girl would have taken every one of those books if she’d had the room. All the other shoppers were carrying out chairs and lamps and kitchen stuff. None of them even glanced at the books.”
Mr. Merriam straightened up. “How long had the sale been going on when you got there?”
“I’m pretty sure it’d just started.”
“That’s good, that’s good. The DVD could still be in the house, in a wall maybe, or under a floorboard. It could be anywhere. Or that girl could have it and not know what it is … until she watches it,” he added with a shiver. “We’ve got to get it back.”
“I’ll get it for you,” Milo promised.
“Was the girl there when Babs killed her husband?”
“No, she had just left. And after Babs shot him and made sure he was dead, she walked inside and shot herself. That’s what it said on the news. Most people at the yard sale stood around and watched, but I didn’t wait for the police to show up.”
“I’m going to have Charlie Brody and Lou Stack get into Rooney’s house tonight. I want them to bring me every DVD they can find. It’s a big house,” he lamented. “The damn thing could be anywhere, but I’m not taking any chances. If they can’t find it after a couple of tries, they’ll blow the place up. I don’t want there to be anything left to sift through. Charlie has connections, and he says he can get explosives that will do the job.”
Shocked by what he had just heard, Milo stammered, “You … you already told Charlie and Stack what you were looking for?” But not me, he silently added. I had to practically beg you to tell me.
Mr. Merriam didn’t notice how rigid Milo had become. “Sure I did. They needed to know.”
“Yes, of course they did.”
Milo was angry and feeling horribly insecure. He’d thought he was Mr. Merriam’s number one, but it seemed his boss had more faith in the two bone breakers, Charlie and Stack. Apparently, Merriam didn’t care that they were sloppy and unprofessional.
“It sounds like they’ve got it under control.”
Milo stood to leave, but Mr. Merriam waved him back down. “Hold on now. Let’s go back to your pretty girl. She just wanted books? No jewelry or furs … I know Babs had a couple of furs …”
“Just books and DVDs. Babs had made a big pile of them, and I heard her tell the woman she was going to burn what she didn’t take. None of the other shoppers were interested in a bunch of old books.”
Merriam shook his head. “I don’t know how you’re ever going to find her.”
Milo was ready to impress. “I know how.”
“What’s that?” Merriam popped up from his chair and braced his hands, his fat stomach resting on the desktop.
“I said I know how to find her.” He couldn’t keep the cockiness out of his voice.
“How?”
“I wrote down her license plate number.”
Mr. Merriam looked flabbergasted. “What made you do that?”
Milo couldn’t admit the truth, that the beautiful young woman had gotten into his heart, and that she would belong to him one day. His Bond girl. If he told his boss he had found his soulmate, Merriam would probably laugh at him. No, he couldn’t tell him the truth.
“I thought there might be something hidden in one of the books. You hadn’t told me what Rooney had on you, so I thought I’d be on the safe side … it just seemed like the thing to do.”
“Good for you, Milo, good for you. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Give me the number of that plate. I’ll get her name and address.” He reached for his cell phone and found a phone number in his list of contacts. “It pays to have connections,” he told Milo as he waited for an answer.
A few minutes later Mr. Merriam was writing down the woman’s name and address.
“Lyra Prescott.” He rattled off the address, which Milo hurried to write down, and said, “She lives in San Diego or just north of it by the zip code. Thanks, Milo,” he added almost as an afterthought. “I’ll send Charlie and Stack down there right away.”
“That would be a waste of time,” Milo blurted out, his lies coming fast and furious. “The woman was going out of town with her friend for a long weekend.” His mind raced to come up with a convincing story. “They were flying out of Los Angeles, and her car might be in the long-term or short-term parking. Why don’t you let me take care of this? Charlie and Stack have a big job going through Rooney’s house.”
“All right. She’s all yours.”
Milo was feeling good when he left the office, but by the time he got home, his insecurities had come roaring back. Mr. Merriam wasn’t a patient man, and Milo knew it would be only a matter of time before the boss called on the bone crushers to lend a hand.
He consoled himself with the knowledge that he knew more about Lyra Prescott than the crushers did. They hadn’t seen the university sticker in her vehicle’s back window. Her address might be San Diego, but Milo was betting she lived in L.A. while she went to school. Saturday morning he would drive to San Diego. He’d break into her home and find something with the L.A. address. If the house wasn’t empty, he’d figure out another way to get what he wanted.
He needed a disguise. And he wouldn’t drive his own car either. He’d rent one.
Friday evening he purchased what he needed for the disguise, and early Saturday morning took a bus to the rental agency. He used a fictitious name and a phony identification when renting the car, and because he knew there would be cameras monitoring the office and the lot, he wore his new disguise.
There were, however, a few glitches along the way. He should have tried on the black wig before buying it. It had way too much synthetic hair, especially the thick, straight bangs. He was afraid to thin it by cutting some of the hair out. He’d paid good money and didn’t want it ruined, even though the bangs made him look like Moe from the Three Stooges. He also wore a black beard—glued to his face so it wouldn’t slip—and dark sunglasses, which were almost covered by the long bangs. The man working the counter at the car rental office kept staring at Milo’s new hair and barely paid attention to his ID.
As Milo drove off the lot, he glanced in the rearview mirror. His disguise had turned out pretty good. No one looking at the surveillance video would recognize him.
He was halfway to San Diego when his face started to itch, and scratching only made it worse. He must be allergic, he decided, but the irritation wasn’t unbearable. For now, he could take it. As soon as he was back home, he’d remove the phony beard.
Once in San Diego, he found the address, then circled the block a couple of times before finally parking a few houses away. Acting as though he was nothing more than a neighbor out for a stroll, he passed the house and turned the corner, spotting Lyra’s SUV through the garage window. He couldn’t believe his luck. The books and DVDs from Rooney’s yard sale could be right in front of him. It didn’t take a minute to get inside the garage, but the sun streaming through the open door soon revealed that the SUV was empty. She must have taken the books and DVDs into the house.
Milo slipped out of the garage and was sneaking around the side of the house when he saw her standing on the porch looking out at the ocean. She turned toward the door and called, “Gigi, I can’t stay for Sunday dinner tomorrow. I have to get back to L.A. to finish some work.”
An old lady came onto the porch, kissed Lyra on the cheek, and gave her an affectionate hug. “I understand, dear. I’m just glad to see my granddaughter whenever I can.”
He was right after all. Lyra Prescott did have a place in Los Angeles. Milo smugly congratulated himself on his detective skills.
He sneaked back to his car and drove around the corner. Would she leave the books here or take them back with her tomorrow? He would wait and see. If Lyra left without them, then he’d break into the house when the old granny wasn’t home.
He parked on the side street adjacent to the garage and hunkered down to wait. Throughout the evening, a stream of visitors came and went, the last one departing around ten o’clock. Milo figured if Lyra hadn’t left for L.A. by eleven, she was in for the night.
All the lights were out by midnight.
Milo found a motel about a mile away. After checking in to his room, he pulled off the wig, tossed it on the table, and went to work on the beard. His face was itching like crazy, but no matter how much he pulled, the beard wasn’t going anywhere. Maybe he shouldn’t have used superglue. Each time he managed to rip out a clump of hair, he took skin off with it. After an hour of tugging, he looked in the mirror to see bald spots between the thick patches. Where he’d ripped off the beard, the skin was bruised and blood-red. His face looked as though he’d been afflicted with a horrible rash. Exhausted, he collapsed into bed.
Sunday morning he decided to shave off the beard, but that was a mistake. The shaving cream stuck to the tufts of hair and only made them sticky. His next attempt was to get in the shower and scrub them away. Another mistake. The beard absorbed the water and expanded. Thinking maybe alcohol would loosen it, he applied his aftershave. When he stopped screaming from the pain, he jumped back in the shower to let the water soothe his reddened skin.
Once his hands had stopped shaking, he put on his wig, added the sunglasses, and drove back to Lyra’s house. He sat in his car the rest of the morning and grew impatient when she didn’t come out. Finally, he spotted her and her grandmother carrying shopping bags and walking down the sidewalk toward their house. They’d been gone that entire time! He couldn’t believe he’d missed his chance to get in and out when no one was there. “Stupid,” he said, slapping his own face. Hitting an especially raw spot, he yelped.
Minutes later, Lyra came outside again carrying an overnight bag. She pulled her car out of the garage and left. She hadn’t been carrying books or DVDs. They were still inside the house. He’d score big points with Mr. Merriam if he brought him the books and DVDs, but Milo wanted to follow Lyra and find out where she lived in L.A. He’d come back Monday to get the books and DVDs, and wouldn’t mention the delay to his boss.
It was still light when Lyra pulled into the apartment complex. Milo drove past her and went around the block. He approached the iron gate again and could see her getting her things out of her car. He couldn’t take the chance that she’d see him, so he pulled away. It would be easy for him to get the apartment number tomorrow. If he had the nerve, he might just knock on her door and introduce himself.
Milo glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the clumps of hair stuck to his cheeks and chin. He looked like the Wolfman. Introductions would have to wait.
Five miles away from the apartment complex, Milo spotted one of his favorite drive-through restaurants. He pulled in and ordered two double hamburgers, fries, and a gallon-sized drink. The cup holder was too small for his soda, so he balanced it on his lap and found a parking spot.
After he finished his meal, he decided to drive back over to Lyra’s apartment to make sure her car hadn’t moved. He might even park across the street from the gate and watch for a while. Maybe he would get lucky and she would come outside.
Turning the corner onto her street, Milo had to swerve out of the way of a police car. The stupid cop should have put his siren on if he was in such a hurry, Milo thought. He looked ahead and saw two police cars enter Lyra’s apartment complex. They were followed a minute later by an ambulance. The drivers in the two cars ahead of him had pulled to the curb idling their engines while trying to see what was going on. Milo stopped behind the second car to watch with them. A policeman was guarding the open gate so no one could get inside, and he was telling an old man what had happened. Milo caught most of what he was saying: two men had broken into an apartment, tied up a woman, and torn the place apart.
Charlie and Stack? It had to be those two. Milo was furious. Who else would have done this? Mr. Merriam hadn’t trusted Milo and sent in his new favorite go-to team.
Hold on now. He was jumping to conclusions without concrete facts. It might not be Lyra’s apartment that was broken into. It could have been someone else’s. That thought had only just registered when he saw her, his Bond girl. Standing beside her were two plain-clothes cops with guns. Milo guessed they were questioning her. She looked tired and worried, but was still as beautiful as ever.
The policeman at the gate noticed all the gawkers and motioned everyone to move along. As Milo drove away he turned his head so that the policeman wouldn’t get a good look at him.
All the way home, he fretted about Charlie and Stack. How had they gotten to Lyra’s before him? Had they already found the books and DVDs? He decided he wouldn’t talk to Mr. Merriam for a couple of days. Let him realize the bone crushers weren’t the way to go. Of course that would only work if Charlie and Stack hadn’t found the books and the DVDs. There were so many unanswered questions. Milo needed to clear his head. He’d come up with a plan tomorrow.
He made a detour to a drugstore, enduring the other customers’ stares as he purchased cream that he hoped would soothe his face when he tore off the rest of the beard. He also bought lotion to help dissolve the glue. Unfortunately, the solvent didn’t work. By the time he had finished ripping off the last of the synthetic hair, his face looked as though he had just undergone an industrial-strength chemical peel. At two a.m. he finally fell into bed, and drifted into a fitful sleep, dreaming of giant, hairy beasts gnawing at his face with razor-sharp teeth.
